GM Tyranius Giantslayer (Inactive)

Game Master Tyranius

Kurst picks up the blades. Looks to be some sort of alchemical weapon. I have not seen weapons like these around these parts. Too sophisticated for Orcs.

Kurst nods at Wren. I can ask around and see if anyone has seen your assassins around town. It may take a bit of time, especially with Rodrik's funeral tonight.

The assassin's were dark skinned human's, male and female, with braided hair.

Kraygan does not find any indication where they might have been made on the assassins and they do not seem to be anything you have seen the local militia carrying.

Kurst sighs as he responds to Kraygan. I can ask around though I am afraid that will be all I will have time for today I am afraid. I have to help my father and the church prepare. maybe you can follow up with Cham and Omaust.

Kraygan bends over and produces the ring found in the chest from the Plague House. Lines interlace and weave throughout the entire head of the ring with a sword symbol in the center.

It is just a signet ring. Nothing important

Wren looks at Kurst with head cocked, almost disbelieving.

"Kurst...with all due respect, your brother's body will keep another day. We have one of his assassins in town and we have a description," Wren says, disbelieving. "Put it off a day, call out the militia to scour the city for him. We have a description. We can put an end to this today. Tomorrow you can add the assassin's head to the wall in honor of your brother."

What are you doing, idiot?
What's right and logical.
Piddlespot your logic. That's what lead to...the other thing.

Wren looks down as if he wishes he hadn't spoken at all, wishes that he had just gone along with it, wishing...wishing he could take it all back.

Kraygan's beard bobs vigorously in agreement with Wren. Behind it, his eyes are hard. He'd heard that Kurst was a poor guardsman, but this was unacceptable.

"Ye listen well to the elf here, boy." Kraygan grumbles. His inner-voice whispers that Kurst might be considered more mature among humans then Kraygan is among dwarves, but his inner-voice is often ignored by his socially retarded outer-voice. Aaaaand, he's had a few beers.

"The militia needs to be mustered now! Someone's got plans to raid Trunau, and they got agents still alive inside the walls that we need to find. If ye wanna focus on the dead, then ye'd better start diggin more graves."

"BAH!" Kraygan turns and starts walking away. "We're wasting time here! Omast is at the wall, which is where we need to go to talk to the gate guards about these killers."

Can't we let them have this day? They're in grief over his death!

Jorgan nods at Kraygan and offers, "That's what I said in the first place." as he follows Kraygan towards the gate.

Vanderhoff waves off the mention of healing. "I'm fine, really." He says. Finishing his drink, he stands and begins to head to his room to retrieve his belongings.

Ref: 1d20 ⇒ 13

Catching his foot on the table, he stumbles, knocking over tankards. Wiping a little more blood from his nose, he glances at Wren and his cousins. "Really, I'm fine, just a little groggy this morn." Shaking his head, he mumbles into his beard and heads toward the door. "So, we're headin' to the wall?"

Kurst's face becomes stern. I understand that but what would you have me do. I am already going around town to ask around. The town believes it to be a suicide. He raises he arms in the air in exasperation and drops them back to his side. So I raise the entire town militia. Then what? We hold an inquisition on everyone in town?

The wall then?

Wren stares Kurst, trying to find sympathy for the grieving in the wake of his annoyance.

"Inquisition? INQUISTION!? NO!!" Wren huffs then drops his voice, calming himself. "How about finding the assassin? We have a description. We know there were 4 or 5 of them...their bodies are outside! Find the last one! Find where they stayed last night. And we'll find who helped them."

Wren releases his fingers that had someone wound into fists as he was speaking.

Calm down, you piddlespotting fool!

"Sorry...Kurst...but you need to pull yourself together. You have an assassin loose in your town and you might want to think about what that means. I'll leave it to you to handle things...if it's important to you or not. I'll keep following these other leads," Wren surrenders, gathering his stuff.

Wren looks over his shoulders, the disappointment he feels at Kurst (and himself) evident in the lines on his old, elven face.

"C'mon. We have things to do," Wren (lightly) stomps out.

To the Wall.

Like I said I will as around Wren. Thanks for all of your help. Trust me I want this bastard caught just as much as anyone. I will find out what I can but I will not start a witch-hunt all around town.

Kurst takes his leave as he heads towards a group of the town's guard waiting for him.

--------------------------------------

The group makes their way towards the south wall of the Inner Quarter of Trunau. At the south tower Marked E on the Town Map is a man with short messy hair, a mustache and a narrow beard dangling by a rope tied to his belt. He looks to be futilely scrubbing away at some graffiti on the tower's wall. The graffiti looks to be another white sword.

With a couple quick stops by the temple and alchemist to buy a wand and some potions...?

As the group trudges to the wall, Torgan scowls. "Wish th' assassins had killed Kurst instead o' his brother. At least Rodrik knew how t' be a man."

---

Upon arrival at the wall, Torgan sees someone cleaning graffiti from the wall. "Oi! We're lookin' fer Omast. Seen 'im?"

Kraygan rides out from the brewery like he's riding out to a war. Armored and loaded with weapons, lance held high, and a nice full keg of emergency rations (beer).

As the Steelkeg Army passes through Trunau, he can't help sizing up the place, particularly any militia he sees out and about. He nods at any that seem alert and ready, and calls out "Hey you, stay alert! There's trouble in town! " at those that seem to be lax in their duty.

At the wall...

Kraygan dismounts and approaches to get a closeer look at the graffiti and the wall itself.

Take 20 on Perception - 24

Wren grits his teeth, still thinking upon Kurst and hoping the man can rally a bit before the funeral tonight.

He checks his bow, and the occasionally the knifewound in his back, as he walks.

When the others are buying/selling gear, he will purchase 20 more arrows. -1 gp. I'm not much for tracking them individually, I'll just purchase a lot over time.

When they arrive upon the worker, Wren moves so he can see the man's face.

Omast? Wren might recognize.

If so...
"Omast? Come down and talk to us for a moment. Kurst sent us."

If not...
"Hey! Have you seen Omast?"

Selling Gear. The merchants around town offer you a total of 1745 gp for all of the gear you wish to sell. Anything you wish to purchase besides arrows? I will place the group pot on the sheet and erase the rest if you agree.

The man turns his head as he hears the group calling to him. As he turns Wren recognizes the man to be Omast. As he turns Omast seems to go in sort of a spin as he slowly begins to come down. As he gets to 10 feet off of the ground the rope seems to let loose causing Omast to slam into the grass below.

Fall damage: 1d6 ⇒ 1

Standing up he seems to be bleeding from his knee as his pants seem to have tore. Looking up the group now notice that the man's eyes seem to be extremely glazed over. Yea I'm.... I'm... *Burp* I'm Omasht. whatsh ya need?

Omast stumbles a bit as he grasps the wall.

Jorgan offers him a hand and helps him up. "We've got a few questions if you don't mind us asking them. What do you say we sit down somewhere and rest a bit while we have a talk?"

Aid:
Diplomacy to improve attitude: 1d20 - 1 ⇒ (10) - 1 = 9

Wren looks at Omast in disgust.

"I thought you were a recovering alcoholic. Now I see you're just a regular one," Wren recoils, standing back at least 15'.

"Well, your kind probably speak his language. You handle him."

Wren leaves the interrogation to the dwarves and their emergency rations, taking out his notes to review possible leads.

Omast stands at the help of Jorgan. Of course they shpeak my language Wren. I am shpeaking common ...... The man stares blankly at Wren.

If you wanna talk let'sh go to Cham'sh and get.... an get shome of yer Shnakebite.

---------------------------------------------------------------

At the Ramblehouse Omast orders a round from Cham. The little Halfling scurries around the bar and returns a few moments later with a tray of drinks. She still looks the worse for wear as lines run down her face from the hours of crying.

Omast looks at the group before him as his head bobbles.Whatcha want to talk about?

Kraygan definitely speaks drunk, and knows by the sound of it when someone's had too much.

Holding up a thick finger to Cham, he declares "No drinks until we've asked some questions." Thumping his personal keg on the table, he says to Omast. "You give us some good answers and I'll give you some o' m own reserve."

Without waiting for a reply, he launches into details. "Rodrik didn't kill hisself. He was murdered by someone plannin to raid Trunau because he was pokin around the Plague House and other places. We need to know what Rodrik was doin the day before he was found dead. Why was he stayin at the Ramblehouse? Also, we got some names that have come up in our own investigation. Have you ever heard the names Skreed or Malira?"

Wren waits, sitting at another table, going over his notes.

That isn't the common tongue. When you speak, you should at least pretend to want to be understood, human.

Wren casts a stinkeye at Omast.

Drunk. And on duty. Hope the dwarvesmoot don't take lessons from him.

Wren grouses in his own thoughts for a while longer. When he finally snaps from his funk, and he has a chance to bend Cham's ear, he will ask the other set of questions he's been meaning to ask.

"Hey Cham, do you recognize..." Wren will describe the assassins, how they were dressed and what they wore to see if they stayed at the Ramblehouse.

Omast's face turns sour as Kraygan holds back his drink. Hanging his head he looks to the dwarves. ...Poor young Rodrik, that magnificent basshtard. he says with genuine sorrow.

Looking up Omast sees Sara Morninghawk, the blacksmith sitting at the bar across the room having a drink with her wife. Damned half-orcsh...They will be the end of Trunau....letsh me tell you. More and more of the bashtards been showing up lately. They been taking the jobsh and ... and.. and livelyhoods of ush true Trunauns.

His eyes widen. Jesht like Rodrik'sh friend, ... you know He snaps his fingers. The crippled oaf who loungesh in the Shanctuary'sh beds shpouting curses and lies of prophetic dreamsh.

----------------------------------------------------------

Cham listens intently to Wren's description of the men. Not had anyone like that stay here recently. Not had much since Rodrik's death.

Torgan listens intently, asking the barmaid for a light, sessionable wheat beer for the dwarvesmoot. "Ya should 'ave m'Sunburst on draught. Four pints o' that fer th' dwarves."

He sips his beer once it is delivered and wonders what to do next. Not much o' a tactician or detective, m'self. Can't let m'brother o' cousins die.

Where is everyone?

Wren, unhappy that Cham has no information, crosses that lead off his list.

Here, busy work days, and just haven't had much to add.

Vanderhoff sits quietly, listening and occasionally wiping his nose. "Are there any other places to stay? Unless they been staying outside of town and sneakin' in."

Omast's rambling is making Kraygan really want to drink. Obviously the guardsman holds something against half-orcs, but to Kraygan they're only half-bad and not worth complaining over. However, Omast's mention of Katreza does seem a little unusual, and makes Kraygan wonder if there is a line of other human cripples complaining about their lofty status in Trunau being usurped.

"What about the cripple? Seems he was tryin to help, which is more than most folk are doin..."

Ripple? What ripple? If you want to ask me something then hurry. I have to go to Rodrik'sh funeral.

Omast's face becomes somber once again. He slams his hands on the table hard. I failed the boy. Hish father ashked me to look over thoshe two and I failed......

Cham looks to Vanderhoff. This be the only public place in town.

Did you guys wish to sell the items for 1745 gp? And if so do you wish to purchase anything?

Wren listens to Omast with a continual and deepening scowl.

"Omast, what was Roddy's relationship with Katreza like?"

Rodrik wash good friends with the cripple Omast pounds an open hand back on the table.

Sorry, big proposal due this week. I've been reading along though.

Jorgan considers this but can't see any reason to throw suspicion on anyone quite yet. He sighs quietly to himself. We should at least get going to Rodrik's funeral. Wouldn't be right to miss it, even if we are investigating his murder. Show support and all that.

All he says, however, is, "Best be getting to the funeral ourselves, don't you think?"

Wren agrees with Jorgan, ready to leave Omast to his drinking.

* * *

When we leave, Wren will return home to freshen up before rallying the dwarves to the funeral.

Kraygan stares at the drunk for a moment before deciding to join him. Lifting his keg, he guzzles away some worries, though the anger at the situation does not abate.

By the time of the funeral, he's just shy of being three sheets to the wind.

Wren leaves the group to their drinking as he heads home. A bit before the sun sets he meets the group back at the Ramblehouse where Kraygan is now just as drunk as Omast. hehe

After a few minutes of coercion the group including Omast head towards the Flame of the Fallen. Clear to the south of Trunau, past the Ampitheater, is the pyre. A small group is assembled to include a larger number of town's guards in the distance. Kurst is joined by his father Jagrin as well as Brinya, Rodrik's fiancé, and Katreza the seer.
The entire area is in a hushed silence.

The High Priestess, Tyari Varvatos raises her hands into the air as she begins to officiate the ceremony. Waving a hand to a member of the temple te group begins to consecrate the Flame of the Fallen with sacred herbs.

She looks to Kurst. Did you bring his blade? Kurst steps forwards as he unfurls a small cloth. Inside is the new hopeknife that Rodrik had made, and also the one he was murdered with, bearing Brinya's inscription.

High Priestess Tyari grasps the blade by the handle as she pours a vial of thick liquid into the pyre. She arcs two stones together and a small flame appears. The flame blazes with intense heat as she holds the hopeknife into the flames. After a moment the blade turns pure black. Pulling the blade from the flame she hands it to Rodrik's grieving Fiance, Brinya.

Brinya's tears begin to flow down her face and drip right onto the blade of the hopeknife. Her eyes grow wide in shock as the letters "My Love" begin to stand out in stark silver. Within seconds the blade begins to glow with a soft dull light. Rodrik She whisper as she holds the hopeknife close to her chest.

Vanderhoff follows the party to the funeral, still withdrawn, and occasionally stumbling over small dips in the ground, or small rocks.

As the funeral starts, Vanderhoff begins quietly and solemnly uttering prayers to Angraad.

Nursing a fresh keg near the back of the crowd, Kraygan watches the ceremony like a nosy neighbor peering over a hedgerow. When the hopeknife appears, he turns to No-one standing nearby and slurs, a little too loudly. "Huh. Coulda shworn that knife wen missin!" Then, as Brinya holds it near her chest, he adds. "Oy! Wazzshe doin?"

To Kraygan, it almost seems like she's getting ready to follow Rodrik to the grave, like some sort of northern barbarian wife...

Jorgan seems quite sober compared to his family members and stays quiet through the ceremony. He is still messy and dirty but you get the impression that he spent at least five minutes brushing the mud and yak manure from his boots and pants and might have run a few wet fingers through his hair too.

Jorgan doesn't pick up on the same cues that Kraygan does; he sees it has nothing more than a simple gesture of longing, not of ritual suicide. Damn shame, is all he thinks to himself as he watches the proceedings.

Wren spends the ceremony trying to resist the ritual long epic elvish eyeroll at the attire, disposition, etiquette, and pretty much everything of his dwarvish companions.

He stands quietly and listens. He will offer his condolences to Kurst, Brinya, and Jagrin.

Brinya nods her head at Wren before she leaves. Clasping Torgan on the arm she bids the group farewell in tears. The small group begins to pack up their items and head back towards their homes.

Thank you for coming. Kurst says as he approaches Wren. I apologize for earlier. I asked around about your assassins. It seems that there was a small group of mercenaries from Freedom Town that came in the other day that matches your description.

Jagrath and Omast quickly begin to rally and command the town's militia around them. Jagrath obviously a little quicker. [b]GUARDS! HEAD TO THE WALLS! NOW!

Omast hurries over to the high priestess. Get anyone elshe you can into the Longhoushe and hurry

Wren quickly sees Kurst rush up to him and the dwarves. Wren! I need you and the Steelkeg clan to help defend the town. Something is wrong. The towers should have noticed anything dire approaching. We have beacons set all around town that will organize the rest of the militia to stop this attack.

Looking to Jorgan as he seems the most sober. There are three beacons that we need lit. You are currently at Area I on the Town Map

• The Commons beacon, Area J on Town Map
  
• The Inner Gates Beacon Area K on the Town Map
  
• The Hopespring Beacon Area M on the Town Map

The Flame of the Fallen is already lit. It seems my brother shall help this town one last time, but if the rest of Trunau is to have a chance at fighting in this as it will be dark soon we need to have those beacons lit and soon.

Another boulder smashes a tower causing it to collapse to the ground. While you are lighting the beacons try to secure as many areas as possible on the way. Direct anyone you find to the Longhouse in the Upper Quarter here to take refuge.

Wren looks to Kurst with shock in his eyes.

I DO NOT LEAD AGAIN! Wren initially searches for reasons why he should not, his eyes going to the dwarven bar sots. His eyes passing over them one by one.

*sigh* Wren turns and looks at Kurst and nods, accepting his temporary fate. He offers a Lastwall Fist Bump to the Kurst and goes over to rally the dwarves.

"Dwarves! We have need of ye if you were here now. We go to light the beacons, of which there are 3. Follow me, if you have your stomachs about you. I have no need of those who cannot keep their feet," Wren scowls, showing *all* of his glorious leadership skills.

"Come now, we make haste!" Wren goes to area J.

Wren looks for others/areas who may need help along the way.

"Damnation!" Kraygan shouts after a tower falls. Protecting his keg like a mother with a child he yells to No-one. "We warned ye thish wash comin!"

For the first time in the last few days he's fully equipped for battle. Unfortunately, he's drunk, as indicated by the weaving zig-zag of his gait as he moves toward Haggis. The yak is saddled nearby since Kraygan wasn't planning on being able to walk straight after the funeral, so perhaps it's just good planning all around. Mounting up he grabs his lance and raises it high as he follows Wren.

"To BATTLE!!"

Luckily Jorgan did not dain to leave behind his armor or weapons, what with all that has been going on. Hops is waiting in the parking lot tied off at a nearby fence. "Come on, Steelkegs! To the Commons Beacon!" He rushes off to untie Hops and trot alongside the yak!

Wow, you guys posted a ton last night.

Torgan forgoes the ale for the evening as the meetup with the assassins leaves him with little taste for ale or drunkenness.

---

He wears the best clothes he has and cleans up a bit after kegging the beer that was made in Rodrik's memory.

---

As Brinya grasps his arm, Torgan feels a bit sad, remembering when he has had to deal with things such as death.

---

His brother seems to know what to do in this fracas, so Torgan grabs his gear from Malt and dons it for the impending melee, following his brother to the Commons.

Vanderhoff shakes himself out of his reverie and nods to Wren. "Should we split up? Will it help if you tell us where they are and we light them faster?"

"Should we split up?"

Wren's eyes widen, envisioning the dwarves 'splitting up' to 'free' the Ramblehouse of ale. He shakes his head in dissent as he runs to the Commons Beacon.

"No, we might need to keep each other...safe," Wren replies, still on the lookout for those who might need help or not be aware there is an attack.

The group hurries to the Commons beacon as quickly as they are able. Up ahead they see the 10 foot wide pyramid of wood and kindling. Though off to the North of the beacon it seems that a large crowd has gathered. One man in the center seems to be screaming as the rest of the mob joins in. As the crowd parts momentarily you see that they are yelling and waving weapons at Brinya!

You recognize the man leading the mob as a cleric by the name of Baseil Sabask. he works at the Trunau Countinghouse, the town's Temple to Abadar. This is all your damned fault Orc! He yells as spittle flies from his mouth. We keep harboring the damned Orcs so the filthy beasts can attack us from within?

The man's loud rants seem to be gathering more and more people as they back Brinya against a wall with fearful eyes.

Damned humans! Can't ever be civil.

Torgan moves forward with authority, axes drawn. "OI! Thyme, ya damn'd 'erb. If you o' these rabblerousers lay a hand o' her, I will cleave yer face off an' leave it fer th' vultures!"

He stretches his head to the left until his neck cracks. "Want t'try fighting yerself, Rosemary?"

The man's head spins around. I thought Steelkeg Clan was with Trunau. So you support mixing with these vermin? TRUE TRUANANS NEED TO STAY PURE AND QUITE BRINGING IN STRAY DOGS! The man yells to the crowd as he gathers another three people nodding their head in agreement.

Wren, though initially worried about how the dwarves might respond in this situation, moves quickly to back up Torgan, knocking an arrow.

"Aye, Priest. We can discuss what Brinya has or has not done *after* this attack, but right now, she's one of us, a Trunauan, and we're not fighting ourselves when there are orcs and giants approaching," Wren warns.

"Brinya, why don't you come with us? We will see to our duty. Priest, may I suggest you see to yours? We might need to have a discussion after this all over about manners and making people welcome. *I* was a stray dog when I came here," Wren hisses.

1d20 - 1 ⇒ (15) - 1 = 14 Intimidate

Edited. Sorry for confusion. Wren isn't diplomatic.

@Wren-Intimidate or Diplomacy? :)

"The Steelkegs 'ave no lost love for orcs. M'grandfather fought against th' Belkzen horde, but no Steelkeg would raise axe 'gainst an orc woman without cause. Race ain't no cause. Tell me, Oregano, when does yer hatred move to us dwarves?" Torgan bristles as he aggressively steps towards the priest.

Aid: 1d20 - 2 ⇒ (3) - 2 = 1

"Lasht I shaw, Kursht made ush part of the milisha! Ye shtand in our way and yer the ones'll be traitors!"

Intimidate Aid: 1d20 - 3 ⇒ (11) - 3 = 8

He casts a curious look to Wren. "Wait.. we are milisha, righ?"

Piddlespottin' hilarious.

Wren's jaw drops as his cohorts step in to 'help' him. Only the severity of the situation prevents him from an epic elven facepalm.

Oh, thank the developer gods that failed aids don't hurt skill checks.

Vanderhoff limbers his hammer and takes a wide stance. Wiping a drip of blood from his nose, he clears his throat. "The town is being attacked and you choose this time to call a lynch mob? A true citizen would make haste and defend his town, and ask questions after." Casting a long glance at the crowd, he continues. "Anyone wit a head on their shoulders, knows us dwarves are with Trunau, and they'd know Brinya us with this town, too.

Pointing his hammer at Baesil, he sticks out his bearded chin. "Yer a coward, using this as a diversion to mask your pissin' yer trousers and avoiding the duty. Now stand aside and let the lass pass, or anyone tries otherwise will find themselves on the wrong side of the wall!"

Intimidate Aid: 1d20 + 3 ⇒ (3) + 3 = 6 Oh geez