DCC DotSK: Act 1-3

Red-faced and trembling with anger, the stew-pot suddenly draws the sword from his side, though it takes some effort. Pointing it at Tyravasiel as the elf spreads his arms and offers a piece of himself to the keepers of the majestic order of the cosmos, to The Three who ensure entropy does not simply claim everything in fire, the Jarl does not see those glittering, impassive, white-limned faces turn towards Áereth, towards his tiny village of Hirot. He does not see the silken strands of fate that connect everything… but Ty does.

The silver-haired outsider sees the dense, silvery web that connects the Jarl and Sylle Ru to that heavy lockbox. Sees the thin, wisping strands that tie the fates of everyone present to that box — and strangely to the Jarl and the seer themselves. Tiny, translucent spiders crawl over the whole scene, spinning and weaving more and more connections with each passing moment.

Sputtering, unable to even voice his fury, Jarl Griegor levels the point of his sword at the insolent elf as the crowd falls to dead silence. There is a moment when all present wonder if the Jarl will reel back and strike, but before his boil bloods fully his advisor stays his arm. A slight smile marks Ru’s face as he gently guides the Jarl’s sword lower, then he’s turning back towards that box and the wolf banner flying behind it.

"Jarl," he says, his voice carrying to the over one hundred souls present, "ignore his petulance. Stay true to your trust. And he is right! Let the fates answer, as they have in the past. Come. Draw the name. Let us see who must answer the call."

His breaths coming easier, the Jarl glowers at Ty one last time, then he spits near the elf as he sheaths his sword. Then, turning towards the trunk, he nods at Sylle Ru, giving leave for the other man to unlock the heavy, iron-reinforced box, which sits at the center of the platform on a thick wooden post.



But as the Jarl pulls a blindfold from a pocket, and as Sylle Ru produces the key that will unlock the heavy padlock, Tyravasiel senses one of the Fates smiling. Sees her, somehow, pulling at the threads on her spinning wheel. The spiders dance and scurry — and suddenly the strongbox shifts, then pitches forward, somehow tumbling off its pedestal. The crowd collectively jumps and gasps as it crashes heavily to the wooden platform beneath it, and as it tumbles and rocks to a stop.

Ru’s eyes meet the Jarl’s and something passes between the two men before the seer raises his hands. "An ill-omen!" he cries. "The Fates have spoken, now is not the time for them to tell us who next must do what needs doing, for the sake of Hirot! We must adjourn his drawing and meet later, when the stars have aligned!"

"A skald is a poet, sir," the man in the hedge says lowly as he watches the Jarl's outrage. "A storyteller, one who knows verses and tales of the old ways, of our ancestors."

When the box practically leaps from its sound-seeming perch, tumbling and crashing down to the ground, the trim-bearded man's eyes go wide and he does not look away from the unfolding drama as he goes on, his voice now a hissing whisper. "Aye, he may have at that!" Then, quickly, he adds, "The spear lies in the King's tomb, I believe! That mound is not far from here... but 'tis haunted, legends say."

"Ulfheonar," the skald answers Dufgal as the whole gathering begins to strain at the seams without the Jarl's commanding presence to hold it together. "Though he was like no King you would have known in the east. Savage and brutal, Ulfheonar and his ilk tamed this land, but they took its wildness into their hearts."

When the outsider asks about the tomb, the man with the goden locks that shine in the sun answers. "His tomb is north of Hirot, in the woods, across the stream that feeds the sunken fens. A walk that takes no more than a half-turn of the glass. I can show you if need be. I have looked on it often... but never dared approach it."

Suddenly extending his hand, he adds, "Well... that didn't go as they planned. And I am Lloré, good sir. You are called?"

"I will have a craftsman look over the box, repair it," Ru says impatiently to Anora as two of the Thegns lift the heavy, iron-reinforced strongbox. "Did you not see its tumble? We must make sure it is still sound, lock and hinge and wood."

Then, seeing that indeed more than a few townsfolk are lingering, waiting to see the drama unfold either here or near the Mad Widow and the Mad Priest, Sylle Ru gestures to the Justician priest. "Beacom! Father Beacom! Come close, our guest is right. The people of Hirot needs comforting, they need to confess their many transgressions to Justicia. See to it, man. Make yourself useful! Prepare our brothers and sister for what may come."

Ymae smiles, cackles, and makes placating poor boy, there there sounds in her wrinkled throat. She finishes with a stupendous harumph! when Aldric asks again for aid, then she taps her cane on the table her chair rests on, twice. The furniture shudders and rises a few inches off the ground, then it spins halfway round and begins transporting the still-seated Mad Widow back to her home... walking.

Over her shoulder, Ymae winks at Aldric and calls back to him.

"Visit me in one hour, sea-priest! And be prepared for a barter."

"Because the Fates smiled on me! After rescuing Morgan," the fair-haired skald relates, his eyes suddenly glued to Morgan as the barmaid lingers near Anora.

"I bound myself and dutifully waited for my end at the stones. But the Hound... I do not know why, but my tender flesh was not to the demon-beast's liking."

Pulling his eyes from Morgan's pleasing form, he adds, "It is not surprising Dolsten believes me dead. The last he saw of me, I was bound and awaiting certain death!"