[Guild] Virlheim

[Apeiron]

Virlheim was small even for a village (but that never seemed to bother the residents). Rain fell constantly, even through the winters and no one knew why (but that never seemed to bother the residents). Travellers were far and few between in Virlheim, and that was unsurprising given that the village had little to no wares to trade. Just fish and local hand-made goods (but that never seemed to bother the residents).

As for the villagers themselves, they were pleasant to each other and strangers alike (or at least they had been). They spent their time helping one another with odds and ends, fixing fishing lines and boats, or in their homes where they cooked meals for their families and their neighbors with smiles and laughter (or at least they had been). They were happy people, friendly people, healthy people (or at least they had been).

Those that did travel to the small fishing village came back with fresh news. Tragedy. Illness. Melancholy. The small village appeared to be undergoing a string of bad luck and the villagers swear they were plagued by some daemon. Merchants making their rounds laughed together in the safety of a tavern, far and away from Virlheim where their words wouldn’t offend the poor villagers who were surely having the worst luck (surely). But it would be all right, eventually, as bad luck cannot last forever. It has to end and things would turn around for ol’ Virlheim (eventually).

Eventually, strangers began showing up in Virlheim. Not one at a time (as they oft do) and not in caravans (as they oft do) but strangely they showed up all at once. If they were bothered to be asked from whence they came, and for where they’d return (as they oft do) the strangers would reply simply, “Terminus.” And if they were bothered to be asked who they are and who they seek (as they oft do) they would only reply, “We are from the Societas, and we are looking for our friend.”

And so begins the sad story of poor Virlheim when these strangers arrived on a day like any other -- with rain falling and a dull-grey gloom hanging over the village -- and in their hand is a letter that simply states:

Kincaid has fled to Virlheim.

Info

This is an open collaboration to anyone who wants to resolve the "Missing!" event I started, not just Societas members. Societas members are going to get rewards for participating in this event.

I changed things up so that everyone can participate, but basically whatever you guys did to get here is something you can use for a future pchap or collab. Whether you chose one of the options in Discord or if you just followed this note is up to you. If you want to pursue the Discord options we'll use that as a collab point. Let me know so I can give you whatever pertinent information I can.

I'm not expecting this to be a fast collab, and in point of fact that will probably make things better. Take your time, there's no deadline or rush to complete this, but this is something that I've been wanting to do for a long time now.

 

[MoonlitRain014]

Quaestor Laermont clambered down from the steam dray that had carried him to Virlheim. The sounds and sensations of a fishing village permeated the air from the cries of the gulls to the pungent scent of drying fish to the relentless wash of waves against a cobble shore. Not being human, the many hours of swaying and bumping in the dray hadn’t left him stiff or sore, but he still stretched out his bio-metallic body. Now his eyeplates scanned the scene, drifting across the ramshackle houses, moving across this non-descript town.

Eyes watched him. Demvir weren’t common in these parts and chidlren stared openly while the adults took furtive glances at him before muttering and returning to their work. Laermont’s flickering eyeplates paused ever so briefly on those whispering figures. After having limbered up, he began a determined walk towards a low, dark building that screamed “tavern” without actually having a sign to say so. A battered old salt of a fisherman stared through his thick eyebrows at the machina and muttered darkly about “damn metal men” before turning away.

The battered door to the tavern swung open to reveal a badly lit space full of pipe smoke and the scent of the strong, smoky local liquor. Every weathered, lined and scarred face in the place turned towards him. A miasma of hostility rose from them like the smoke of their pipes, but the sheer size of the Quaestor along with his weaponry prevented anyone from doing more than grumbling.

Facing down the glaring bartender, Laermont subtly rested his massive hand on the hilt of his short sword. His tone was polite. “My name is Quaestor Laermont of the Terminus quaestorii. I am in your town inquiring after a certain gentleman. I am not sure what name he goes by but here is his description.”

The broad shouldered demvir in his heavy leather trenchcoat continued to lean on the counter as he gave Kincaid’s description. He waited and watched, looking for signs of a lie that would likely come. Even lies, however, told their own stories.