Trast Roaming Resolute: Hunting the Seneschal

[Jim Roberts]

[Feb 2 – Ft. Resolute]

After consulting with Andrieniel, Trast paused as he was leaving the
room and turned back to the wizard, "Oh, by the way, do you know where I
might find Lord Tregarth at this time of day? "

"Best bet," she mused, "would be to check his office. If he's not there,
try the stables, though he’s often out on Lord Erik’s business anywhere
within about a 20 mile radius.”

"Thanks, I'll do that. Again, thanks for the info. Let's go Kal."

Making their way to the offices of Sir Erik's second in command, they
found the door locked and a small, neatly lettered sign with a little
clock on it with movable hands saying simply “Sir Tregarth will return
at:”, with the hands of the little clock set for a curiously impossible
time. Impossible for working clocks, that is. Most clocks were not
capable of showing a time with both hands pointing straight down.

A crudely penned note just under the clock attempted to add clarity,
though whether or not it succeeded was a matter for debate. The note
contained just a single word – “Ragnarök”. The term sounded vaguely
Norse, which made sense given that the Lord of the area, Sir Erik the
Red, was a classic norseman. His aide, Sir Tregarth, did not appear to
be from that particular corner of the far away Celtar, but both men were
church knights of some sort or other of one of the obscure Norse
mythologies. Which made them pagans of a sort, but clearly at peace with
the local Tellic hierarchy, given that Lord Erik’s own liege was none
other than Abbot Kenobi, the region’s secular *and* ecclesiastical leader.

But that still left the meaning of the clock and its note rather obscure
for the current readers. A young lad wearing the belt marking him as a
“Rider” from those northern plains was just passing, and was happy to
help. Apparently the Seneschal had been called away on one of the
frequent calls to put out a local metaphorical fire. A call had come in
warning that a dispute down at the “shipyard” was in danger of getting
violent. Rather than dispatch the local Watch, Sir Tregarth had decided
to look into the matter personally. Nobody knew when the knight would be
back from *this* particular crisis, but it was a matter of Faith that he
*would* be back in time for the fabled Final Battle. Hence, the note
penned by some of the more enthusiastic of the local norsemen.

Suspecting that the handsome dwarf and the equally unhandsome gnome did
not wish to wait until the End of Days, the young Rider had some rather
more practical advice. He hadn’t seen the Seneschal recently, so
presumably the big knight was still down at the alleged shipyard; if
Trast and Kal headed down there now, they’d no doubt meet him. Some
specific instructions on where to find the shipyard had the two visitors
on their way.

Outside of the construction zone that was Fort Resolute, and well off of
the tall bluff, dwarf and gnome soon came to the “shipyard”, a
construction zone of an entirely different sort down on the River
Gelmir. There, they could see the keel and skeleton of a large
riverboat. The skeleton of what would one day be a keelboat was coming
together nicely, but there was still a lot of work to be done before the
vessel would be able to sail for distant shores. However, a nicely
painted sign optimistically declared, “Viking River Cruises”.

What was entirely missing from the scene was Sir Tregarth. There were
indeed a number of both locals and norsemen working together, but there
was no sign of any impending violence. One tribeswoman was looking at
the tranquil scene rather despondently. Her leatherwork and beads
proclaimed her to be an acknowledged warrior among the locals tribes,
but in a bit of cultural appropriation, she was also rather proudly
wearing a Celtar belt similar to the Rider up at the manor who had
pointed them this far.

She quickly introduced herself as Petrea, and readily admitted that she
had followed the Seneschal down here at the chance that there was a
fight brewing. But as was only too common when Sir Tregarth arrived at a
potential dustup, both sides of a labour dispute that was about to get
ugly suddenly became much more interested in resuming negotiation. By
the time Petrea had arrived, whatever sore point had caused the recent
friction had been more or less smoothed over, and the lady warrior was
staying behind just in case a new dispute arose. “Unless YOU two want to
start some trouble,” she asked hopefully, then looked crestfallen when
both Trast and Kal assured her they just wanted to find Sir Tregarth.

Sir Tregarth, too, might have remained around longer, but a runner from
the manor had brought word of a new crisis that needed attention.
Something about a domestic issue up in the temporary housing for the
Wagon People settlers. Petrea shrugged; these affairs wouldn’t usually
require the direct intervention of the local Command Staff, but
apparently words about reducing the area into a large funeral pyre had
been bandied about. Which, given the source, Petrea was not inclined to
take TOO seriously, but if Trast and Kal wished to find Tregarth, they
should head up to the Tinorfildur house.

The name meant nothing at all to Kal, but it sounded slightly familiar
to Trast. That had been the family name of one of the dozens – well,
more accurately, handfuls – of talented ladies who had provided the
backbone of his recent sojourn to the Waystation 5 area. Some specific
directions had them on their way.

Once they were in the neatly arranged temporary housing tucked away
anywhere a bit of level ground could be found on the flanks of the bluff
above the spring floods, finding the Tinofildur home was
straightforward. There simply was no room for the sort of precision that
church knights and dwarven architects alike revered to lay the houses
out in neat rows, each with a unique address. Not without placing them
some considerable distance away to find level ground that would not be
underwater for several weeks every spring, up where the main carter’s
camp was located.

So scattered here and there on the slopes was a collection of wigwams
and an occasional tipi, tucked into whatever flat meadows or little
dells could be found that were level enough on the leeward side of the
bluff. There were several places where clusters of as many as three or
four wigwams stood together, but just as often an individual home stood
alone on a shelf or level spot with a tree or a few bushes their only
company.

Footpaths worn in the hillside connected all the different spots, and it
was fortunate indeed they had been given careful directions. A faint
trail just barely passable by a wagon twisted along tying all the
disparate spots together and off around the hillside a few brightly
painted wagons were parked not too far behind the biggest pair of tipis
poking above the trees where an enterprising local had set up the “No
Reservations” watering hole.

Just as they had been told, the wigwam in question was marked with a
colourful bit of rainbow glass that glinted nicely in the weak winter
sun. Petrea had cheerily told them the wigwam they wanted was ‘under the
rainbow”, then explained what she meant. The token declared for those in
the know that the building was the family home of someone who had shed
blood in the service of Sir Erik. However, missing entirely from the
area was any sign of any funeral pyres.

A young girl was playing with an equally young kitten outside the front
door. Both girl and kitten retreated behind a lady who was clearly *one*
of their mothers at the sight of Kal, though the girl smiled uncertainly
at Trast. The lady of the house, Legaradia, apologized both for her
eldest daughter, Fadriewien, and that the two had just missed Sir
Tregarth. Fadri’s pessimistic doom spinning had clearly frightened one
of the neighbours (again), but her daughter’s words were no more than a
grim prediction for how everything would ultimately end, and not a
specific plan to bring about that result herself. All it took was
Tregarth listening for a while, and the matter had been put to rest.
This was, after all, hardly his first doomsaying.

But not before a Rider had arrived bringing a tale of *another* crisis,
this time off at the sawmill some distance away. The huge knight had
apologized for cutting his visit short, and had summoned his equally
huge white horse and had ridden off post haste. Not, perhaps, into the
sunset, but near enough.

And that set the pattern for the rest of the time that Trast and Kal
chose to try to find Sir Tregarth. The big knight was always hopping
from one crisis to the next, and the two visitors were generally one or
two crises behind. He had been MUCH easier to catch up with when they
first arrived, if only they had known…

Eventually, even the apparently profound amount of patience shown by
these two seekers was starting to wear thin. Simple nature fieldcraft
suggested a solution; eventually their elusive prey would have to go to
ground. Unless the big knight decided to camp out at one of these
interminable series of hotspots that needed his attention, eventually he
would HAVE to return back to his lair. Or in this case, his office back
up at the Fort Resolute manor.

As they were passing by the stables on their way back to the manorhouse,
however, Trast noticed something significant within. In a particularly
neatly groomed stall was the massive white horse last seen duelling with
Sir Tregarth. Trast’s experienced eye was certain it was the same horse,
not that it was likely there were two that big in the stables; though
with the luck they had been having, who could really say? Neither the
knight nor the horse’s blade were in evidence, but Tregarth’s Divine
Steed Maximus was very much in residence. If they wanted to find
Tregarth, there was always something to be said for skipping the
intermediaries, and getting the word right from the horse’s mouth.