1.2.2 A friend in need

One of the fingers of Loki's Hand is an elf. He and a group of other elves have been captured by a group of rogue Orks who say the elves killed their friend. Handle this subtly for Loki's Hand to avoid further conflict.

Opening Monologue¶

You wake to the rhythmic slosh of water against the wooden struts of the Black Tide Tavern*, the scent of brine and stale ale thick in the air. It’s been about a week since you cleared the smuggler’s cave and delivered those cockatrice eggs—a week of restless idleness. Varka has long since reverted to treating you as little more than freeloading nuisances, grumbling as she slams down bowls of watery stew and muttering about cleaning up after "half-witted strays." You can’t picture her as a mother—too brutish for that. She seems more the type to crush small creatures by instinct rather than nurture them.

Still, the downtime has given you something rarer than coin—time to think. Those wererats*, their uncanny knowledge of your job, and the note they carried—marked by The Guild. That shouldn’t be possible. This smuggling ring was hidden from them… wasn’t it? The thought lingers, nagging at the edges of your mind.

Despite the unease, coin jingles in your pocket, your belly is full*, and your gear is better than ever—fresh upgrades to your weapons, and Hantz’s new Water Blessing still humming with power. You’re ready for something new.

Then—BANG. BANG. BANG.*

*The room door rattles on its hinges, the sound sharp against the stillness of the quiet morning.

"MEEEEETING IN THA BACKROOM… NOW, AAAALL OF YA!"

Whatever this is, it’s not a request.

Scene 1¶

Backroom of the Black Tide Tavern¶

Varka is sitting on a stool with half an unfinished pint in her hand. Its not unheard of that she is drinking in the morning but this time seems different, she looks concerned. A shadowed figure with a hood stands in the dim light of a candle beside her, his leathers fit him well and oddly cast no shadow. You can see an arsenal of blades on his belt and tucked neatly into his leathers. But the oddest thing is the tail, long and hairless and only slightly visible in the dim light. He is aged but undoubtedly still spry, a threat of both experience and precision. Varka swirls the ale in her mug and clicks her tongue, as you enter the back room, iiiiif you're sure then... the fresh meat have aaaarrived. The figure smirks, the candlelight barely catching the gleam of sharp teeth beneath his hood. He steps forward into the light, I am Kvarrac and I need your help with something you are all uniquely suitable for. We must join together, to fight against the oppression in this city. I am sure you have felt its hardships, its injustice. Villains, Murderers and Brutes raised up to Kings. Before I explain further though, I need the oaths of each of you. There is no backwards steps after this, his long, sinuous tail behind him curling ever so slightly. You and I will be as family and there is no leaving the family. He stands afore you now waiting, expectantly looking to each of you.

ALTERNATE If party doesn't choose to join (whole party must join or Kvarrac refuses) we need a new hook. If they take this decision take a 30minute break and prep an alternative path.

Varka will be dissapointed and will comment that not everyone has what it takes and will throw them out of her pub, she will not hold any grudges though and will go back to neutral association with vague threats about people who tell tales aren't seen or heard from again. They will never see Kvarrac again.

We probably need something which leads the characters to Eastern Elf Shallows. Potentially simply an encounter with desperate elves, mugging them for money or food Rumours of people going missing Rumours of the bell tolling

The job¶

*Kvarrac removes his hood and grins grabbing each of your arms at the elbow and embracing each of you quickly. As he moves between you he names you all Wolves of Loki's Hand. Wolves are hungry, fierce and loyal. They hunt and work as a unit driving their prey into each others clutches. His tail curls joyfully and some tension is eased between Varka and Kvarrac. Loki's Hand has had to make unconventional allies, Kvarrac begins. In the 10 years since Hammerfall was taken The Pact have always held themselves and their foresworn above the common people in The Shallows. We have had to fend for ourselves whilst operating outside of their oversight. In recent months the food shortages have become severe for most peoples in The Shallows but we at least are left with somethin. The Elves of the Shallows however, well, The Pact considers feeding them a waste of food. Now we aren't an organisation of Bleeding Hearts but we have identified an opportunity, a trade, something which helps us both. We can get food into the city out of the sight of the guards and well, the elves - most of em at least, still hoard some magics and hidden knowledge about this city which well even The Pact don't know about. Trouble is, our main contact, the only one we deal with and have brought into the family - well he's missing. Supposedly some trouble with an elite detachment of Orks, calls themselves - the Uzzikh. Pretty high ranking in the Horde. I don't know the details but we can't be connected to the Elves, bad for business. Good news is, no-one knows that you've joined the family yet, now do they! Well except Balder, everyone round here knows he works at the Tide. That's why Balder won't be going on this little mission, we can't have people sniffing around here if anything goes balls up. Jobs simple, find out what's going on. Sort it out however you want, but get our man back on the streets working, his name is [[Veylith Lorarion]]. Oh and don't lead anyone back here to us!

As you turn to leave, you realize you’re no longer alone. Two figures have entered the room without a sound, standing just within the dim candlelight. How long have they been there? The first is a woman—sharp, wiry, and moving like she’s already halfway out the door. Her sun-roughened skin and the faint scent of salt cling to her like a second skin, and her fingers drum impatiently against the hilt of a wickedly curved knife at her side. "The Riptide"—Brelka. *"Welcome to the family, pups," she says, flashing a wry grin, though her gaze barely lingers on any of you. She speaks in quick, clipped tones, each word chasing the next as if she’s got somewhere to be five minutes ago. "You keep your noses clean, listen when it matters, and maybe you’ll live long enough to be useful." With that, she brushes past you and begins speaking in hushed tones to Kvarrac.

The second figure is a stark contrast—a hunched, broad-shouldered man, his posture that of someone more used to bending over a body than standing upright in a conversation. His head is bald, the skin pallid, but it’s the arms that catch your attention—corded with muscle, lined with deep, jagged scars that tell a story of cuts given and taken alike. A belt at his waist bristles with bone saws, scalpels, and vials of something dark and unpleasant. "The Leech"—Grettir. He eyes you up and down, his lips curling into something that might be a smirk or just the natural pull of his scarred face. His voice is slow, deliberate, almost mocking in contrast to Brelka’s hurried cadence. "Family, huh?" he muses, rolling a small bone between his fingers. "Haven’t lost anyone yet, have you? You will. ‘S the way of things. But that’s what I’m for." His smile is all teeth. "If you’ve got the coin, I can put you back together."

Kvarrac barely has time to acknowledge the newcomers before Brelka rounds on him, eyes sharp as a hooked blade. "So that’s it?" she snaps at him before he can open his mouth. "You just throw them in the deep and hope they swim?"

Kvarrac’s tail flicks once, his smirk fading. "They’ll be fine. They’re Wolves now."

"Wolves? Please." Brelka’s fingers drum against the hilt of her knife, her foot tapping restlessly. "You want them running a job this hot without a handler? Without oversight? You’re either getting bolder or dumber, Kvarrac, and I’m betting on the latter."

A growl rumbles in his throat, barely audible over the crackle of candlelight. "I don’t answer to you, Riptide."

Brelka’s laugh is humorless. "No, you don’t. But you’ll answer when this blows up in your face. When the Pact sniff out your little food-for-magic scam and come knocking. But you're not the one who'll have to clean it up, are you? That's my job-keeping us safe when you decide you want to save the god-forsaken Elves. We should be striking against their Elites and getting them to fight each other not hiding in caves smuggling food for beggars.

She throws up her hands, stepping back. "Whatever trouble your little elf friend has gotten himself into is NOT MY PROBLEM."

And just like that, she’s gone—storming past you, shoving the tavern door open with enough force to rattle the frame, disappearing into the city without a backward glance.

Kvarrac watches her go, his tail curling idly. "Hmph. She’ll be back." He looks to you. She's been angry a lot lately... but she always comes around

If the PCs try and interrupt Brelka she will retort, quiet Pups go back to chasing your bone.

Scene 2¶

Eastern Elf Shallows ¶

An ork and human child play catch with a moldy loaf of bread while a cohort of small, malnourished elven youths desperately try to intercept for a morsel. They are older in years, but much weaker and any who come close are viciously kicked away to the jeers of onlookers. Eventually a throw is bad and the bread is swarmed by the elven youths fighting amongst themselves like rabid dogs. An ork guards wades in, viciously striking at the youths and barking orders. He retrieves the moldy bread and quietens the youths, before spitting at them, stomping on the bread and hurling it back to the ork and human child; to continue their game of catch.

the elves around here are wan and starving
they will literally do anything or say anything to the PCs for any morsel of food, money has little value though since they aren't allow to carry anything more than coppers so gold would be confiscated
there are orc guards standing watch, they will refuse to aid the pcs if they show kindness to the elves or feed them, simply referring to them as elf-lovers.

Crumbling Bell Tower¶

*A crumbling bell tower rises above the district, its foundation sinking into the rot beneath. The once-grand structure is now little more than a skeletal ruin, its bell rusted but still intact. When the wind blows, it groans in protest, as if carrying the voices of the elves who gather there to mourn. Some claim that when the bell is rung, the wronged dead stir, their restless spirits whispering curses upon the living. - while the party is exploring the bell tolls, a group of elves breaks down and starts crying - moments later, a mother and father walk shakily past holding a wrapped satchel which seems to hold a small elven child. - they will process towards the Elven Tomb and hold a small ceremony

Ancient Elven Tomb¶

a gaping wound in the earth, its jagged maw swallowing what little light dares to touch it. The elves whisper that it was once a sacred place, but now it is nothing but a doorway for the forgotten dead, to Hel itself. Strange, curling carvings mar the stone at its entrance, depictions of forsaken gods with dead faces and swollen eyes that seem to follow those who dare to look too closely. No one who enters ever returns.

A pair of young elves are throwing rocks into the tomb
No guards here, closest guards are at the temple of Heimdall. The Pact are happy for the elves to throw themselves to the Catacombs.

Temple of Heimdall¶

The Temple of Heimdall, known as the Watcher’s Vigil, is a crumbling relic of a forgotten era. Its once-sturdy walls are cracked, with deep fissures running through the blackened stone, and the wooden beams sag under years of neglect. The great doors, once adorned with Heimdall’s ever-watchful eyes, are now faded and splintered, their carvings worn smooth by time. Inside, the air is thick with dust and the scent of old, burnt resin. A cracked war-horn rests upon a weathered altar, its surface chipped and marred, surrounded by offerings of rusted blades and broken shields—the best that the destitute worshippers of the Eastern Elf Shallows can provide.

The temple is maintained by Varthan Greycloak, a grim, one-eyed priest of Heimdall who serves under one of the Chosen, stationed here to reinforce their entitlement to all places of Worship. Varthan walks the temple's halls like a man guarding a ruin rather than tending a place of worship. Two ork guards stand at the entrance, shifting uneasily—their armor ill-fitted, their grips too tight on their spears. They mutter amongst themselves, casting nervous glances toward the Ancient Elven Tomb. Another guard once stood watch here, but he vanished without a trace. The whispers say beasts dragged him to Hel, and in the silence of the temple, those whispers feel uncomfortably close to the truth.

Varthan will answer any question, though he has only one eye he is not blind to the devastation the elves endure
He does not know much about the Uzzikh except he knew the female Ork who was on guard the other night and went missing. She had worked the shift many times and was one of the most tolerant of the elves. It is odd that she is the one missing when there are so many crueler orks which the Elves would have more reason to want dead. Not that he knew of any Elf with enough constitution to consider taking on an Ork in combat.

Distribution Center¶

Near the outskirts, a pitiful wooden stall stands under the watchful eyes of orcish guards—the so-called distribution center. Here, the elves are given just enough food to prolong their suffering, never enough to quell their hunger.

Scene 3¶

Uzzikh Hideout¶

*You reach the section of Mongeet you were told about. Back off the water in the warehouse district. Several of the warehouses seem to lie dormant and unused but from one of the larger older buildings you can see lights on inside. It is quiet, there is no-one about. If this large building is full of Orks, it might pay to not alert the whole warehouse, at least unless we're ready for it.

Session Notes¶

Riven's amulet is the best
Group REALLY wants to go back to the catacombs through the Ancient Elven Tomb....which is good for undisclosed reasons...
We pretty extensively covered Eastern Elf Shallows, but didn't go into Western.
Whisky makes the sick less bad and the accents also more bad.