3. Gunnar Hockstrohm, Knight of the Divine Shield

Gunnar Hockstrohm, Knight of the Divine Shield

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    This first is the same as his historical archive and his posted here only for continuity of the thread.

    A letter, written in a fine hand on good parchment, is tucked in the breast pocket of Gunnar Hockstrohm’s squire uniform.

    ((The letter is written in a dialect known in vineyard country of Cormyr, it is here translated into common tongue to spare you and I much effort and difficulty; but if you should want to get the flavor of it simply, just throw the verb to the end of each sentence.))

    Dear son Gunnar,

    You have before you a long and perilous journey. But you are a Hockstrohm and you are strong. I also trust that your good intuition will see you through on your travels. I want you to know that your family has immense faith in your talents and abilities. We all wish you well.

    As I know your travels will be long, and the dangers many, let me take a moment to remind you who you have been. In this way, in moments of doubt, you can look on this letter and know that you are loved and cherished and that you can indeed accomplish great things.

    You are Gunnar Hockstrohm. The eighth son of Adolf Hockstrohm. When you were young you had a terrible pox. The entire family was not sure that you would live. But each of us tended you in our own way. Your brothers made small toys for you, acted out stories, and told you all about how our vineyard works. You absorbed these deeply. For my part, in addition to seeing to your health as best I could, I told you the stories of Dahryan Schtallvurt, the Knight of Helm. I told you all the stories I knew of Dahryan and you would ask that I tell them again and again. Oh how you loved those stories. You refused believe that he had died in the “Tale of the Capsized Ship” and demanded more stories but I had none as I believed that Schtallvurt had indeed perished in the storm. You insisted Schtallvurt lived with such ferocity. Time has proven your intuition right, as it often does, young Gunnar.

    After you recovered from your illness, a miracle in itself, you began to help the family make the wine. First you helped with the planting and fieldwork. You learned a great deal about agriculture and tending of grape vines. It was you, at the age of 12, who discovered that there are some insects which help the plants to grow. Through your tireless persistence you have cultivated these helpful insects along with our vines. The health of the vines while other vineyards have failed is evidence of your skill. You have also determined the proper time for planting new vines and for harvesting. You have done this with great success for the past three years.

    At the age of 15 you began to demand harder work. Probably spurred on by your older brothers Karl and Adam. You insisted on rolling the large wine barrels by yourself. You quickly became much stronger than your brothers, even Lukas. And though your skin is, alas, ever marked from your illness, your frame is strong and true.

    It is important that you remember these things: you are a Hockstrohm and are well loved. You are insistent in a way that can cause others discomfort, but you also happen to be right many times. Do not let others frustrate you, remain modest and humble: Hockstrohm’s are not braggarts. Too many who become Knights let their might go to their heads. Remember that you are a man who must heal the troubles of this world. I know you well and I trust your judgement often more than my own.

    When your uncle Corlo, my brother, came to the house to tell us that Schtallvurt was living I knew you would want to seek him out. I have every faith in your ability to find him and to serve Lord Helm in the most noble fashion. The family will miss your presence. Your crop predictions have been invaluable. Your strength equal to three oxen. But we also know that you are following your dream of service. And we are proud of you.

    And, of course, if you should find additional markets for Hockstrohm Vineyards while serving Helm, that is welcome. But not necessary. I send you with much of our wine. Do not sell it unless you must. Give it freely to those in need and those who help you. Helm will provide for you, and you must also provide for others.

    Please write to us as you are able. Your brothers will be eager to hear of your journey and your little sister Hilde will cry for many days when she hears that you have left.

    Let Service be your virtue. Remember that Helm guards the bridge for all of us.

    Your father,

    Adolf Hockstrohm

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    The following was written by Strepsiades but included here as part of this tale (I didn't ask permission so Streps if you don't want it here just pipe up and I'll take it out).

    Sent to the von Hockstrohm estate,
    Immersea, Cormyr
    _The peace of Helm be with you. It is with my deepest condolences that I must inform you of the death of Sir Gunnar Hockstrohm, faithful of the Watcher and Knight of the Divine Shield. Sir Gunnar served with distinction in our Order for many years, his strength of faith and commitment to duty earning him the respect of both his fellow knights and the people of the Narfell region. In all of our struggles, he never once failed to heed the call, be it for battle or otherwise. With his help, we were able to restore the temple in Jiyyd when the altar had been cursed by dark forces, and with his help we traveled to Mintas Rhelgor to destroy the cabal of Banites there. Gunnar was an example to many of the younger knights, always ready to sacrifice himself in service to a greater cause.

    In his later years, Gunnar labored tirelessly to establish a vineyard in Jiyyd. The magnitude of such a task cannot be overstated, since Narfell is a cold and hard land and does not take to any crops easily. To my knowledge, the grapes from the von Hockstrohm vineyard produce the only ice wine in the entire region. I have included a bottle of it along with several of Gunnar's personal effects, which should be arriving in Cormyr shortly. It will not be easy to maintain the vines without his expertise and dedication, but the temple depends on the estate's income and we will find someone to carry on with the work.

    It is our intention to lay Sir Gunnar to rest in the temple of Helm in Jiyyd. His sword and other such items will be laid with him. As we have done in the past for our fallen knights, we will ensure that his tomb is well tended and blessed by the High Watcher. If it is your wish that his remains be returned home, tell us and we will bring him to you ourselves. It is a long and difficult journey, but he made it more than once, and we would not deny him the trip for one last time.

    Please do not hesitate in asking for anything; you and your brother have already given so much to us. I pray that the pain of your loss will be eased by the knowledge that Gunnar died as a paladin of Helm, in battle, after long and distringuished service. I have no doubt that he watches the Bridge even now.

    Yours in faith,
    Sir Roland Brynmor
    Grandmaster
    Order of the Divine Shield

    Peltarch
    Narfell_

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    The wine merchant and Gunnar had their usual chat, discussing different terroir of Toril and so forth, glasses clinking.

    At the edge of the sands the Bridge began. Down the right-hand side a wide strip of short prairie grasses filled with a variety of wildflowers made a gentle way beneath Gunnar’s bare feet. Beautiful maidens waved to him and he bowed his head, ever humble, as he passed them.

    Down the left-hand side of the wide stone bridge warriors from old stood guard. They stood upright, proud, and vigilant. Barring entry to those whose time was not yet or who were abandoned by their gods. Their ranks were full and Gunnar was proud to see among them his ancestors and even one whose Order he had been proud to serve in Nar… where was it again... those memories were slipping past him now. No matter.

    The flowers were beautiful, great in number, small and white, set against a gentle wave of green.

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    A Request Sent by Courier

    Inside the pouch of a fast steed, pounding the earth between the Nars and the southeastern edge of Cormyr is a letter, written in a well-formed hand in a dialect little-used these days. The contents of that letter, when translated into the common tongue, read as follows:

    Brothers Adam and Lukas,

    My travels back to Narfelland was mostly uneventful and well guarded by Helm for whom all the Bridge watches. Upon my return there have been many changes. Some of which, and concerning the lady of whom I spoke to you often, I am not disposed to discuss at present. Many whom I once knew I have not yet found or heard their tale. I miss, in particular, the scout Ilthoran who was often a source of information and guidance to me.

    Sir Roland Brynmore, whose blade I gave to the neighbor boy, is now a Council member of the Order of the Divine Shield. So do tell the young fellow that his sword was purchased by Lord Brynmore. It should bring a smile to his face and resoluteness to his study.

    I am writing this letter mainly, though, to request the shipment of ten grown vines from the north quadrant of Vineyard Hockstrohm. Particularly those of the Riesling or Huxelrebe variety, the vines who wait the longest before yielding their fruit. The Order is in need of income and I will set up a vineyard to assist in this matter. Our will is to create a good eiswine. I believe the soil and climate may be well suited to this. There is no finely produced white wine in this land so I hope it should prove well in the market. Lukas, please let me know your thoughts on this as I know your skills in selling of wine are second perhaps only to Uncle Corlo.

    Please notify me of any news about the Vineyard and give little Hilde a hug for me. My regards as your humble little brother.

    In Helm for Whom All the Bridge Guards,
    Gunnar


  • Great to have you back Gunnar! Love your stories… Gunnar is very real and alive- especially with his 'home life' brought into Narfell- someone who misses his family, loves them very much but accepts his place and duty!

    Looking forward to more!

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    [Re-print from the Jiyyd forums, cross-posted here for continuity]

    Late one night, after even the last of the drinking and drunk commoners have passed out or been ejected, Mary finally gets down to business cleaning out the back bar area.

    She first wipes off the counter, goes through the dishwork as usual. And since it's an early night figures she might as well tidy up the small cluttered nook where the notes and I.O.U.'s and such are kept for the people who stay at the inn.

    Waaaay in the back she finds an old yellowed piece of paper. After checking to see who the sender is she ponders, vaguely remembering the pious, thick-accented fellow from a few years back… A few years back?! She checks the date on the note and realizes it must have never been delivered! She checks to see who it was addressed to, her face goes pale and she heads up to the Temple of Helm through a driving snowstorm and drops off the note in the office.

    "Better late than never..." she shrugs, pulls her cloak over her head and heads back to finish cleaning the bar.

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    [re-print from new historical archive, cross-posted here for continuity]

    There was rain. Sheets of rain that blocked vision beyond a few meters. It had been falling for days. It seemed as if the stormclouds had followed Gunnar all the way from Jiyyd, from the moment he opened the letter written in his Uncle Corlo’s hand, from the moment Gunnar learned that his father had fallen while tending the vines. The date on the letter caused Gunnar hardship as he’d not yet known. The letter had taken twelve days to cross from the southern vineyards of Cormyr to the outlands of Narfell.

    In haste, Gunnar had packed his few belongings; tenderly placing the holy symbol of Helm, a final gift from Darian Stalwart, about his neck. He followed the messenger to the waiting wagon. While the wagon took on a load of turnips Gunnar quickly scratched a message to the Order explaining his situation and passed it off to Shantie with a few coins, asking her to please deliver it quickly.

    The wagon train slowly rolled past the village well. Gunnar’s eyes held steady at the last point he had spoken with Lady Arora von Mystra and he wondered if she’d understand. He hoped she would, but in the pit of his stomach he knew that leaving so quickly would be a mistake. But the family… the family must come first.

    The entire trip was slow, bogged down in mud, assaulted by a weak bandit force which the wagon train mercenaries, with help from Gunnar, quickly dispatched. The wheels were constantly cracked on the rocky earth west of Peltarch and it was by Helm’s grace alone that giants didn’t discover them as they passed out of Narfell.

    Throughout the long journey the young Knight of the Divine Shield carefully carved a small wooden sword to keep his mind from the slowness of the travel, to keep his mind from the worry of what he was to find ahead as well as the worry of what was left behind. The sword was a miniature replica of the greatsword that Gunnar had carefully wrapped in cloth, a gift from Sir Roland that stood him well always. After the basic fittings and shape were made, Gunnar spent several bumpy, rock-filled days in the wagon sanding the wooden blade smooth.

    Onward the caravan travelled, past the northland of Gunnar’s ancestors barren and defeated by the witch-king and only slowly rebuilding. Onward still into the basin of the Sea of Fallen Stars.

    When they arrived in Sembia he purchased a few paints, light blue, dark blue, and white. He spent the following days painting delicate rolling flowers and vines along the length of the sword and handle. The flowers curved and flowed like water around the wooden blade. The water outside continued to rattle on the wagon roof.

    Finally the handle of the craft sword was the only undecorated part. Gunnar looked at it intently. Entire sagas were passing through his mind as he contemplated what to inscribe there. There was no room for all the things his father, Adolf, had taught him. The rain continued its clattering down on the roof of the gently rolling wagon while Gunnar set the brush to the handle and wrote in thick blue paint: Integrity.

    The journey had taken many days. Gunnar knew he’d be arriving far too late. Not only for the funerary rites, but for what disaster would certainly be in the making should the reins of the vineyard be handed to his eldest brother, Karl. Gunnar hoped for Uncle Corlo to maintain the situation until he arrived.

    The wagon rolled to a halt and the muleskinner’s muddy face appeared at the wagon’s door, beckoning Gunnar to his destination. Gunnar slowly heaved his heavy pack onto his shoulders, picked up his own greatsword, the small wooden sword and walked through the rain and muck to the small cemetery.

    The grave of “Adolf, Vintner, Head of Hockstrohm by Helm’s will called to the Bridge crossing in his 57th year” had begun to sprout grass and flowers and was lined with 24 small wooden swords similar to the one Gunnar carried. He let down his pack in the damp earth at the side of the grave, and carefully placed his wooden sword in the earth above the grave alongside the others.

    “I am sorry to be so late father, may your journey have been unmolested, Helm for all is guarding.”

    The warm tears of the young knight mixed with the cold rain falling on the grave.

    –-/------/------/------/------/------

    Six years later Gunnar was again packing his belongings, though little that he had here at the Hockstrohm vineyard was suitable to take back to the land of Narfell. He packed his simple clothing and his robes of the Order of the Divine Shield. The holy symbol of Helm, worn previously by Sir Darian Stalwart was always about his neck, no need to pack it.

    The greatsword, a gift of Sir Roland Brynmore had been gifted to a neighbor youth, the youngest son of Gaughclay. The boy had reminded Gunnar of himself at a young age, strong and willing to undertake most any task. He’d make a good member of the Techardschi defenders. Just a few more years perhaps to grow and practice with such a blade.

    Gunnar knew he’d need another sword and though he didn’t want to burden the Order with the purchase upon his arrival, he knew the Gaughclay child would have a more difficult time obtaining such a weapon. And the story of Sir Roland Brynmore of Peltarch would now be living among a Techardschi clan. This was good enough.

    Meanwhile, Gunnar’s boxing skills were still sharp. Though his strength had ebbed in the past six years, his mind was sharper, and he knew more about the world about him. He was no longer clouded with fairy-tale stories of the world. He had lived through several hardships of life and knew to respect them. With a sword or without one, Helm would guard his Bridge. Gunnar Hockstrohm was at peace with himself and with his striving for the attainment of perfection in Techardschi military tradition.

    His small pack prepared, he looked in on his eldest brother, Karl. The room was small and bare but had a window overlooking the west acres of the vineyard. Gunnar’s brother was still sleeping, turning over in some darkened dream of his. Karl had been asleep for nearly seven years now, taken by his addiction to the witch-leaf.

    Under normal circumstances Karl should have assumed the leadership of Hockstrohm after Adolf died of a heart-attack in the vineyards that sunny day six years ago. But these were no longer normal times. The Techardschi ways were thinning and changing to meet their new circumstances. Some farms had no head at all, not even one that was out of birth-order.

    Gunnar looked out the window and across the healthy vineyard. Then he looked to his pale, withered brother. Kneeling, Gunnar whispered a prayer that Karl’s dream-journey be watched by Helm and Darian and Andryl and all others who for all the Bridge guard.

    Gunnar wiped his brother’s brow with a simple rag, stood up, and headed down to the kitchen. Hilde, Gunnar’s little sister, was now going on fourteen and had already taken to preparing the morning meal for the workers of the vineyard. She was standing on an intricately decorated stepstool and stirring a large pot of morning stew. She smiled sweetly at him through her own efforts and the steam.

    “The Fairy Queen a feast preparing?” Gunnar teased.

    She stuck her tongue out at him. As she turned her attention back to her pot, she noticed his pack and her face fell. She jumped from the step-stool and ran to her brother embracing him tightly.

    “Oh Hilde, I’ve said these past years that the time would come for me to my duty return.” Gunnar’s little sister was sobbing now.

    “But who will plan for the planting and the harvest and...” Hilde couldn’t keep going but sobbed into Gunnar’s shoulder.

    He held her tightly and whispered some soothing words of comfort to her. She must be strong, he said. She must feed the workers and the family well, he said. And she must remain true of heart.

    She knew she wouldn’t be able to change his mind and that he would indeed be gone soon. She wanted him to know she’d be strong. She stifled her tears and managed a smile as she quickly packed a lunch for him. “Adam and Lukas are at the vines.” She couldn’t quite look at her brother but smiled as best she could.

    Gunnar gently kissed her forehead and left for the vines. “Helm for you, little sister, the Bridge is guarding. With Darian Stalwart, Lady Andryl, and all the others of many years.”

    The day outside was bright. There was a soft hum of bees passing through the vines and pollinating the grapes. It would be a good year for the wine. Hockstrohm wine was well known throughout the region and, thanks to the efforts of Uncle Corlo, in many of the capitals of the world as well.

    Gunnar had worked closely with his older brothers Adam and Lukas to be sure they knew what he had always known about the planting times. They were certainly strong enough for the work.

    Gunnar was a bit worried, leaving no military member of the household behind as he left. But the Gaughclays were nearby and Lukas, a few years older than Gunnar, was decent enough with a crossbow and strong as an ox. Gunnar was a bit jealous of that strength, knowing that his own had ebbed some in these past years of administering the vineyard. And besides, this was Cormyr, the need for a community militia seemed more remote than ever. The vineyard would be safe.

    “You will communicate with me frequently, yes?” Gunnar asked the two as he found them preparing for their day’s work.

    The two large, blond haired young men nodded silently and respectfully to their younger brother. They looked at him with the same admiration that Gunnar had looked on them when he was a little boy. They knew he would be leaving the vineyard in their hands today.

    In the years immediately following Adolf’s death, Gunnar had skillfully piloted the vineyard through several rough growing seasons, training some of the local boys to do the extra labor required and working with Uncle Corlo to see that the wine was delivered to appropriate markets to preserve and enhance the family name. Adam and Lukas had been grateful for their younger brother’s worldly experience and guidance, reversing the role of older and younger brothers.

    The success of the vineyard under Gunnar’s stewardship had entirely erased the stigma he’d earned by missing his father’s funeral. Gunnar was well respected and sought after throughout the entire Techardschi community of southern Cormyr. Adam and Lukas had learned much of Gunnar’s thinking and process in the meantime; he knew the vineyard would continue to prosper.

    “And you will also take good care of the Fairy Queen?” Gunnar asked in a severe tone that mimicked their deceased father’s tone when speaking of items of great importance.

    Both brothers laughed deeply and agreed that little Hilde would be treated as a princess among them. She would never want for flowers or trifles.

    “Good.” Gunnar smiled on them both, embraced them and bid them farewell. His brothers held him tightly and promised to keep him apprised of the doings at the vineyard.

    As Gunnar walked the several miles down dusty wagon ruts to his uncle’s cottage he surveyed the surrounding countryside. Wheat grew thickly in fields, grapes also. The farmland was good now after years of drought. Many of the old Techardschi families had passed onwards into the cities of Cormyr or Sembia. Some had returned even to Waterdeep to seek their fortunes. A small number had gone back to the Damarran frontier. There were not so many of their people here it seemed. Though in probability it was just that times were changing and communities were moving on. A line of pretty white bell-shaped flowers ran like lace along the right side of the road.

    Uncle Corlo was now getting quite old. He could barely see anymore but his wit was strong. He gave Gunnar some quick advice, let him know the names of the trade-routes he should take and the names of the wagon drivers who were most capable. Corlo gave assurance that he’d stay in touch if something dire should happen at Hockstrohm while Gunnar was away.

    The two sat on the front porch, looking out over the Moonsea and smoking a thick and aromatic pipe of fine tobacco. Uncle Corlo had always been important to Gunnar. And Corlo, having no children of his own, had always looked to Gunnar’s best interests. Neither man said anything for some time.

    Finally the wagon arrived and Gunnar stood to depart.

    “The next time we meet may be on Lord Helm’s Bridge.” Corlo said, the corners of his mouth upturned in a way that made him look nearly elfin.

    “He guards it even for horse merchants, uncle.” Gunnar said with a sad smile.

    “Indeed he does,” Corlo said softly, “indeed he does.”

    The two whispered a quick prayer together in the old tongue, and Gunnar climbed aboard the wagon.

    As the dust settled behind the wagon, leaving a view of fertile farmlands and workers, Gunnar contemplated his return to the outlands of Narfell. Who would be left among his friends? He wondered about Ilthoran, Gunnar’s source of knowledge and confidant. He wondered about the mighty Sir Brynmore whose courage was matched only by his generousity. He thought of the Lady Knights of Peltarch, one of Torm and grumpy, the other of Tyr and light-hearted. He thought of his friend Rick, the merchant whose specialty was weapons and yet banned from the town who needed him most. He thought of Lady Arora and what had befallen her and what it would be like to see her once more.

    He thought also of his Duty: to the Order, for the peace and safety of all in Narfell. He thought of Death: the final sacrifice to be called to the Bridge for all guarding with Helm as well as the laying down of friends and family. He thought of Honor: of leading his family safely through a difficult time and of returning to Narfell having accomplished his familial tasks. And Gunnar Hockstrohm thought also of Life: leading onward into this new and ancient land and toward his own perfection of self in military service to Helm.

    “For all the Bridge Guarding” and he drifted to sleep as the wagon rolled endless on through starry fields towards the mystical plains.

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    The room seems to be a bit warmer now. Perhaps your body heat is somehow retained in the thick stone foundation. Perhaps the extra candles you lit in order to read more from Assistant Professor Zmingol’s thesis are holding the chill at bay. Dust continues to sparkle in the light and the air remains musty and sweet, like decaying parchment and words read only by the writer. Soft and muffled footsteps draw you from your musings on this small gray room.

    The door to the chamber opens and the candles flicker a bit at the change in air pressure. A short librarian worker comes in and asks if you need more time still, politely nods, and departs.
    _Rites and Rituals of the Techardschi

    The Techardschi rites and rituals most resemble those of the Helmite religion pre 992, when the last Supreme Watcher was chosen. After the Techardschi were driven from the lands surrounding Waterdeep they maintained the old ways while the remainder of the Helm faithful changed over the following centuries.

    But even so, the Techardschi rituals should not be considered an accurate view of pre 992 Helmitic belief. The Techardschi community organization and their strict adherence to non-standard Helmitic tradition have created a distinct set of rites and rituals that is exclusive to tight-knit communities at the boundaries of civilization.

    Take, for example, the Techardschi traditions surrounding the death of the father of a family. In exploring the funerary rites and rituals of these agrarian folk it is important to note that the father of a family holds a specific and important position of honor. It is the father that makes decisions about planting and harvest, trading, arranged marriage for any daughters, and the types of tasks his sons will perform (with the exception of the youngest son, who will always be trained to protect the farm as part of the community militia).

    In addition, the father of a household is personally responsible for religious teaching to his family and is personally burdened with seeing that the children and women of the household maintain the strict Helmitic belief of the community. And should any of his immediate family extending outwards to the family of his own brothers and sisters, it is the head of household’s responsibility to assist and ameliorate any hardship.

    When a father “crosses the Bridge” in a Techardschi community there is significant change in the inter-community political structures. But there are systems and traditions in place to help eliminate the chaos that the loss of the decision-maker might bring in other communities; the Techardschi may be simple folk, but they are very civilized.

    The funerary rites themselves are very simple. When it is clear that the man has passed on, news is quickly relayed to all of his sons. All living sons must attend and be present at the burial. This is one of the features of Techardschi life that has kept them fairly sedentary and not very prone to long journeys, if a father should die and the sons cannot attend this is considered to be exceptionally poor form on the part of the son. Most sons live within two days travel of their father, if he is living. In this way they can be assured of arriving in time to honor their father.

    While the sons are arriving, the womenfolk of the household (in the rare event of a man of the house outliving his wife and being without a daughter nearby, his brothers’ wives will take over the following duties) carefully wash the body, dress it in cloth of deep black and embroidered in the interweaving flower patterns the Techardschi are known for, and place it on a bed of flowers. The body lays in this manner for five days.

    On the sixth day after the deceased has passed on, the burial ceremony is held. The body is moved to the gravesite by the sons and a short prayer is recited multiple times by all the local community (except for youngest sons, who I will discuss separately) during the walk. The prayer text basically recounts the tenets of Techardschi belief that Helm will be guarding the bridge for all.

    At the gravesite, the body is lowered into the open grave, a brother or neighbor will recount some aspect of the deceased life that is encouraging and an example of his life lived in honor of Helm.

    The assembly will then return to the house of the deceased where a jubilant feast is held. It is one of the few occasions that directly and implicitely incorporate music and dancing. Small children often perform make-shift theater about the deceased in conversation with Helm on the bridge, often with a humorous twist.

    The mood at such festivities is generally happy and glad. Though the deceased is missed, the ceremony is mostly an expression of gratefulness to Helm for guarding the bridge and a reassurance to all gathered that they too will pass that way in Helm’s protection.

    The only people in a community who are not present for these festivities are the local youngest sons (the youngest son of the deceased is required to be present in military dress for the entire ritual). The youngest sons of the community are required to watch over their farmlands with extra attention and vigilance for 10 days following the death of a head of household.

    Religious beliefs hold that demons and spirits of chaos will sense that someone has died and try to follow their spirit, possibly waylaying them before they reach Helm’s bridge. The local militia members maintain a 24 hour watch on the lands, patrolling with extra rigor in order to keep such spirits at bay during and after the ceremonies.

    Any of these militia who wish to give their regards to the deceased prepare a small craft sword of wood (usually oak) that is decoratively painted in a rolling floral pattern in three colors (chosen at the moment by the militia member). Sometimes there are words incscribed on the handle that identify particular lessons the deceased may have taught the militia son, on occasion an entire story will be intertwined with the floral and vine pattern on the blade. These craft swords are woked on in the hours between waking and breakfast. Once the time of vigilance has passed the militia member will place the craft sword into the deceased grave and often recite a brief prayer of thanksgiving at the deceased safe passage.

    The militia are not required to craft such swords, it is entirely voluntary. Also, there is no dishonor in having none or few craft swords placed on a grave, though a great number of swords is a sign that the departed was particularly active and valuable to the community as a teacher.

    Once all of the rituals are completed, usually the oldest son takes over operations of the farm of the deceased. From this point on he is viewed as head of household and is bound to all the same duties and obligations his father was. Frequently an uncle or other close relative will offer guidance to the new head of household as he gets his bearings. A well prepared eldest son will often take over the workings of the farm with little difficulty and life proceeds at a normal pace._

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    At the end of a quiet residential street in Waterdeep there’s a low earthen wall surrounding a complex of four houses. Ivy grows thickly on the walls, partially obscuring a sign reading “Whately College of Natural Studies*

    Once past the gate, which has no lock, a large white cobb house looms over three three wooden structures. The word “Library” is freshly painted in neat letters above a set of massive oak doors.

    In the basement of this building, which you can access by appointment with the head librarian, the theses and writings of the college’s members are kept. The room is dry and fine layer of dust hangs in the air, sparkling in the light cast by a few candles. The room is cold.

    In the section labeled “Ethnographic Works” there is a fairly sizable tome entitled “The Techardschi: Past and Present.” The book is handsomely bound in black leather, a small design incorporating stylized illustrations of flowers graces the front cover.

    If you were to open it and quickly scan the first few pages you would know that the work was offered by an Alferd Zmingol in 1372. The chapters cover topics such as Religious Beliefs, Kinship Groups, Labor, Warrior Traditions, Industry and Craft, and Medical Issues among others.

    The Chapter entitled “Religious Practices and Spiritual Beliefs of the Techardschi” contains the following overview before going on for some 200 pages.

    _Perhaps the most prominent distinguishing feature of Techardschi culture is the nature of their Helmitic beliefs. All Techardschi are devoted to Helm with a strong and simple faith that outstrips many professed clerics in other lands. In fact persecution for their beliefs is what led this group of farmers, tradesmen, and warriors to leave their original lands near Waterdeep for the open lands of the North in 981. It is worth noting that this date is very near to the date of the last Supreme Watcher of Helm in 992. The Techardschi left the “civilised” world during a period of significant religio-political hardship.
    In Techardschi cosmology there is a literal Bridge binding the surface of Toril to the afterlife. It is possible, according to their beliefs, for the dead to return or the living to visit the dead by crossing this Bridge.

    The Bridge spans, among other things, a visit pit from which Demons, succubi, and other fell beasts emanate in order to claim souls. The passage of the Bridge is made safe only through the vigilant efforts of Helm, who, according to Techardschi belief, is guarding the Bridge for every soul regardless of chosen deity.

    Helm also has his retinue of chosen warriors to assist him in defending the bridge from the forces of chaos who would use the Bridge for wide-scale access to Toril. These warriors are assembled from among the most chosen of Helm’s followers and are never given a true eternal peace. Instead they patrol the Bridge for eternity until Helm sounds the retreat during the final days of Toril. At the end of time, these warriors will remain and tumble into the abyss as the Bridge falls.

    The fate of Helm’s Bridge Warriors after they fall into the abyss is a source of conjecture around late-night fires. Some claim that the warriors will scour and cleanse the abyss while others say they will be rescued by Helm himself. Some maintain they will die during the fall and others say that these brave warriors will finally learn the true meaning of defeat. As many different possible conjectures exist as there are people around a late-night fire. Though the debates of the fate of the Bridge Warriors are often spirited, they are undertaken with the full knowledge that no one in this world can know what will happen to these valiant souls. Discussion of the topic is similar to other ethnic or social groups discussing “The Bogmen,” “The Lurker” or other such tales; these discussions as much about passing time in conversation as they are in exploring moral or ethical values.

    In spite of this lengthy, arduous existence and uncertain fate of the soul, it is considered by the Tetrads-chi to be the most noble end. To “Stand at the Bridge” is considered the finest goal and their warrior class strives endlessly in pursuit of this goal. Not in competition with one another or even with other groups or opponents, but in constant discipline and challenging of their own abilities. The result is swordsmanship that is nearly beyond belief. More of this in the chapter on the warrior class however. Suffice to say here, the Techardschi consider becoming a Bridge Warrior the highest of all goals.

    The Bridge itself, according to Techardschi belief, is formed of an immense slab of white marble. On the right edge is a thin layer of sod in which grow all manner of flowers. The flowers are tended by maidens and ladies, often the true loves of men chosen to guard the Bridge (though these ladies are given the choice to accompany their men given the ultimate sacrifice it entails; these ladies may not retreat in time at the end of days).

    The Bridge itself forms a major metaphor in Techardschi arts and metaphor. But more of this in the discussions of Arts and Crafts and of Linguistics. Some brief examples:

    “May you your Father meet upon the Bridge”
    Complimentary, your lineage is true and fine.

    “Helm for All the Bridge Guards”
    Tolerance… this is the most ambiguous of their sayings, and can be spoken in nearly any situation; most often it is said on parting. It is a sincere wish to the addressed that they know their passage from this realm to the next is guarded and safe.

    “May you witness the Falling”
    Implied here is “falling of the Bridge” this is an admirational saying, an implication that the one addressed is worthy of being one of the Bridge Watchers (see above).

    More of this sort is discussed in the linguistics section. But it is important to know that this obsession with Helm, the Bridge, and the Bridge Warriors permeate Techardschi culture. It is played out in their language, their arts and crafts, and their warrior tradition.

    Techardschi believe that, from his vantage point on the Bridge, Helm is able to personally watch over each individual soul on Toril. This has many implications on nearly every aspect of Techardschi life. They believe that Helm is watching and protecting their mortal lives in order that they experience life and fully enjoy themselves.

    Unlike many religious sects, they have virtually no taboos against alcohol or other mind-altering substances. But as the are focused on living fully, there are relatively few addiction problems in the community. Of those who face addiction problems it is more often that the problem is death with through compassionate community support than humiliation, ostracism or other penalizing systems.

    Techardschi people, as a function of their belief that Helm is watching over them personally, from the Bridge, strive to do the best of their abilities at all times. As most of their industry and art is agrarian in nature, this translates into their being consummate food procurers, producers, vintners, smiths, brewers, and the like._

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    _Dear Father Adolf,

    So many things hav happened since last I wrote. First, with great sadness I must relay the news that Sir Stalwart no longer is with us. But he crossed the Bridge serving Helm with Strength and Honor. According to those present, he was personally called to the Bridge by the Watcher himself.

    His final day included the enjoyment of bardic performances in Norwick (where I am no stationed but more on that later) and a meal which I cooked for him to his great enjoyment. After the meal we travbelled to the Temple of Helm in Jiyyd. Along the journey it was clear Sir Stalwart’s heart was heavy. For hours we prayed. Sir Stalwart prayed for Duty, Death, Honor, and Life.

    When, at last, our prayers were complete, we arose. Sir Stalwart explained to me that soon he would be leaving. I did not understand what he meant, but he explained that Helm had a very difficult task ahead. And that we would be parted.

    With a heavy heart I returned to my prayers and never again would I see Sir Darian Stalwart._

    Here the ink blots a small amount as the writer had drifted away from the taks of writing, lost in though.

    _But what good news I can proclaim also! I am now a full member of the Order of the Divine Shield. I have been stationed to Norwick to help in its defense against Goblins, Bandits and, most recently, Drow. This town is far more boisterous than Jiyyd. Always men and women are bustling about in various stages of injury, often with no time to talk. I have met some friends here in Norwick: Klaz who is a great hulk of a man and once was a farmer, a woman of Mystra named Arora who hails from the Swordcoast, and a few others. Also my dear friend Ilthoran from Jiyyd is often in town.

    The work is long and it seems to never end, as the work of Helm on the Bridge is unending. But I am well made for it and my skills are often well used here.

    Write soon and please send more cooking supplies and Hockstrohm wine as my supplies have run low. Included please find some pressed flowers for Queen Hilde of Fairies.

    In Helm who guards the Bridge for all,

    Gunnar Hockstrohm von Helm, Knight of the Divine Shield_

    Included with the letter is a small book on the Time of Troubles, in between each page is a pressed flower; yellow flowers from the stream below the Temple of Jiyyd, white flowers from the western foothills of Peltarch, tiny red flowers that grow among the bramble of the Rawlinswood are all well represented.

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    For continuity later readers may wish to review the posts of Darian Stallwart which, oocly, inspired the existence of Gunnar in the first place. http://www.narfell.com/modules.php?name=Forums&file=viewtopic&t=8335

    Also, they should do a search for Samson Swarthout and read everything. I didn't even realize there was a "real" Samson Swarthout until well into RPing Gunnar. You won't find all the info in the "Chronicles of a Gentle Giant" either… but most of the important stuff is there.

    http://www.narfell.com/modules.php?name=Forums&file=viewtopic&t=1645

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    Standing on the bridge just below the temple of Helm in Jiyyd a young man stands, reading a letter. Below him the morning is peaceful and calm. The ground wet from the cold and slushy rain that fell the night before.

    The young man, Gunnar Hockstrohm, is disheveled. Usually he takes great care in keeping his appearance clean and true; not from a sense of vanity, but more as an expression of faith, of knowing the value of Helm’s guarding of the bridge. But at this moment Gunnar’s sun-bleached blonde hair was messy and unkept. His face was streaked where many tears had fallen from his bloodshot eyes.

    He had just received a letter from home but, though any other day he would’ve been ecstatic to hear news from his family, today he was slow to open the letter. Most news that had come to Gunnar’s ears lately had been double-edged at best.

    Leaning on the rail, Gunnar began to read:
    _Son Gunnar,

    How joyful it is to hear that you are safe in Narfell, if, by the sounds of your description, safe is an adequate word for using! The grapes are sleeping well this winter tended by your older brothers. The wine should also be well made again though your presence for rolling the barrels will be missed greatly.

    The news that Darian Stalwart is indeed alive has overjoyed our entire household. The brothers put on an acting play for little Hilde that consisted of the entire cycle of Sir Stalwart stories beginning with “Sir Stalwart and the Orc Raid” on through “Sir Stalwart Routes the Moon Tribe Orcs”, “Sir Stalwart and the Ancient Greed,” “Sir Stalwart and the Icy Doom,” and all of the others right up to “Sir Stalwart and the Watery Depths.” This pleased little Hilde very much. No less so because she is now knowing that you are with this great hero and learning well the Service of Helm.

    I am, privately, concerned for your health and safety Gunnar. I know you are in the best hands Helm could grant. But it is important that you continue your exercise and that you remain faithful always. I know this will never be difficult for you as your faith has never waivered.

    Be safe and Serve well for all who Helm the Bridge guards.

    Your father,
    Adolf Hockstrohm

    Oh… also little Hilde insists that I tell you that the Fairy Queen requests a small collection of flowers from her knight errant._

    Gunnar’s face softens at the mention of his little sister’s request for flowers from the faraway land. He takes a deep breath and puts the letter in his pocket. The town of Jiyyd is beginning to wake. Above him is the temple where he will surely hear of Darian Stalwarts final hours.

    Gunnar Hockstrohm rinses his face in the ice cold water above the falls. He picks a small yellow flower with a bright red center and presses it carefully between the pages of a book of Helms teachings, worn and well read.

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    a bit of parchment, the ink stained slightly from the cold damp air of Narfell, winds it’s way from Jiyyd to the Immersea region of Cormyr. The handwriting is simple, neat and competent.

    Father Adolf Hockstrohm,

    He is alive! I have seen and met eye to eye with Darian Stalwart! He is indeed walking with the living as Uncle Corlo heard!

    I am keeping my vigil and waiting to become a member of the Knighthood of Helm. It has been nearly one month now since I began. I only met Stalwart yesterday. It seems few have known that such a great man was in their midst. I know this sounds unbelievable but it is true.

    Before meeting him myself there was only one elf-kin who knew him and, of course, the local leader of the Knights of Helm. The elf-kin was named Kima and was a very fine shot with a bow. She took me to see the forest around the town I am in, Jiyyd. Kima was quite interesting in that she knew Darian from days ago, from his adventures in the Sword Coast! You never told me of the stories that had this Kima, though. But to think that I’ve met one of his associates as well as he himself!

    The land of Narfell is quite amazing. Many bandits line the roads. The forests are filled with orcs. Many more than the few that tore up the vines in the field two years past. The weather is cold and rainy. The soil is not so good, but perhaps some good grapes for white wine could grow here. I am not certain.

    Here I am in Jiyyd performing my vigil. Please tell the brothers and little Hilde that I am here and well. A small wooden doll that I picked up in the city of Peltarch accompanies this letter for little Hilde.

    I will tell more of this land in another letter. For now I must return to my prayers and meditations. Please send back some epsom salts, the roads are poor here and there is much walking. Also, ask Uncle Corlo if he has some spare of his special pipeweed. This Kima I met enjoys tabbac and I think she will like Corlo’s blend.

    Helm who guards the bridge for all,

    Gunnar Hockstrohm