3. Gunnar Hockstrohm back in the Nars

Gunnar Hockstrohm back in the Nars

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    Player: Gahlord
    Character: Gunnar Hockstrohm

    [re-rolled after a long absense, I'm not proud though and am trying for some xp-through-background-story that covers a bit of his being gone from Narfell. You may wish to view the post titled "Further readings in a musty library room…" (at the time of this historical writing, the post in question is the most recent). You may find it [url=http://www.narfell.com/modules.php?name=Forums&file=viewtopic&t=8880]here. But that reading isn't necessary to (hopefully) enjoy the reading below.

    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.


  • Reviewed, XP pending.
    (BTW, character history XP is okay for re-rolled characters.)


  • //I remember playing with Gunnar back in the day, i was a ranger.

    He always told me to scout, and to make sure i didn't attack until they cought up.

    Welcome back, Gunnar.

    😄

    //