“Hello, what can I do for you?” a young fellow of maybe 25 years opens the door.
- “Nothing much…”
- “Are you Jurge Torfinsson?”
“Fine. You can just leave then!”
With a loud bang, the door slams shut in your faces.
“You again! Did you find out what you want?”
- “Yes, yes. Are you Jurge Torfinsson?”
- “Actually, no.”
“Yes, I am. But what do you want from me?!”
- “We are here on the Hetman’s orders.”
- “You are a relative of Hyggelik’s…”
He casts his glance over your group and seems to think for a moment, as if sizing you up before saying.
“Hmm, well, why don’t you come in.”
After entering the house, he offers you seats by the table and some Premian brandy.
- You knock again.
- You leave the rude fellow alone.
Once inside he offers you seats at the table and brings out some Premian brandy.
“Why are you looking for me?”
“The Hetman sent you? That’s interesting. What for?”
- “We are looking for Hyggelik’s sword.”
- “That’s a secret!”
“I might be able to help you, but how do I know you were really sent by the hetman? How can I be sure that you’re not spies acting for those godforsaken orcs?”
“I can’t help you, if you won’t tell me anything!”
You remain silent.
“Ah well, that’s your problem — bring me a letter from the Hetman, and we’ll continue our conversation.”
- “Don’t you trust us?”
- “We could get you a letter…”
“To be honest, no. Anybody could claim to have been sent by the Hetman. But let me make a suggestion: it’s not that far to Thorwal. Return with a letter from him and I’ll not hesitate to help you!”
He stands up and accompanies you as far as the door.
“You do that! It’s not that far to Thorwal. Return with a letter from him, and I’ll not hesitate to help you!”
“Not really. My great-grandmother was Hyggelik’s bride, but what is it to you?”
- “Well, we’re looking for Grimring.”
“That’s for Thorwalians only — the hetman will have to decide on that! If you can get a letter from him, I’m quite willing to help you, but without it, you’ll just have to manage on your own!”
“Ah, it’s you! Did you get the letter?”
- “No, but we thought…”
- “Yes, here it is!” you show him the parchment.”
“I don’t care what you thought — go away! You’ll get my help only when you have the letter.”
Jurge doesn’t bandy words and slams the door in your faces.
“You really did get it — and here I thought you were just trying to impress me! Come in!”
He offers you seats by the table and pours some Premian brandy.
“Would you believe it — a letter by the hetman himself! Wait a moment…”
He goes to another room and returns a bit later with a yellowed scrap of parchment.
“I inherited this from my great-grandmother Bryda, but unfortunately, I can’t make head nor tail of it. Looks like a treasure map. If you think it’s of any use you may keep it.
Some strange trader — what was his name?… Kollborn or something — tried to buy it from me a while ago, but you don’t just sell family heirlooms like that.
A letter from the hetman — now, that’s a different matter altogether!”
- “Thank you, that’s a great help!”
- “No, forget it.”
“Pity, and I thought you might have some use for this. Well, maybe I can help you in some other way.”
You get out the map fragments you have gathered before and fit in Jurge’s parchment.
You stare at the parchment.
“But I know more!” says Jurge.
“I know some people who are sure to know something which will help you.”
“Yasma Thinmarsdotter in Thoss, Ragna Firunjasdotter in Vidsand.”
“Swafnhild Egilsdotter, though she’s rarely on land, and Algrid Trondesdotter, who lives in Hjalsingor.”
“Now then, let me think. No, that’s all I know, but I’d say, if you try there, you will find out something. Anyway, I wish you all the best on your endeavor. May the gods be with you!… Ah yes, when you get back to Thorwal, give the Hetman my best!”
- “We have a letter from the Hetman!”
You put the letter on the table.
“You do! And here I thought you were full of… oh never mind.”
- “Wait! We do have the letter!”
- You leave.
Hjore Ahrensson
You knock on the door, but nobody answers.
A short time after you knock, a white-haired old man opens the door. He is exceedingly haggard, with a drawn and very pale face. He seems barely alive as he looks at you with mild surprise.
“Are you Hjore Ahrensson?”
“Yes,” the old man answers with a weak voice. “What do you want from me?”
You knock. The door opens just a bit, and you see a young woman’s face.
“Yes?”
- “We were hoping to meet Hjore Ahrensson.”
- “Forgive us, we must have made a mistake.”
Without a word, the woman closes the door. You keep looking around Ottarje.
The woman begins to weep hysterically and you can barely understand her words.
“Hjore died, just now… you’re too late”, she cries.
You express your sympathy and leave.
- “We found your name in this book…”
- “We are here on the Hetman’s orders.”
- “You know something about Hyggelik, don’t you?”
You get out the debt book and show it to him. The man hardly seems to cast a glance at it before a strange fire appears in his eyes.
“I don’t know what this is about! Get lost!”
He slams the door in your faces.
“You think, just because I’m an old man, you can take any liberty you want, don’t you!”
With sparks of anger in his eyes, he slams the door in your faces.
He thinks for a while, before he finally begins to speak in a flat monotone.
“Yes, yes, Hyggelik, somehow I guess I’m a distant relative of his, but I can’t tell you anything. You’re better off asking Beorn Hjallasson from Angbodirtal, he’s his great-grandson. Then there are two more descendants of his in Phexcaer. Alrik Derondan and…”
he stops.
“Hmm… I forget the other name.”
The old man thinks, then he gestures weakly.
“Hold on a bit…”
He disappears inside the house, closing the door behind him.
- You leave.
- You wait.
About a quarter of an hour later, Hjore returns.
“Here…” he hands you a piece of parchment.
“I think this is from old Hyggelik, a treasure map or something. My father lost it once gambling with some folk in Clanegh, but I won it back. Not that it was worth the trouble, as I later found — it’s absolutely useless. Take it, if you think it’ll help.”
He hands you the map.
While you look over the parchment, Hjore is obviously still thinking.
“Yasma Thinmarsdotter, that’s the name of the girl — now I remember… that’s the family from Clanegh, but I doubt they’ll be able to help you.”
“Old Hyggelik,” Hjore reminisces.
“To think, someone is still interested in him today! Well, good luck to you. I must go lie down now. I’m not getting any younger, you know…”
He says good bye and closes the door.
A short time after your knocks, a white-haired old man opens the door. He is extremely haggard, with a drawn, very pale face. He seems to look right through you.
“I’m sure you’ve got the wrong house,” he says softly and closes the door again, before any of you can say something.