Parlay with Todun

Parlay with Todun

The Quest for the Hammer of Trocmuks & Ulur's Bones.

Prelude

Born a bondsman beneath the forges of The Dominion, Dugrun Trocmuk’s life began in chains and under the lash. At twenty, he broke that yoke, leading a handful of kin and fellow smiths north through the Deep Roads until they reached the coast. There he found a kindred spirit in the wanderer Ardniss of the Iron Hills. Together, they sailed across the Ahlen Ocean and set foot on Virendas, determined to carve out a nation where no dwarf would labor for another’s profit.

When the Blightguard Gnolls swept through the North, Dugrun stood shoulder to shoulder with Ardniss and General Thomas Wayne of Detroit at the Battle of Burning Falls. His hammer—fashioned from a broken slave’s shackle—became a rallying symbol for the armies of men and dwarves alike. After victory, he turned from war to craft, founding the settlement of Anvilcoat near the eastern border of what would later become Eikinam in the Iron Hills.

In 288, he wed Khihe Judmun, a miner’s daughter from the Broken Teeth range. Their union, both loving and pragmatic, bound two exiled clans still learning their place in this new world. They raised four children—Ul, Uluc, Emre, and Ulur—who would carry the Trocmuk name into generations across The Firelands.

Prosperity followed Dugrun’s name like smoke from a forge-fire. His dealings with the Wayne Family brought dwarven steel into Detroit’s markets and sent master craftsmen to oversee Wayne mines and smelters east of the mountains. By his later years, Dugrun was counted among the revered elder patriarchs of the Iron Hills, his word carrying the weight of an oath sworn on an anvil.

Yet even in peace, sorrow found him. His youngest son, Ulur, grew up amid wealth and renown his older kin had never known—and perhaps that comfort sowed restlessness. Dark tales reached Ulur of a dragon-hoard hidden in forests southwest of the Iron Hills. Taking his father’s hammer, the very emblem of their clan, Ulur set out with a band of adventurers seeking glory. He did not return.

Clan Trocmuk sought the counsel of the gods and learned that Ulur had perished, but not before facing the dragon itself. Stricken with grief, Dugrun commissioned a new quest: to find the dragon, bargain for the return of his son’s bones, and, if fortune allowed, reclaim the hammer of Trocmuk. Three adventurers answered his plea: a warrior, a trickster priest, and a bard of lore. Their tale is one of loss and courage, and of the fading embers of an old dwarf’s hope.

The Adventurers

Karth Skarnscale, Dragonborn Warrior
A veteran sellsword from the Itheankis uplands, Karth bears scars that gleam like molten seams across his bronze scales. Once a caravan guard turned mercenary, he joined the quest out of respect for Dugrun’s legacy—and for the promise of facing a true dragon. His code is simple: strike clean, speak plain, and never turn from a fight.

Mindle “Twice-Lucky” Glimblethorn, Gnome Priest of Ogdros
Clever, irreverent, and always wearing a smirk, Mindle claims Ogdros the Trickster speaks to him through mishaps and miracles alike. Known in taverns as both holy man and hustler, he brings equal parts faith and folly to the road. His divine magic is unpredictable, but it has saved him—and occasionally destroyed his trousers—more times than he can count.

Ronan Vale, Human Bard of Lore
A wanderer-scholar from the academies of the Temple of Zimtar, Ronan hunts truth in old songs and buried ruins. His voice carries the weight of memory and the sting of truth, and his pen has recorded more deaths than his blade ever claimed. He joined Dugrun’s cause not for gold, but for the chance to witness a legend being written firsthand.

The Journey

Well equipped, the three adventurers departed Anvilcoat and made swift progress to the town of Independence on the Silver River. Using Dugrun’s gold, they secured passage downriver to a growing trading post of the Durzum tribe. There they purchased canoes for the trip up the Eitur River, but no amount of gold could persuade any Durzum to guide them along those dark waters.

Their long trek upriver held many adventures worthy of several sagas. Eventually, they reached the Kewaenaw Ruins, where rumor and prophecy said the dragon Todun the Deceiver kept her lair.

As they explored the ruins, they initially saw no one, though shadows darted at the edges of their vision. They announced their desire for parlay loudly and often, taking care not to clutch at their weapons’ hilts. They camped in what appeared to be the central marketplace of the ruins and waited.

On the second morning, a figure approached—an anomaly, a wizened Galldar elf-woman named Aghacla the Ancient. She said she would escort the heroes into the dragon’s sanctum for parlay. The adventurers could bring all their weapons and gear but had to submit to blindfolds for the journey. Short, scampering kobolds appeared, leading the blindfolded adventurers by hand down into the earth, through a dark maze, to Todun’s great hall.

The great hall blazed with torch and brazier light, glinting off golden coins and jewelry strewn across the floor. Priceless artwork and statues adorned the chamber. Kobolds in silken sashes moved silently about on their mistress’s errands. Yet amid all the splendor, the heroes’ eyes fixed on the massive scaled creature lounging on a great dais at the hall’s end.

Aghacla bowed deeply to the dragon. “I present Todun the Magnificent, the Unparalleled Might of the Great Woods.”

The heroes genuflected, presenting a sizable casket of gems as tribute, and respectfully requested parlay for the bones of Ulur, son of Dugrun.

The dragon’s deep, husky voice rumbled through the hall. “And what would you offer in exchange for my favor in this matter?”

Ronan replied, “The vaults of Dugrun hold great wealth, and there are enchanted items and artifacts which might interest you.”

The dragon chuckled, a sound felt as much as heard. “Look about you. What need have I for gold or trinkets?”

“Of course, one of your magnificence does not need these things, but is there something you desire?” Ronan pressed.

“Yes,” the dragon said. “The hours grow long and tedious. I desire a new entertainment. Let us wager. There are three of you; we will have three contests. Win two, and you shall have Ulur’s bones and depart freely, without hindrance or malice. Win all three, and you may take the bones and his heirloom hammer. Win only one, and you must each become my vassal until you perform three tasks. Win none, and you remain my vassal until I see fit to release you.”

The dragon proposed a trial of combat, a game of cards, and a game of verse.

After a pause, she added, “This is no simple choice—you may confer among yourselves.”

The heroes decided that refusing meant the quest ended empty-handed. If they accepted, fortune might favor the bold—and other opportunities might arise.

“We accept your terms: combat, cards, and verse,” said Ronan

They drew lots; the order would be Mindle’s card game, Karth’s combat, then Ronan’s contest of verse.

Mindle’s Card Game: The Gambler’s Gauntlet

A low wooden table set with worn cards and gold coins took center stage beneath flickering torchlight. The air hummed with tension as an elder kobold dealer, his eyes sharp and calculating, shuffled a mundane deck with practiced ease. Across from him, Mindle’s nimble fingers toyed with his cards, weaving subtle sleights honed after years of hustling in taverns and back alleys. Whispered curses and laughter echoed in the chamber as piles of gold shifted like changing fortunes under each player’s watchful gaze.

The dragon’s radiant eyes never wavered, watching like a hawk waiting to strike. As the final hand drew near, Mindle’s confidence swelled—he had counted every card and measured every chance. But when a dealer’s claw accidentally tore the top card, the dragon seized the moment. A fresh deck was shuffled, and Mindle was ordered to cut it into three piles. Hope dimmed with the deck, and the final hand felt like destiny itself hanging in the balance. When the cards fell, the dragon revealed an impossible hand of perfect strength—a cheat so subtle and silent that Mindle could only wonder how it was done as silence settled heavy over the room.

Karth’s Combat: A Test of Mettle

The heroes were downcast after Mindle’s defeat, but they hoped the dragon’s great ego and confidence would prevent any chicanery in the combat trial.

“We shall battle until one of us yields or is incapacitated. You may take any magical aid from your friends and use any potions or charms you possess before entering the arena. Once you are inside, if any friend attempts to aid you in any way, you forfeit the contest,” said the dragon.

The heroes girded Karth with all the magical aid and charms they could muster before he stepped through the great arena’s door. Across the packed sandy floor, nearly a hundred feet away, waited the mighty dragon.

Rushing forward, Karth loosed arrow after arrow from his great black bow—each shaft enchanted to strike true. The dragon howled in pain and anger as the arrows found their marks. As Karth closed the distance, he wondered why the dragon had not unleashed its terrible breath weapon—a great cloud of poison gas—against which his ring of resistance to poison offered protection.

Dropping his bow, he drew his sword and swung a mighty blow, but the blade shivered violently in his grip upon striking what he realized was an illusion—a stone statue. Turning, Karth saw a great dragon swooping down on a figure that looked exactly like him, standing just before his friends in the stands.

The dragon’s great claw slashed across the false Karth’s throat, and the illusion collapsed to the sand as blood gushed from the fallen warrior. Even as Karth shouted a warning, Mindle and Ronan chanted healing words from the stands, Karth felt the healing magic wash over him.

“It seems I have won,” said the dragon, settling upon the sands across from the real Karth. “Your friends have rendered aid in violation of the terms of our contest.”

Ronan’s Contest: A Duel of Verse

In the vast, torch-lit hall glittering with treasure, Ronan’s voice rang clear, steady, and sure.

Ronan:
“Wyrm of moss and thunder-coil,
whose dread breath bows oak and steel,
the mountain’s molten anvils once
thy dreadsome name did peal.
Grant tongue unto the sleeping stone,
whose gaze makes kingdoms fall;
the hammer lies in ashen gloom—
breathe, and its heart recall.”

Todun:
“Stone-sworn oaths lie thick betwixt
thy honey-salted song.
Fail, and thy fainting mortal lungs
shall hymn my name full long.
When dwarf-forged hymn lies cracked and cold,
thy dooms are bound to mine;
dust-tracks and blood-bought gleam of gold
shall swell this hoard of thine.”

Ronan:
“Steel-sung shield-brothers, stand ye fast,
hearts hard as anvil-stone.
We ride where wyrms weave woven doom,
yet oaths outcut the bone.
The hammer’s hall in deep-earth halls,
where dwarfs dream iron-right;
by rune and root and ridden vow,
we drag it back to light.”

Todun:
“Claw-tallied are thy failings now—
twice hast thou kissed the sand.
The last stake’s wick burns low and thin;
its smoke shall brand thy band.
Win, and thrice-great tasks ye’ll bleed,
swift deeds at my behest;
lose, and thy lives are mine to keep
till death grants leave to rest.”

Ronan:
Just as Ronan prepared to answer the final verse, pain seared his wrist—a tiny wasp, a venomous envoy sent by the dragon to twist his focus and unravel his thoughts. Gritting his teeth, Ronan fought through the sting, steadying his voice despite the burning distraction.

“Hero-born on rune-wrought winds,
bound to a beard-worn lord,
we bear his grief for bone and brand
like some deep-buried sword.
Dragon, hark dwarf-heart’s ancient claim—
debt drives us through thy gloam;
be it hammer bright or bare white bones,
their road runs back to home.”

His answer fell like a hammer-strike, calm and unbroken. The dragon’s rumbling chuckle welcomed his resilience; the contest ended in an uneasy draw, the weight of unresolved challenge hanging like smoke in the air.

And so Karth, Mindle, and Ronan were oath-bound to serve Todun in three great tasks. The first task was to bear the bones of Ulur Trocmuk back to Anvilcoat and wring a great ransom from the dwarf-lords.