# Forum > Play-by-Post Games > Ongoing Games (In-Character) >  [WFRP2e] The Power of One - Part 1 - "In Sterquiliniis Invenitur"

## MrAbdiel

The Power of One
_Part 1 - "In Sterquiliniis Invenitur"


Prologue - 13 Scars_

You remember an apple tree.

Your mother and father were very proud of it.  They had planted more than one, but only one had grown.  The apples were red; you're quite sure.  Red, and sweet.  You can remember those better than either of their faces.  You were very young, then; back when someone marked the passage of years.  Five or six years old, perhaps.  You remember a house; one big room you shared with your parents, with hanging cloth to divide some corners for privacy.  You remember a brick stove and chimney that your father had built before you were born; and hot food being cooked on that fire.  You remember your mother used to boil the apples, and render them down into... something.  Something tastier even than apple.  You remember other children, when visiting, would ask for them, and sometimes steal them.

You remember, once, the three of you rode in a borrowed wagon for two days for a wedding of some relative.  They married well, and the food there was the best you had ever tasted - equal to what your mother made, with the apples.  You would never taste its like again.  You remember being dressed in a special dress and commissioned not to get it dirty, under pain of great disappointment - a feeling you didn't understand, but associated with a certain softening of your father's usually strong, reassuring gaze.  You remember, after the wedding was over, getting to see the water for the first time.  Not just a creek or river, but _water_; an ocean, where the land ran out and became grey-green surf vanishing into the cloudy distance.  You remember the magic of its vastness; the first time you ever thought to wonder that if the world had an end here, at the water's edge, what would you find beyond it? 
 Some time after returning home to your village, fate provided an unwelcome answer.

*Savages.*  Savages lie beyond the water's edge.

They came from beyond the water, and they came to ruin everything; all the things in the world that you knew were good, and even those you suspected might be good in time.  These savages were not people; not like you knew them.  Taller; stronger; bedecked in braids, and blood-daubed skin, and horrific talismans made from skin and bone.  They came with axes, and torches; and what they did not put to axe or torch, they carried off with them.  They took the world from you; and they took you from the world.  You remember the town bell ringing wildly, and your father locking the door as he left; and then flames sweeping across the roof, forcing you and your mother out into a street of panic, and carnage.  A horse slammed into someone so hard it separated a bone from a socket - you remember the audible _puk_ sound, and the wail that followed.  Within moments, you were separated from her.  This is the last thing you remember of that world; fire, and isolation, before they took you.

*Spoiler: OOC: Your First and Oldest Scar*
Show

Tell me how little _nameless_, at the age of about six, was hurt in this memory in such a way that it left a physical scar on her body.  She might have gotten it trying to hide somewhere, and hurting herself; she might have been struck in the chaos by rampaging Northmen, or a fleeing villager.  Try to include one or two more details about the village as touchstones about it that you remember.  Doesn't need to be an exhaustive account - you're never under obligation to match my length of description, even one-on-one as we are here.  I have more details to describe; but you get all the interior experience that is worth describing.  But a short paragraph of her attempt to flee, or hide, or find her parents went, and how she got hurt in such a way that her body will bear the mark forever.

*Spoiler: OOC Thread Hyperlink*
Show

The OOC thread is here.

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## BananaPhone

An apple tree. That was something she remembered. The green, lustrous fruit was perfectly suited for the swampy marshland of their home that ran into the Sea of Chaos to create beautiful turquoise estuaries and lagoons. Fishing was a way of life. So was agriculture in the drained swamps that had been transformed into wetlands by the ingenuity of her family and others that had come before them. Ship building too, she could remember that.

Bretonnian nobles, minor ones anyway, travelled from the south to visit her town, with gold in their coins and need for ships upon which to build their dreams of trading enterprises. To the West, sometimes one may spot an elusive, elegant ship of the _Sea Elves_, supposed unspoken allies...no...not the correct word, _associates_. _Inhabitants_, perhaps? A community owned a segment of the nearby metropolis, their crafts in high demand and their autonomy guaranteed by the authorities of the...where had it been?

That was until the Norsca arrived. Seaborn threats were always a menace, but this time was different. This time they had slipped down the coast, underneath the cover of darkness on a starless night to hide their arrival. They discharged from their longships, bellowing their ferocious warcries and stormed the unprepared town. The locals were not defenseless. The screams and shouts of battle woke many, and a thunderous town bell stirred the rest to action. The militia rallied. Aid was lent by a visiting Bretonnian knight and his retinue. The violence was terrible as steel struck shield on shield and ferocity against discipline. Her father...tall...very tall, broad, axe in hand...he departed, left. That's all she could remember, as flames licked at buildings, and she, her mother and siblings fled with the other civilians, but part of their house collapsed, with jagged wood catching her in the side of her face...

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## MrAbdiel

The pain you felt upon waking was barely equal to the fear.  The splintering, burning beam had struck your face, and even - so it seemed - knocked you clear of the collapse by a foot, or so.  You haven't seen the scars, but you can feel them: three loosely parallel streaks from the centre of your forehead down over your eye socket and terminating just above the jawbone on the left cheek.  The blood from it had drizzled down and caked both eyes shut, and waking to pain, you had the fear of the blind in addition to the abandoned and suffering.  It would turn out the eye was not damaged, by the smallest mercy; though with the heel of your little hand rubbing fiercely at the other eye, you managed to peer our through the bleary haze at... a much quieter scene than the one that had preceded it.  Quieter; but no better.

The village - the only home you'd ever known - was utterly ruined.  Your house, behind you, was burned to slumping charcoal bowing in mockery to the proud and standing stone and chimney your father's strong hands built.  But where was he?  Or your mother, or your siblings?  Would they have just left you there where you fell?

You never knew the answer.   This was a place of the dead, now; the bodies of honest, normal people strewn around the warzone streets.  Bloodied, fur-clad warriors stalked looking for survivors to hack down or alternatively to drag wailing by the hair to some worse fate.

You remember the one who found you as you lay there, with no where to go and no one to call to.  He was more armoured than the rest; a panoply of black iron festooned with spikes.  With one huge hand he gripped your wrist and hoisted you up to eye level, where not one but two pairs of fascinated amber eyes peered our from a stacked doubling of slits in the helmet's face.  He seemed to take interest in the wound on your face.  Strangely, that horrible blow likely saved your life.

*Spoiler: OOC:*
Show

The First Scar - The Burning House - Three 'claw' marks, Over the Left Eye.

*You gain the first +1 Wound Advance from your Advance Profile.*


_Hundrbrýtæ_ was the word your captor used to describe you, in his foul language you never mastered; but you did not hear it used again, and so never understood it.  Not a name for you, certainly.  _Meyla_ was what they called you; but they used the same name for all the young girl slaves.  There was another like you, in the longship gliding back across the sea to the land of the savages. But when the cold set in on the way, and you and the handful of survivors from your village were shivering in silent desperation on the deck, she fell asleep, and never woke; her lips blue as the water out here.  The sailors threw her body overboard, and that was the last you saw of her.

You remember being given - no, definately _sold_ - to a couple in the village where you arrived.  It was much worse than yours: no apple trees, no stone chimneys; just round, round wooden huts and fire pits dug into the ground.  They might have been what passes for nobility, in that place; and they treated you with unusual tenderness when you were first handled into their care.  The man grumbled indecipherably at you once in a while, and the woman seemed to want to shield you and dote on you.  But once the wound on your face had scabbed over, the woman seemed to lose her patience and care; and then you were put to work.  Carrying things.  Cleaning things.  Light, repetitive chores no so different from your home - except the people here did not speak your language, and you could not know what was needed of you. 
 When they wanted you, they called _Meyla_; and with gesturing, repetition, and instructive beating were all the communication you were ultimately called upon to understand.

*Spoiler: Your Second Scar*
Show

Tell me how the little _Meyla_ suffered a scarring injury in the course of such an instructive procedure - a deliberate thing, a light blow gone wrong, or something else.  Who gave it to you?  The lord or lady of this house, or someone else?  Feel free, as before, to embellish the scene with some memorable detail your character would retain; either about the people who owned you, or this Norscan village itself.

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## BananaPhone

One always remembered the cold. The frigid, freezing cold of the Norscan north cut to the bone, and those caught out in its piercing sheets at night had no hope of being seen again. For large swathes of the year the rivers were iced over and the fields were inhospitable to any attempt at agricultural assertions, while the animals, normally great sources of protein and materials, migrated elsewhere to warmer climates. This harsh climate produced harsh men that had to endure long stretches of austerity, so it was little wonder that they turned to plunder to alleviate the worst depredations that their geography afforded them. 

Not that she remembered being particularly sympathetic. The noblewomans initial kindness only delayed the childs resentment, though she was not old enough to recognise she was only fulfilling some maternal urge that than evoking genuine concern.  

Meyla was a word that would leave her memory anytime soon. _Mey_-la. It sounded sweet it ones mind, but it was harsh in reality. _Mey_-la come here. _Mey_-la do this. _Mey_-la fetch the water. _Mey_-la scrub the floors. _Mey_-la wash all of these dishes. _Mey_-la. _Mey_-la. _Mey_-la.

To _Mey_-la's credit, she picked up on things remarkably quickly. She only had to be shown something once and she got the hang of it immediately, much to the surprise of some others. Even the language they spoke seemed to slowly be coming to her, despite no one making an actual effort to teach her. During her free time when other children would play or wrestle, _Mey_-la would move to where she could see the boats being built, the way their lower profile and flatter bottoms and particular shapes and angles created a different type of seaborn beast, but one whose versatility in the waters it could traverse gave the Norscan their ability to raid so deep into hostile territory. They would never win a toe-to-toe engagement with the frigates of the Imperial Navy, but they were never meant to. 

Curiously, swordplay came easily to the youth also, as she would sometimes use a broom to mimic the movements she saw being taught by the veterans to the younger generation coming up. A swing. A thrust. A parry. A pommel-strike. A natural talent was emerging, as did the confidence that came along with it, as _Mey_-la would sometimes sheath a stick she found within her belt and carry it around as if she had a little sword herself. One of the boys spotted it one day and, thinking it amusing, challenged her to try and 'run him through'. She tried. And failed. He had the skill and the training, if even that of a boy. She had mimicked actions from watching, but she did manage to crack him on the knuckles before a flat wooden sword to the stomach sent her to the ground. But instead of mockery and gloating, the boy felt something else, and instead tossed her a cold, wet cloth, telling her to apply it to the bruised area and he would tell her wards that he had told her to get him something from in the woods, thus excusing her absence. 

It wasn't much, but in the freezing, harsh North, even a tiny kindness felt warm.

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## MrAbdiel

The mistress of the house was not so pleased by this bruise - she discovered the blotch growing on your stomach after a poorly concealed wince, while bundling rags for washing.  It was easy enough to conceal its source from her, the language gap being a fair defence as much as it was typically an obstacle.  She could not force you to rat out _the Boy_.

But she did manhandle you; tutting as one does when a new pair of boots is first properly scuffed and becomes, now, just a pair of boots like the others.  She laid you down on a low table, and took to your bruised skin a knife that was little more than a sharpened shard of a broken sword, its handle bound in rawhide.  It was not blunt, but it was no surgeon's razor; and when she cut along the bruise to let it bleed in accordance to the medical consensus of her people (there are no leeches in Norsca), she traded your deep bruise for what would in time be a short, straight, unsown scar; its rightmost edge curling up where a notch in the haphazard tool caught the skin.

*Spoiler: OOC:*
Show

The Second Scar - The Boy's Gift - Bloodletting scar over Upper Abdominal.

*You gain the +5 WS Advance from your Advance Profile.*


Your tenure in the freezing north lasted, perhaps, a couple of years; you think you can remember the sounds of what seemed to be the same festival occurring twice; once soon after you arrived, and again many months later.  But on that second occasion, marking a little over a year since you had been taken from your mother and father and siblings and condemned to drudgery and ever-cold in this colorless, awful place.  Your owners made a mistake: they assumed you could understand, or perhaps would accept, that there was nowhere for you to go, and therefore no escape.  They did not bind you or confine you; they simply beat you back into line when you strayed from their will.  But on the second pass of that festival, you made your bid for freedom.

The hundred or so villagers, and their hundred or so slaves, were mostly busy that night; cavorting around huge bonfire in the town centre.  The fire was the remains of what was once an effigy of a dog, or horse, or some four legged abstract; its body a grim cage for a small number of bound and wailing prisoners, and animals.

But on that festival night, you made a mistake as well.  Because there really was nowhere to go; and in retrospect, a little girl - no matter how desperate and full of juvenile cunning - could outrun such a damnable circumstance.

*Spoiler: The Third Scar*
Show

Tell me about _Mey_-la's failed escape from captivity, in Norsca. 
 Did she make a mad dash for the dock and try to steal a boat?  A cunning plan hiding in an empty barrel, hoping to be carried away?  And importantly, how was she caught, and how did this result in another memorable scar?  Was she sniffed out and run down by huge hounds?  Struck through the leg with a javelin?  Bashed with an oar?  The possibilities for specific suffering are limitless.

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## BananaPhone

The two yeas had been informative. They had not been any fun, occasional pockets of isolation on her own notwithstanding, but they had been informative. Going from six years old, to seven and then eight, Meyla learned more about the Norscan society she was in and beheld its surprising sophistication and ability that operated underneath the brutish and harsh exterior. That they would put so much effort towards raids and plunder when they had the means to devise alternative methods of generating wealth and calories...well that was a question too big even for a brainy little kid like her, but the essence of the inquiry was not lost on her. Perhaps traditions were hard things to shake. 

The language had come to her, slowly. No one taught her directly, but she picked it up, and would sometimes throw out small words and phrases, barely enough to get by. By doing this she was being deceptive, but cunning. It allowed her to be considered ignorant of their spoken words, so that adults would have conversations in front of her or with her present and believe that their communication was hidden behind the language barrier. They weren't. 

She learned about raiding schedules. That was the key. She was able to tell the difference between 'this land', which would be raiding other Norscan regions, and 'outlands', which was anywhere across the sea. 

A boat due for 'outlands' was a target. Anywhere but here. Anywhere would be Imperial lands, yes? They had to be. Where else was there?

Meyla used the distraction of the festival to sneak away to one of the longboats scheduled to leave for raiding the following day after receiving the blessings. In her way she dropped a few small little items of clothing. 

And then she gathered a little pack of food she had gathered over months and fled into the woods. 

There were paths one could take to other towns. Maybe there were better places to be?

It worked initially. The dogs scent were drawn to the little bits of clothing that led to the now empty docks, which prompted the belief that she had stowed away on one of the ships that had gone out raiding. Believing their charge had left, and that she would doubtless be discovered and returned, her 'owners', as they were, waited patiently. What surprised them was how little they had to wait. 

Only a few days later, Meyla appeared back on their door step, her skin blue-cold, her body shivering, her "plan" clever in conception but incredibly short-sighted. Such was her exposure to the elements that she barely felt the cane.

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## MrAbdiel

The master of the home - your owner, in the clearest sense - was a tall, broad shouldered man with a crop of blond braids and a beard that never quite came in.  You had been a gift for his wife.  You filled a role, vaguely, that she had not been able to find fulfilment for, in the traditional way.  Her maternal instincts, and her resentment for her condition, were alternately vented upon you.  And when you returned after your abortive flight into the freezing wilderness, she visited upon your back a fury transmuted from the sum of both.

*Spoiler: OOC:*
Show

The Third Scar - Spite of the Barren - Intersecting Stripes on the Back

*You gain the +5 Willpower Advance from your Advanced Profile.*


There was a falling out, not long after.  Something between the master and the mistress that wounded their affection for each other.   Clarity on it was never given to you; but you've never been able to pin the reason they sold you.  It couldn't have been the escape attempt earlier that year - the stripes on your back had scabbed up, and they had not levied further punishments.  But one evening, while the mistress was asleep, the master roused you and bid you to follow.  As you made your way past the palisade walls of the village, you were joined by similar pairs - other men of the village and their slaves; girls and boys;   _mey_-las and _sveinns_.  At first, the unspoken fear was that you were being led out here to die; the very frozen end you had rejected when you returned to your owners.

If only that had been the case.

Instead, your master and two of his fellows broke from the group to walk ahead, and met with some strange confederate you'd never seen: three figures that hunched in robes; two with spears, one rubbing furred, clawed hands together with oily fascination.  Not quite mutants, for the village had its share of those and all that was consistent among them was their variety.  These people, these _things_, were something else entirely

The master struck hands with the leader of the trio.  And from the shadows of the hardy northern pines came more of them: ten like the others, another dozen smaller, mangy furless kinds.  And now you could see them - rats that walked like men, with beady red eyes and manic, furtive movements.  The northmen withdrew without so much as a look back.  From then on, you belonged to the rats.

*Spoiler: The Fourth Scar*
Show

At the tender age of nine(ish), young _nameless_, never again to be called _mey_-la, is sold to the skaven for some unknown reason and price.  The next leg of this journey is going to be travelling to the Hellpit - a short journey to the coast, then a ride on a stinking cramped skaven vessel full of rats and ratmen to the coast of Troll Country ... and then into a hole in the ground, never to see the sun again for ten years.  At some point on that last march under the sky, on the soil or the sea, you earn another scar - probably as part of a lesson about the especially cruel and inhuman nature of her new captors.  Is it a punitive beating by a rat-man?  A good hearted effort to restrain a panicked fellow slave gone wrong?  A subduing blow as they place a collar on her for the first time?  Tell me about your first hard lesson under the cruel ministrations of the ratmen.

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## BananaPhone

There was a natural revulsion that brewed within the child when she laid eyes upon those cowled figures, the furred, clawed hands in particular eliciting a penetrating disgust. 

She could hear what was being said. She understood enough to know what was going on, if not by word than by at least body language. 

Her initial struggles were useless, as the hooded rat-men had little trouble dragging a girl along by her shackles around her wrist. But that instinctual repulsion only grew in fervor the further they went into the cold, dark pines of the Norscan forest. Her eyes darting about to the others as they were siphoned away into the night, she could see that the blanket of fear and panic had set across their whole little group of kids, and when the first attempt to fit a collar arrived, that fear snapped. 

Perhaps the ratmen were over-confident, seeing no threat in manling infants. But when terror seeped into the nervous system the adrenaline received its spike as the first boy drew up a sharp stick and dashed it against a ratmans ugly snout. 

The high-pitched squeal of the walking rodent pierced through the serene forest of their apprehension as the hooded thing tumbled backwards, body spasming and clawing at the stick lodged through its bloodied left eye. It's movements were violent and convulsing before a final few shakes diminished to the stillness of death. 

Spears were thrusted, swords were thrashed and slaves died. For Meyla, time seemed to slow down as her eyes were drawn to the crude sword-looking thing hanging from the hip of the nearest ratman. She remembered her lesson with The Boy. She could still feel the muscle memory of self-practice she had put herself through in replication of what she saw in the weapon drills of the raiders and their sons. 

It was right there. The handle unbuckled. 

Meyla stayed her hand. She played stupid before and it had almost allowed her escape. The world returned to normal and the first defiant boy lay dead in the snow. She had to play the long game. 

That collar came to her neck. She offered token resistance, but after the recent incident the ratmen were having none of it, and the shaft of one of their spears was brought heavily against her shoulder and her hair grabbed by those disgusting little clawed hands to force that metal around her neck. 

The last thing Meyla saw of the surface were the corpses of the defiant, and the collaring of the compliant. Would her gamble pay off?

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## MrAbdiel

Slavery was a pervasive institution in every dark corner of the Old World, and beyond.  The brute fact of it, the enduring nature of that institution, was built on the cold, blunt reality that the hands that held the whip was in a position of strength.  Occasionally, a slave somewhere would snap, kill their master, and escape.  Much more often, the slave would be killed instead.  And slave revolts almost never, ever succeeded.

The leader of the rats, the one who had struck hands with your master, stalked furiously through the aftermath of the scuffle.  Several of the child slaves were superficially cut, all were subdued.  The boy who started it was dead; another girl, another _Meyla_, who had shown less restrain and tried to help him knelt beside him, crying piteously.

_"No more this!"_  The brown-furred leader hissed in a distinctly inhuman timbre; eyeballing the subdued slaves with wrath.  Apparently, the silence was not sufficient evidence of capitulation.  He snatched a fallen sword from the slain ratman, marched to the corpse of the dead boy, and struck down at his neck; not strong enough to sever it in a blow, but easilly strong enough to do damage enough to make a point.  Then, after a beat and after the captives had recovered from their flinch, he brought the weapon down again - this time, on the neck of the other _Meyla._  She yelped and fell; dead an bled in seconds.  Then, with his minions restraining you, he put the point of the sword to the side of _your_ neck.  You felt it bite your skin; you felt the blood; you felt the burning, vermin intensity of his gaze on the side of your head.  But he makes some judgement based on your generally reserved behaviour, and seems to conclude two examples is enough.  The point is made - these new masters are much worse than the old ones.  The first scourged you with whips; these would scourge you with scorpions.

You survived this day because of your cunning that told you not to take the first opportunity; but to wait for the right one, however long that took.  It is a conviction that would carry you through interminable darkness... and perhaps, one day, out the other side.

*Spoiler: OOC:*
Show

The Fourth Scar - The Rat-Merchant's Lesson - Half-Inch Wide Line On the Right Side of the Neck.

*You gain the +2 Wounds Advance from your Advanced Career.*


The tunnels beneath the earth were warmer than the surface; but dark, and cramped, and awful. The rats used limited lighting, but seemed to have excellent vision in the dark.  Still, here below the floor of the world, even vermin needed _some_ source of light, even if they needed much less of it than you.  There was much stumbling, on this first journey; and being all collared and shackled, with those collars and shackles chained together, one stumble led easily to the stumble of others.  You walked until your feet blistered.  You tripped and skinned your knees and elbows.  You walked until your stomach howled and you were ready to fall asleep on your feet.  You were herded into a cluster to pass out in a pile, then whipped awake to march again.  And never at any time did the tunnel seem to be going _up._  Always down; down to the guts of the world; down into hell.

*Spoiler: The Fifth Scar*
Show

Now we're to a point in nine-ish year old nameless/Meyla/slave-slave's story that there is no demarcation of the passing of days and seasons, so the next bunch of scars are going to be a little more montage and a little less flashback.

The Fifth Scar is accumulated on the march underground to the Hellpit, before you arrive.  How does it happen?  Do you stumble and cut yourself on a rock you can't see?  Does one of the other slaves make a doomed bid for freedom, dragging you by your linked shackles?  Does a spiteful rat take a bite out of you because you dared to speak with the man-tongue here, underground, where only Queekish - the bizarre language of skaven you would not master for years and years to come - is tolerated?

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## BananaPhone

(I'm interpreting from your words that the posts will be a bit shorter.)


The path down into the bowels of the world pushed the children to their limits. Stumbling about in the dimly lit passage ways that seemed to grow ever more humid and warm while robed rat-things poked and prodded them impatiently was not a...delicate experience. 

They had not travelled far but their endurance had already been tested. After what seemed like two hours, Meyla heard a yelp and the scramble of rubble behind her - then the tug of shackles at her wrist. It was another of the kids; they'd not only slipped, before had their leg caught. Having ones limbs trapped in the dark like this was liable to make one panic, which is what the child did. Meyla was not made of stone, though she was tugged backwards in the commotion, the rear of her head striking a sharp outcropping of carved stone as she did so, sending her dim world into a blur, the sounds of rat-mean squeak-yelling and a crying child melding together into a single drone that throbbed in her skull. 

Gritting her teeth, gasping and whining as she slowly stood to her feet, unable to even rub her sore head as the shackles around her wrists restrained any attempt at movement. Grimmacing as that dull ache spread down her neck and shoulders, she turned and saw the ratmen roughly dislodging the girls foot from the small sinkhole she had been caught within. 

"Watch where go! Yes-yes?!" one hissed.

"No stumble clumsy manling pup!" snarled another, emphasising its point by roughly prodding the girl forward with his 'shepherds' rod.

That the rat-men would show so little concern for _children_ and seemingly be offended at having their time stalled...what type of creatures were these? They had not even begun their bondage and already their natural limitations were provoking irritation in their seemingly cruel and selfish owners...

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## MrAbdiel

Cruel and selfish they were indeed, on a scale difficult for human imaginations to describe.  The cut where you had struck the stone bled, freely.  It would be days before the final arrival at the destination, and the isolation of this batch of slaves into what  would be their 'home'.  There, you encountered a handful of existing human slaves; decrepit young men mostly, and a handful of women.  An older man among them, his body riddled with scars and filth, looked at the wound; and at least cleared your hair from it.  You never learned his name; like the other slaves who you found here, he either did not know, or refused to speak, whatever language he spoke on the surface, and the language of the ratpeople was all he would use.  Your jailors punished any other language (in which slaves might share conspiratorial secrets) with immediate brutality, yet were reluctant to teach much of their own speech; much of which profited from a less human skullshape, and vocal arrangement.  Thus, the old man who checked on your head wound would forever be just that - the old man, who showed you a small kindness on your first night in the cell.  He seemed to you like he had been a slave there a very long time, which offered both horror and comfort: that one might suffer like this for such a long time... and also that it was possible, in some form, to endure indignities beyond imagination.

*Spoiler: OOC:*
Show

The Fifth Scar - The Old Man's Gesture - L shaped tear hidden in hair at the crown of the head.

*You gain the +3 Wounds Advance from your Advanced Career.*

And you intuit correctly, I intend these to get a little quicker now.  The scenery isn't going to vary as much as it has - you're in Rat Country now.  It's all dark, all bad, all gross, all the time.


Over the next period of time you might guess was a year, you survived.  That is the best that can be said of the experience.  The Old Man died - in his sleep in the cell, much as he had lived; desperate and alone.  You hoped he died in a dream of a better place.  Perhaps, if someone dies while dreaming, their soul stays there, in the dream place.  It made sense, as a theory.  Your duties were varied in nature, but invariably hard and unpleasant.  You drew water from dirty steams for you and the other slaves. You cleared filth from the corners of the tunnels and cells, sometimes with your bare hands as needed.  Most of the work involved moving stones and earth as the scrawny little rat slaves dug and scrabbled and expanded this network of tunnels.  The language of the rats slowly came to you - but less quickly to your desperate cell mates, who often looked to you for help understanding what was expected of them to avoid the suffering that would befall them otherwise.  You learned the hard way that the rats did not appreciate an attitude of charity.

*Spoiler: The Sixth Scar*
Show

In your first ~year as a slave to the skaven, you retain enough enough innocence to consider helping those less fortunate than you; it's up to you if that attitude lasts, and how long.  But how was _nameless once more_ scarred, learning this lesson?  Was she directly clawed, cut, or whipped for conversing with another slave in Norscan, or Wastelander?  Did she step into a blow meant for a less prodigiously gifted captive?  How did you receive a lingering mark that will remind you forever of the dangers of careless kindness?

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## BananaPhone

Though the Old Man had shown her kindness, by now the Nameless had come to distrust older figures in general. Among the Norscans the they had been nothing but a source of discomfort, at best. So when this lone one showed her some kindness she accept it, gave a cautious thank you and felt a knot of sadness when she finally believed she'd never see him again. It was a slight and transitory mourning, but it was better than none. 

The first year under the rat-man was a predictably awful experience. The labour was awful and required the strongest of fortitudes to endure, while the beratement of the guards, regular beatings took a further toll. BUt for Nameless, the worst was slowly coming to understand the Ratmens language, while those around her were noticeably slower in such decipherment. This produced several occasions where a fellow slave was staring dumbfounded and confused at orders barked by one of the Skaven, before their eyes would turn to Nameless in a silent plea for help. 

She learned the first time that simply translating the ratmans orders incurred the wrath of the Skaven. The task taking longer to perform was less important than then slaves talking to each other in their own language, or exhibiting a positive form of cooperation.

On the second attempt, however, Nameless learned that if she...barked the orders, snapped them in the Skavens language and sprinkled in single Norscan or Reikspiel words here and there, it had the effect of sounding like dumb, broken Rat-talk to the Skaven, but also gave her target a hint of what it was that was wanted of them, thus allowing them to quickly figure it out and perform a task.

This worked for several months until a more cluey task-master among the Skaven arrived and quickly deduced what was happening. Thinking that Nameless might be a future insurgent leader, he made a thorough example out of the 9 year old, though not severe enough that she didn't live to see another marvelous year.

----------


## MrAbdiel

This task-master's name in Queekish meant something like _Snitch-Biter._  It's ambiguous, in that strange argot, whether this implies he is a _snitch_ who _bites_, or that he _bites snitches_, or both.  But he is black furred, and taller, and better postured than most of the rats... and apparently more cunning.  He carried a short spear of sharpened wood with no affixed head, and used encouraging jabs to motivate his charges.  But when he picked up on your subtle collaboration, it turned out to be more than a motivating-jab occasion.

_"No!  No this! Tricky-trick girl, hey?  Think she smart?  No help them!  Learn hard, like you!  You retard them!"_

His reasoning is punctuated with a thrust of the spear, whose tip, unheaded as it is, manages to bite two inches into the meat of your thigh muscle.  Untended, it would become infected; but your body fought it off.  And all things considered, a little more physical pain wasn't that troubling.  You were growing used to the abuse - and growing cunning enough to know that such a fact was best concealed, lest it be deliberately tested.

*Spoiler: OOC:*
Show

The Sixth Scar - Snitch-Biter's Mark - puncture wound on the left thigh.

*You gain the +5 Toughness advance from your Advance Profile.*


Time flows on.  Some of the slaves in your cage die while working, or while sleeping on the rag bundle that serves as pillow at night, and clothes by day.  Some never make it back to the cell from some special task they are picked off for.  This happens more often for the older, tired slaves.  Remarkably, the slaves taken as adult endure this life much worse than the children do.  They are conformed to a free life, and an expectation of sunlight and comforts.  They do very badly here.  It kills them; or drives them insane.

You remember the first time you saw someone _turn_.  Long have the slaves held the rumor that over time, human slaves turn _into_ skaven.  That is how the rats are made;  it is why they are so needlessly cruel.  You've never seen such a transformation; but you saw a man escape into madness, thinking it happened to him.  Not quite middle aged and possessed of big, sorrowful blue eyes, the man had endured far less than you had of this captivity.  But he went to bed in the cell, and woke everyone else with his hoarse screeching, and flinching, and broken-minded chattering.  All at once, he had adopted all the mannerisms of the rat-men; fingers curled and wrists bent at rest like idle paws, lip drawn back over teeth, once sad blue eyes full of desperate, insistent madness and the idiot conviction that he had _become_ one of the things and now that he had become one of them, he would not be subjected to so much suffering, surely.  

The first slave to reach to touch his shoulder he bit hard enough to draw blood.  Your regular warden, a rat named _Yishvak_, will not hurry to the sound of distress; more likely, he will turn up in time to declare someone a trouble maker, and not necessarily the right target.  Blue Eyes might kill one of you, before that time comes.

*Spoiler: The Seventh Scar*
Show

How does Nameless react the first time she sees one of the slaves go completely insane and _turn_?  How does she gain a scarring injury in that incident - either trying to restrain him, or killing him, or fending him off until the warden arrives to dispose of him?

----------


## BananaPhone

Nameless' eyes widened with a hint of fear. _This_ was new. This was something she had never seen before. As a mere 9 year old, being before a grown adult man who had gone mad was...frightening. She had no means to reason with him, no means to appease him, nor even to fight him. 

When the man went mad, Nameless sought cover - she looked for anywhere to hide.

Scurrying to where she believed she could fit herself into, Nameless tried to pry her body into a small space, if one where available, avoiding the insane one completely and hoping others would be able to handle him. She had no means nor desire to physically fight and insane grown man.

----------


## MrAbdiel

The cell was carved into rock by some nameless, cursed generation of slaves before you; and the work they had done is uneven enough to have profited you in that desperate moment.  You recoiled even as your swift moments seem to cause the madman - the _werething_, if the Norscan rhymes have any truth - to take offense.  He scrambled after you as you wedged yourself into a crevice in the cell's corner that may once have been the dream of escape for a predecessor; now, a hope of safety for you.  And all this happened in the pitiful gloom of the cell, made discernible only by the murky gloaming of lanterns down the end of the hall where another shift of slaves did their part of the toil that waited for you.  Screeching and snuffling, the man crowded against the crack in the stone and blocked what little light remained for you.  Plunged into black, you felt cracked nails and fingertips pawing furiously to seize you, giving you no option by to kick wildly back to spurn and delay.  Then his grip, iron-tight with insanity, cinched around your ankle and began hauling you out of safety.  Your cunning and quickness, and mental fortitude had seen you through trials that had broken so many others; but locked in a cage with a madman, all these virtues felt insufficient.  The brute reality of _strength_ asserted itself on you like it had when you were first hoisted from the devastation of your village by the warrior with four eyes.

Then the smallest glimmer of fortune broke your way; or perhaps, fortune isn't the right actor to ascribe.  Your aggressor was hauled back from you with such force that his grip on you slipped; his awful nails carving grooves in the skin of your ankle as he went.  A coalition of four of the other slaves - grown ones, not quite so desperately helpless - dragged him back into the centre of the cell that had been so rapidly vacated by your frightened cohort.  Three boys old enough to almost be men, and one man young enough to almost be a boy.  Pitiless, they kicked and stomped the howling lunatic until he was still and silent.  When your jailer Yishvak arrived and squinted at the scene, he did not deliver the lambasting or abuse you expected.  This kind of thing must happen often enough to be considered inevitable, by the rats' standards; he merely opened the door, picked two of your saviours to help haul the _werething's_ form out into the corridor, and locked the door again.  They carted the beaten man away; forty minutes later, the two were returned to the cell, and you never saw the madman again.

The three younger lads in this assembly of violent delivers are each cases whom you had stuck your neck out for before, slyly feigning abuse while actually directing them to avoid punishment before _Snitch-Biter_ put a stop to it.  Perhaps, even here in this place, some shade of noble things still existed.  No one had meaningfully defended you since your father stepped out into the night of horrors.  While almost every moment of this hell had been a grinding reminder that you were exposed to the awful world alone, it is fortifying to have at least one example of the alternative: it's people, against monsters.

*Spoiler: OOC:*
Show

The Seventh Scar - Claws of the Wererat - Deep scratchmarks on the left ankle.

*You gain the +5 Agility advance from your Advance Profile.*


Slaves continued to die.  Soon there were children who were younger than you; which means, perhaps, you were getting older.  Somehow, in defiance of pressures, you were surviving; on a lightless existence, and a diet of castoff scraps rejected by literal rats.  More of the rat language unraveled to your ears.  _Nee_ is a particle that seems to indicate a female slave; the counterpart of the male _Kee_.  And _Ruh_ seems to indicate some level of veterancy, as a slave.  Those who have survived, perhaps; something like _proven._  They called you _Nee-Ruh-Kaha_ from time to time; with _Kaha_ indicating the method of acquisition, your handle seems to be _female-proven-purchased_.  This, in contradistinction to _Kee-Ruh-Siss_, male-proven-captured; an epithet used for the other veteran in your crew - the older of the four who had beaten the madman.

The two of you were often pulled from the crew and given somewhat more demanding jobs.  This was where you met _Rashabang_; a russet furred skaven distinctively armored in brass plates over a tattery brown-red robe.  The two of you, in addition to a gaggle of six or more rat-slaves, are loaned to Rashabang from time to time assisting him in his alarming brand of intellectual inquiry.  Lifting and assembling metal parts and mechanisms, shoveling coal into sputtering furnaces whose smoke has nowhere to go but ambiently into the tunnels... even sometimes using and preparing tools.  Rashabang seems so fixated on his strange experiments he has no time for cruelty, at least the deliberate kind.  But this doesn't make his labors especially safe.

*Spoiler: The Eighth Scar*
Show

On one occasion, as a forced assistant to this skaven engineer, you suffer a marking injury.  How?  Does something backfire, or explode?  Does one of the rat-slaves strike you, out of jealousy?  Do you quite simply cut yourself, while sharpening a blade intended for a doomwheel?

----------


## BananaPhone

Working with the engineer was a reprieve from the usual state of fetid labour throughout the dank tunnels. Gone was cleaning a mixture of mud, dirt and excrement from squalid cages with her bare hands. Now she worked among machines and gizmos, a workshop where a host of unusual devices sat in various states of construction and the scent of ozone permanently lingered in the air. For the first time in as long as she could remember, Nameless felt...at peace, almost. Is this what happiness felt like? Those machines, the product of intellect and planning, made sense to her. She could see the transition from imagination, to mathematics, to schematics, to construction and finally, to use. It was a beautiful process and one that Nameless found herself possessed of a natural affinity. She understood Rashabang's numerical scratching's, though she did not yet have the training or experience to know how to improve or unfold them. Instead she was able to make broad and general deductions using patterns that she recognized in the various formulas and their association with particular materials and effects. 

But that was only the beginning. 

After conceptualization and planning came _building_. And that? That was fun. Nameless actually had fun. She even managed to smile a few times. 

Putting something together and feeling the trepidation of turning it on, only to watch it hum and whir to life was an experience unlike anything Nameless had known. The flush of joy and the dopamine hit to the brain left her intoxicated on the sensation and wanting more. 

This fascination did not go unnoticed. Rashabang was not deliberately cruel, most likely because he was too focused on his work. But neither was he thankful. Unusual for the ratman, he seemed solely dedicated to getting his work done. Ge even addressed Nameless once or twice. Just simple little things: fetch this, clean that. But the fact such orders came directly from him...the implications were many.

This was observed by one ratling slave in particular that did not take kindly to some human breeder infant not knowing her place. A scrawny, ruddy-brown furred little beast, its beady eyes and crooked rictus grin watched her through the vaporized oil, smoke and fumes of the workshop, plotting when to 'neutralise' her and remind her of where pompous little manling-things belonged. He chose that moment when Nameless was one of several slaves working on a Doomwheel - affixing blades, adjusting chains and gauging the motor.

Ratling approached from behind. Knowing straight violence would not be tolerated, it swiftly reached over Nameless's shoulder and yanked free a support rung that was holding the Doomwheel off the floor. Half a second of protest shouts were all the gathered slaves could get out, including Nameless, before the large creation hit the ground with its wheel running and internals exposed, and a load roar of an engine and ripping dirt announced the catastrophic blasting of the machine's propellant as it surged forward, struck a wall and brought down half the ceiling in a thunderous choir of rubble, smoke and green flame.

----------


## MrAbdiel

The collision of war-machine, scaffolding and wall was tremendous, fiery, and terrible.  A half-dozen of the rat-slaves were badly mangled, or burned to death.  _Kee-Ruh-Sis_ was the most fortunate - throwing himself to one side, shrapnel flew over his head and burning fuel alighted breifly on his rags, but not long enough to burn him.

You were less fortunate.  A splinter of steel you yourself had sharpened as one of the wheel's scythes was smashed from its parent blade and spiked into your chest, through your skin and biting into your highest floating rib on the right side.  The pain was terrible, and your instinct to pull it out after _Kee-Ruh-Sis_ drags you clear of the rubble was foiled by your blood-slick hands.

As the alarm settled, there was a secondary _bang_ - this, from the ornate brass and wood pistol _Rashabang_ keeps at his hip.  The bullet emptied the braincase of the craven rat-slave who could not help but stand in admiration of his handiwork; it died with its hideous, verminous grin on its terrible features.

In what was more lightly an economically sensible decision than a compassionate one, Rashabang saw to your medical complication.  With a pair of tongs, he pulled the metal shard from your side; and after a brief warning...

_"Will be hot-hot..."_

...Cauterized the wound, transforming the oozing blood and screaming pain of the cut into a hideous burn and a different, but less medically threatening screaming pain.  Then you were sent back to your cell, Kee-Ruh-Sis helping you make your way with one of the guard rats watching you go.  You rested while a fresh crew of rat slaves were set to clear the ruin of the workshop.

You slept for six hours.  It was the closest thing to a holiday in your entire tenure.

*Spoiler: OOC:*
Show

The Eighth Scar - Rashabang's Reward - Burn scar over the floating ribs on the right.

*You gain the +4 Wounds Advance from your Advance Profile.*


From time to time, you did work in Rashabang's workshop.  You could never be considered an apprentice or partner in any way - he taught you nothing - but you learned what was expected in a technical environment and intuited his demands well.  Often, there were extended periods of standing aside and doing nothing while he did something fine and particular to an instrument.  Almost like not working at all, for your part.

But most of your work was still thankless toil; moving rocks split from the wall by the rat slaves who were trusted with tools.  It remained that way for years.  You grew in stature, and strength; you passed milestones of womanhood that would have required celebration and marked a new era of your life, in almost any other place.  The roof just seemed lower; the stones a little lighter; the new slaves a little younger.

You do remember a moment when your age seemed most distinct to you - when you, with another mixed slave crew, were clearing a new tunnel deep into the bowels of the earth.  The rats didn't use supports to reinforce their tunnels; they simply used their intuitions to know which convoluted, twisting way to dig in order as not to promote collapse.  And this instinct was often wrong.

With a rippling crunch of stone and a wave of shocked cries, the tunnel in which you were working buckled and fell in; and for a moment, you were sure you were dead.  It was pitch dark, and that seemed like what hell might well be like.  But it wasn't to be - the slave adjacent to you was dead, for sure.  The chains on your ankles that lead to theirs terminated in a clinch of stone, and something wet and coppery.  And to the other side of you, the four slaves at the extreme end of the chain began crying and wailing in fear, in the dark.  All of them smaller, and younger than you.  Like... like the siblings you think you had.  Or were they older?  It seemed so far away, now; a while different life, lost under a whole different collapsed ceiling.  But here, in this dark pocket formed by an oppressive tomb of stone, you were the closest thing to an adult presence; and these slaves - these kids - had not yet developed the fortitude against misery they would need if any would become proven, like you.  If any of you would survive, that is.

*Spoiler: The Ninth Scar*
Show

How does the now not-so-young Nee-Ruh-Kaha handle being caught in a cave in, with her chains pinned under rock and locked into a tight dark space with four scared children?  Does this endear her to children, or make her resent them?  Does she rise to the challenge with hidden maternal spirit, or spurn it with increased hardness of heart?

----------


## BananaPhone

Time went on and the years melded together. How long had it been now? Nameless couldn't remember. She had no point of reference for the passage of time, only general states of being that she observed in the new slaves that arrived and the old, or used ones, that left. Likewise, her mentality changed, though not as drastically as some. Developing in the workshop of Rashabang was a boon few slaves could hope for. The work was no less dangerous, but it was less _arduous_, and the girls cluey nature with machines saw that she was usually given better food than other slaves of her station. This had the added effect fortifying her growing body against the deleterious effects of malnutrition, whose diminishing results were seen in the thinner bodies of other slaves, even young males several years older than her. Though she was not the image of health, every bit counted, and by her mid-teens she had formed out into a height that would be considered impressive for a man, let alone a girl. 

However, there were pro's and con's to everything in life. Tall and with a clear intelligence in her eyes and now mastery over the Skaven language, Nameless was oddly intimidating, particularly to the smaller, scrawny ratling slaves. But it made navigating caves less than comfortable. In fact, Nameless hated traveling outside of the main tunnels as she always had to crouch, and she could count more than a few lumps on her head every couple of months as a reminder why. Likewise, things like doors and rooms were carved with the Skaven in mind, not unusually tall humans, and so though some aspects of her life became easier, others became more difficult. 

Such was with the cave-in. The Skaven, for all their genius, had a propensity for carelessness that the maturing human found mind-boggling. They had it within their means, she saw, clearly had it within their means to take just a few safety steps, some simple little processions of validation and security that would have saved them countless hours of labour, materials, resources and lives. But, Skaven did as Skaven do, and the ceiling of the dirt-line tunnel collapsed, burying Nameless and other slaves beneath it.

Panic was the mind-killer here. To lose control over ones actions when buried beneath that soil would have been a death sentence. Already, Nameless could hear the younger slaves doing just that, the chain around her ankle twitching and yanking in response to their useless and spasmodic movements. Nameless couldn't blame them, she felt it too. The world around her becoming even darker, pitch black, her body covered in too much soil to wrest off, to even free her arms to make some attempt at digging herself free. The fear crawled up her spine and threatened to burrow into the back of her head, but Nameless knew something that would temporarily stave off the terror: the skaven _had_ to use this tunnel. Her knowledge of the language and association with Rashabang had enabled her to eavesdrop on the Skaven foremen and planners. She _knew_ this tunnel was essential to their short-term plans. Something as minor as a cave in would not deter their mad visions, and if they came across the corpses of some unlucky slaves while they were re-digging their way through a tunnel, so be it. Well, Nameless knew that all they had to do was survive until then, and that wasn't going to happen with the kids screaming, yelling and using up all the air. 

"Quiet!" she barked downwards through the dirt towards them. 

"Stop talking or you'll suffocate!"

It was then that Nameless felt the slightest of breezes against her face, like a little puff of wind emitted by someone drawing their face close to another and puffing softly as an annoyance. 

Where could that have come from? Nameless' minds raced to think and then she was reminded of the weight around her ankle. Her shackles! The end of the chain was still in the clear and open part of the cave, where the work crews and foremen were stationed. That chain was literally their life-line, as Nameless managed to struggle against the weight of dirt against her body to reach up and grip the closest part of the chain. And then she twisted it. Just slightly, as much as she could, gyrating it in a circular motion, as if she were stirring a tiny little cauldron and then she felt it - the little puff of air again. 

It wasn't enough to burrow their way out or see anything, but the rotational movement of the chain loosened enough dirt and pebbles around it to create small, thin little vents from which air could enter Nameless' position, allowing her to continue breathing. She would be here for hours until they were dug out, but at least this way, the Skaven would be retrieving slaves and not corpses. 

Maintaining her breathing, Nameless passed the knowledge down to the kids, telling them what to do: stay calm, don't panic, breathing slowly, turn the chains just slightly, creating those thin little air passages and be patient.

----------


## MrAbdiel

The experience was hellish, even in competition to the many hellish experiences you'd had to this point.  The younger slaves needed constant cajoling and chastisement not to sink into sobbing and panic.  The dark and claustrophobia of the confines remained cloying and tombish, even if you weren't doomed to suffocate due to your cunning chain-trick.  But the physical _strain_ of it was intense; pressing up with your back against the buckling dome of rocks and earth around you, knowing that to relax too much would invite it to compact against your prone form and immobilize you entirely - cutting off your ability to make the narrow vent, and perhaps simply drowning you in earth.  You endured it till your muscles burned and spasmed, your body aching and wracked and fighting the argument within your head that perhaps death would be _better_ than this.

The rats did not value your life, or those of the other slaves.  Compassion from them would never save you.  But they needed the tunnel they were digging; and the collapse being an obstacle to that goal, eventually, you heard the skitters and mumbling beyond your buried position - your ugly saviours coming, finally, to free you.  But not without further cost.  The band of rat slaves tasked with clearing the cave in, having unearthed the other end of the chain, had the enterprising thought that they might more easily clear the obstacle by pulling the chain and its occupants out.  This was folly, and a painful one for you; at once, the chain around your right ankle became taught and smashed your heel against the burying stone.  And then they began to heave, with the coordinated efforts one expects of slave teams; agonizing you as the shackle grooved and cut into your skin and, you would later suspect, began to crack the bones beneath.  The horrifying possibility that they might pull hard enough to fold your ankle back against the calf only to shear it free entirely felt starkly real and threateningly present; and all you could do was fight to awkwardly grasp the chain again with your hands and pull back against those pulling at you.  The children with you tried to help - timing their heaving with yours turning the rescue effort into a tug-of-war with your body's integrity at stake.  It's hard to save if they helped much, even if they tried.  But after a sustained effort for minutes that felt like hours, the rats on the outside seemed to decide this wouldn't work, and resorted to manual clearance again.

Hiding the pain of the fracture was the chaser to the whole experience - if your captors thought you were too injured to be useful for labor, they might find simpler uses for you; as they had for so, so many before.

*Spoiler: OOC:*
Show

The Ninth Scar - Shacklebite - Two curved lines on the interior of the right ankle.

*You gain the +5 Strength Advance from your Advance Profile.*


Your captivity was not simple cruel drudgery, however.  Sometimes, it was punctuated by moments of intense terror and lethality.  For all the things the Skaven were, they were no monolith; and bickering and brawling between them was common.  Once, it was much worse than that - an attempted coup, in which slaves like yourself stopped for a moment being chattel, and started being collateral damage.

This was one of the occasions where you were doing specialized work for Rashabang; you and three other human slaves, along with a customary throng of the filthy slave rats.  You were beating a piece of brass into shape over a log to make a bracket for a tank of some toxic fluid, when one of the messily armored guard rats who served shifts as slave tenders burst through the tunnel doorway, and brayed a barely articulate warning before he was slain.  The killer was a black blur of trailing cloth and vermin muscle; a slender cannonball with a black metal knife in each forepaw, and one in a tight curl of tail.  The assassin slammed in back of the rat-guard,  two knives biting into its chest and delivering their oily black venom in redundant excess of their mortal steel, before using the trailing momentum of his spring and the guard's dying collapse to leap again, sailing across the room over the heads of the slaves towards Rashabang.  The engineer rat's reflexes were good; and the delay it had taken to kill the sentinel saw one of the long pistols slip from its holster, rise and fire with a flash of green fire and smoke.  The would-be killer  twisted in the air with the impact, colliding with the wall where Rashabang had stood before scuttling aside; but scrambled to his feet wounds and all.  Then without another moment's passage came another intruder - one of the monsterous rat hulks you had been required to feed from time to time; those that dined on the bodies of other rats, and slaves as well as chemical slurry splashed into their troughs by their deranged makers.  The rat-ogre frothed and roared, claws and bulk shredding through slaves and furniture in the workshop alike - an opponent too powerful and terrible to even imagine opposing.  Rashabang certainly didn't imagine it - snapping off the round from his second pistol to force the assassin to dodge into cover, the engineer juked under a bench and around a small furnace, through the press of terrified slaves delaying the gigantic killer in their confusion, and off into the tunnels of the warrens proper - a nightmare of rat-on-rat combat where there were no clear sides or objectives.  But anywhere was preferable to here.  The assassin rat was wounded, but still armed and operable, and more than capable of killing you.  And regardless of who's side the rat ogre was supposed to be on, there was not a man or woman alive who could survive being trapped in a room with one in such conditions.  There was only death here, or the _chance_ of death in the tunnels beyond - hardly a choice at all.

*Spoiler: The Tenth Scar*
Show

How does Nameless respond when plunged into such chaos?  She's unshackled when working under these particular conditions, and so free to flee - but what kind of risks will she take for the greener, less adapted slaves at risk to herself?  Is her instinct to flee and hide, or to try to take up a weapon to fight... for, or against the invaders?  She has been waiting her whole life for a chance to escape - does she know that this isn't it by some instinct, or does she learn it via a scarring lesson?

----------


## BananaPhone

It was just another day in the hole, as Nameless worked on her assigned duty. Her lips pursed, her wonder sometimes stretching beyond her current situation, the human did not focus much on the ratman politicking and intrigue. She understood their language perfectly now, better than most Skaven possibly, and this worked to her advantage as she often 'played dumb' what what she _could_ decypher. This led to numerous Skaven feeling it was safe to speak within earshot of her, believing her some ignorant manling breeder that was unaware of their schemes. 

But she knew. 

And could do little about them. 

Responsibility without power was a terrible position to be in, as slaves often were. But when the fighting broke out in the workshop, Nameless was snapped back to attention as her eyes widened at the abrupt and fat nature of the carnage unfolding around her. The ratling ninja was troubling, but as a cut-above-average slave, she knew she was low on the list of priorities for its blade, not that it wouldn't take up the opportunity if it presented itself. But much like the Skavens underestimation of her ability to understand their language causing them to disregard her, so too did she have a few seconds to think and act that it was doubtful she would have received were she a free Skaven.

However, the arrival of the rat-ogre complicated things. 

Her eyes widening at the sight of the rampaging monster, Nameless was better equipped than most to stave off that paralysing fear that would freeze others to the spot. Having watched them feed and fight among themselves in the pits, she _knew_ how lethal they were, how quickly and easily one could hoist her off her feet and tear her in twain. 

She also knew how _tough_ they were. And _strong_. 

But if she had learned something from the cave in, it's that everything needed to breathe. It didn't matter how big and strong you were, a minute without oxygen and you were done.

Stepping back from the chaos, Nameless snapped her head to either side, looking for a pair of items she _knew_ were around. One of them she spotted immediately - a spherical, glass globe whose contents were a swirling, emerald mist that would make one ill just to look at it. The other - there!

Spotting the mask several meters away, Nameless took her chance. She reached out, grabbed two of the globes in her hands and ducked as she hurried over to the benches. All around her the hissing, screeching ratmen stabbed and clawed at each other, their attentions focused on the blade-brandishing traitors or loyalists before them rather than the seemingly unarmed, towering human breeder running for cover. Nameless had barely covered two meters when she grimaced at the hot spray of black-red blood splattering across her face from some unfortunate skaven, the hideous squealing of rats filling the air alongside the unholy sound of flesh and bone being torn from sockets. The rat-ogre was at work.

Reaching the bench, Nameless grabbed the mask and shoved it onto her face. The thing was designed for a rats face, and so she had to shove it against her features, as she quickly hooked one arm under the strap that carried the oxygen tank that would be the difference between life and death. Inhaling that less-than-lovely, but better than death air once to ensure it was working, Nameless turned to the fur-and-steel riot of death, drew her right hand back and - 

_"Look-look! Stop manling!"_ the ninja hissed out, the more perceptive creature having spotted Nameless' unusual action. Time seemed to slow down as he reached towards a knife upon his hip, but his eyes widened and the long rictus of his mouth drew back in horror as he watched those two globes hurl from Nameless' hands, both green-spheres arching through the air and breaking within the melee. 

Nameless dived down behind the benches, holding that mask to her face and crawling hurriedly towards a storage spot she could fit into and hide.

----------


## MrAbdiel

Some of the combatants - many of the rat-slaves, and the three remaining humans - had cleared  the threshold into the nightmare beyond already.  But the assassin was injured, and recovering, having worked his way even in his rounded state through three of the engineer's dedicated apprentices before your gambit was made plain to him.  Too late to flee-flee - not without cost.  The one globe smashed on the floor, the other cracked and began spinning wildly on a jet of its escaping, pressurized toxins.  Through the foggy glass of the gas mask, you saw the outcome - the rat-slaves caught in the immediate range of the burst couldn't help but breath it in, and almost instantly perish in hacking mounds of fur and puked up blood and pus.  The assassin made his best skitterleap for the door, but in doing so he passed through a tendril of the cloud and he vanishes from view with coughing and spluttering in his wake.  The rats would later discuss how they had caught him and tortured him before feeding him to the beasts alive - even the quickest and slickest rats, it seems, could endure only so much punishment.  The rat-ogre could not help but heave in great lungfuls of the gas, and ignorant of where the suffering inflicted upon it was coming from, it thrashed wildly about the room, splashing regurgitated, liquifying rat parts about while its eyes burned from its head.

You had the mask, thankfully, and so when the cloud thinned enough to reach your hiding spot, it did not find its way into your chest - but it _did_ sting and burn your bare skin in a way you hadn't anticipated.  Why did the rats employ these masks if even skin proximity to the poison was harmful?  Perhaps they were masochists, and the ones truly devoted to the poisons were willing to sacrifice their skin for the profane joy of witnessing the effects up close.  You were not willing to sacrifice your skin, however;  with the sensation of blisters racing up your bare arms and neck, you bolted for the door and out and away from the spreading gas, and the blind monster, and the bodies of the first creatures you had ever killed - even if it was with such a strange and indirect weapon.  Your cunning had bought your chance; your feet paid the difference, carrying you at speed through the tunnels around the vermin duels and goresplashes of the monsters slain to the relative safety of your cell, where other slaves opened the unlocked gate for you, then pulled it shut behind you; hoping no sadistic invader would test the lock.

Eventually, the invaders were repelled; and your duties for the next few days included joining teams to clear the mangled and warped bodies of the dead. Most of the blisters from the gas went away without issue, over time; but one particular streak, apparently from a particularly dense wisp of the green poison, fared a little worse; and a discoloured strip beginning on your inner wrist, spiralling up and around your forearm to the elbow forever reminds you of how careless and reckless the strange technology of the rats tends to be - and how preferable it is to suffer a little, rather than to be torn limb from limb.

*Spoiler: OOC:*
Show

The Tenth Scar - Kiss of the Poison Wind - Chemical burn on left forearm.

*You gain the Flee! Talent from your Advance Profile.*


These were the first lives you'd taken - the slaves liquified by the chemicals, and the rat-assassin whom you crippled and doomed to a worse death still.  You didn't feel bad for them - why would you?  What feeling had they for you?  In fact, it might have even been _empowering_ to cause _them_ to suffer for a change.  But you wouldn't take a life with your own hands for some time yet.  And before you would kill in, you would fight him - and lose badly.

The rats kept many slaves, and in your years here you had seen humans, and halflings, and elves and dwarves.  The elves and dwarves and halflings did not last so long; they tended to be too obstreperous to train and so got killed, or fared so poorly in the conditions that they died of other causes very soon.  Humans, unfortunately or not, possessed some rugged spark of survival that made them better slaves than most; better in some ways than the cringing rat slaves who were the decrepit runts bred for the purpose.  But there was another slave - _Skee-Ruh-Kris_, Skaven-Proven-Punishment - who took offense to you for no discernible reason.  Perhaps it was your stature; perhaps the scraps of favor poured on you by Rashabang.  You never knew.  But Skee-Ruh-Kris was a brown furred, skaven who had once been a free rat, but had performed some misdeed worthy of the stripping of his name and demotion to slave.  He towered over the malnourished and weak born-slaves - but not over you.  And more than once, at an opportune moment when you were momentarily unsupervised, he relished to make you suffer.  It started as petty instigation - shoving, spooking, spitting.  You'd seen fights before, between slaves - usually the belligerents were killed on principle, so it did not behove you to draw attention to his attacks.  But then his opportunity came - clearing another tunnel in a chain-gang with the survivors of the children who had been trapped with you once before, your skaven foreman poorly judged your group stable enough that he might slip off and indulge in some vice you cared not to learn for a minute or two.

Skee-Ruh-Kris, his irrational hated having waited this long, saw his opening.

*Spoiler: The Eleventh Scar*
Show

Ambushed by a petty but not incapable enemy, you are forced to defend yourself against a cowardly attack that fails to kill you, but certainly leaves you second best off.  Revenge comes later - but how does Skee-Ruh-Kris assault you, and how do you survive?  Does he pounce on you from behind and try to dash your brains out on the rock, or conceal a shiv of bone for your side?  Do you hear him coming at the last second and turn aside, or just cover up until the guard returns to break the brawl up?  How do you survive when most others would have died, to avail yourself of a chance for revenge on a later day?

----------


## BananaPhone

As her back had been turned, Nameless had not seen the blow coming. One moment she was inspecting a pile of quarry before her, the residue of their tunnel clearing activities, the next a hot pain shot through her body as a Clunk! resounded out against the rough drilled walls. For Nameless, her world spun as the dull, aching pain throbbed in her head, a groan escaping her lips as she tumbled forward, barely able to perceive anything in the dimly lit cave-way, her back hitting the ground as she rolled over, hand up and cradling at her head. 

Skee-Ruh-Kris stood above her, a jagged rock clasped in one of his clawed little hands, its rough edge smeared with some blood. Her blood. The injured human was barely able to comprehend her surroundings, her vision a blurred miasma, but she could spot those two beady little red eyes staring down menacing at her, the curl of the long lip of the rat-man as it raised its improvised weapon to bring it down on her skull.

A sharp whistle was the only warning either of them had. Not even half a second until Thwack! a hurled rock impacted against the side of Skee-Ruh-Kris's skull. The skaevn hissed in pain, dropping his own weapon as his little clawed hand shot up to cradle the red-dash on the side of his elongated head, turning and glaring at the few younger human slaves - some of whom had been the ones Nameless had gotten through the first cave-in - had armed themselves with small rocks. Another whistle - Thwack! this one caught Skee-Ruh-Kris in the eye.

"Aargh pest-pests!" the Skaven squealed, drawing himself back from the hail of rocks. The children only stopped when it was clear that Skee-Ruh-Kris had abandoned his current plan, as they darted over to Nameless's still groggy form.

"What going on?!" the deeper voice of the returning Skaven foreman bellowed, his hefty figure suddenly lurching forward in locomotion as he returned from his mini-break and put himself among the group. 

"Tell me now-now!" he demanded, brandishing that cat-o-nine tails around like an item of accusation. 

None of the slaves would speak the truth, neither the humans nor Skee-Ruh-Kris. To do so would get them all punished, and so one of the kids lied.

"She tripped," he points to rubble across the floor, "hit her head against the rock!" he pointed to the piece of masonry that Skee-Ruh-Kris had dropped in his flight. 

The foreman narrowed his eyes into suspicious slits, his gaze wondering over each of the present slaves one after another. Could he tell the truth? Did it even matter in post-evaluation?

"Clumsy manling breeder!" he beat Nameless once with his whip, eliciting a grunt of pain through gritted teeth. If she had been a lesser slave he probably wouldn't have cared, but Nameless was known as an emerging 'foreman among the human slaves' of sort: someone who helped motivate, got things done and didn't cause trouble. Such a slave was handy and time-saving for the foreman, and others, her continued existence made his life easier. 

"Go rest-rest one hour, then come back!"

----------


## MrAbdiel

The blow dealt to the side of your head was concussive, and deep; the edge of the rock grooved a line on the left side from your temple and above your ear.  An hour of rest had not been enough; the rest of the day's work had been unusually difficult, with your balance skewing and your mind fogging.  Skee-Ruh-Kris dared not try again so soon, lest he be discovered - but his baleful eyes, one squinting from a thrown rock, commit the faces of your diminutive accomplices to his bitter memory.

He tried several times over the next months to accomplish the same trick; but never succeeded.  Your small drops of fortune in this desert of misery might have briefly dulled some instincts; but the presence of this mortal threat reignited them, straining and training your ears to the oblique approach of an attacker.  Twice, you heard him coming and turned to earn only a scowl and his giving up for the day.  Twice, you heard him just in time to duck the rock swing back.  Rats had teeth and claws, but humans were not without weapons.  Fists made better clubs than paws; and your teeth, while not sharp, were threatening enough if they could just catch a finger, or an ear, or a tail.  Fights like these were uncommon but not rare, among the slaves; murmured conversation of how best to defend oneself against the bitter, opportunistic rat slaves, who knew human slaves as their only lower rung on the ladder of life, were part of the night-time surrussus of Queekish that preceded your patchwork people's passing out from exhaustion in the evening.

You remember thinking of how you would kill him; the opportunity you'd need, the moment to strike, the way you'd survive the aftermath.

That moment, fate would hold, would indeed find its way to you eventually.

*Spoiler: OOC:*
Show

The Eleventh Scar - Skee-Ruh-Kris's Blow - Groove over the left temple.

*You gain the Acute Hearing advance from your Advance Profile.*


Another impenetrable passage of time later found you favoured again.  There is some manner of gathering - its nature not offered to you - which requires the attendance of a great host of the vermin who seem exalted above the others.  Rashabang chooses you, and the man-slave who has survived against all odds as long as you have, Kee-Ruh-Sis, to pull a cart of _supply_ for him.  The supply seems to be the hideous green stone the skaven are so fond of - the cart you haul is heavy, and the filthy cloth thrown over only mostly hides the beryl radiance.  You are part of a column of such carts of skaven 'dignitaries' and offerings.  Some of the skaven carry clockwork oddities like Rashabang; some are swathed in grey mantles and brandish warpstone-pierced staves; most are completely indistinguishable from one another, for the major part.  Some of the carts glow like yours; some contain putrid smelling meat, and body parts; others contain the still but breathing bodies of slaves from some part of the warrens you don't know: drugged silent, and stupid. You are made to haul for hours and hours, until you come to a place you have never seen - a massive, open cavern that is glutted with thousands of the rats.  _Tens_ of thousands of them.  And your cart is one of hundreds streaming in from various openings, before the cart entire is roughly seized off you by skaven orderlies of this profane sanctuary who take great delight in shoving you and the over slaves back before you come past the second of thirteen descending concentric circles that make up this hellish stadium.  After this, you are herded back to the first level of thirteen; the largest circle, occupied exclusively by slaves and a profusion of slave handlers with their spears, and their barbed man-catchers, and whips.  You catch on to the nature of the matter and the location from the chatter of rats all around you - _give-give_, and _strike-time_, and _god-place_.

This is a skaven god-place.  This is where they call upon their whispered patron, for his dark favor.

The majority of the human slaves who have come here (those who aren't in the carts, being dragged groggy and helpless to a stained and smoking pit in the middle of the lowest circle to die) cannot bear to witness what transpires next.  They crowd against the walls of the chamber on the upper level, hands clapped over their ears, crying and shaking and wetting themselves.  For once, such behaviour does not incur the lash; the skaven packmasters are too eager to watch as the rats at the lowest level - robed and faux-regal, and ostentatiously barking ceremonious claims about the _strike-time_ and the _glory-joy_ as shards of glowing stone are laid about the pit in semi-meaningful patterns, and the delerious slaves are throat-cut and hurled less carefully into its nadir.

You watch, hardened by hate and time; Kee-Ruh-Sis watches too, but as the ceremony rises to its crescendo, he can stand it no more.  _"Men also have gods,"_ he whispers to you in fearful defiance of what you are witnessing, _"and they will not permit their children to suffer like this forever."_  Then he turns and leans his forehead on the wall; covering his ears against the sounds that fill the chamber.  The whisper of rats to each other; the roar of them as they move through responsorial cadences; the reedy, hysterical pitch of the rat-priest in charge, whose invocations stir the crowd into a spasmodic heartbeat of thrill, and tension; thrill, and tension.

Terror creeps into your heart as you feel something in the room _peaking_; something coming to a head that was not before.  Yet you watch, out of curiousity and bald defiance of fear.  And so your eyes are the only human ones in the room that witness the huge, slender, blood-soaked limbs that reach out of the pit of corpses and magical detritus, and pull the massive monstrous body through.  Tall as three men on each other's shoulder, ratlike in aspect but upright and regal in bearing; with a rack of horns on its head and its black fur slicked with the blood of sacrifices.  With its emergence comes howling rapture of the ratmen, and a redoubling of your fear, and then something _worse_ than the fear - a kind of alien pride worming its way into the battery of your feeling as an external imposition.  A feeling that it is _good_ to be a slave here; that by doing so you have played a part on making this beautiful moment possible; an assurance that you can share in the _scraps_ of the glory to come.  A warm feeling; a hungry feeling; a feeling not from you, but forced upon you to feel against your nature.  A violation of the soul that, at last, forces you to look away, to cease the creep of it... lest it continue its alien work in your head.

But when you look away, your eyes find something else - a familiar shape amidst the slaves, well at the back of the mob.  Your aggressor, Skee-Ruh-Kris, hopping and spectating and drinking in the particulated glory that has managed to make its way all the distance to this top row where even the rat slaves are cavorting and braying.

The humans are turned away in spiritual horror.  The rats are focused on the act below in rapturous delight.  You know if you were to run for it, you would not get past the guards at other places in the warren tunnels that brought you here; and you would likely become lost in this unfamiliar spaces.  But Skee-Ruh-Kris, finally, is vulnerable.

Moving quickly, you plan, and strike.

*Spoiler: The Twelfth Scar*
Show

Now is your chance.  In this delicate window of opportunity, how do you enact your revenge? 
 How do you conceal your culpability?  And importantly, how do you end up scarred as a result - a parting shot from a fallen enemy, or something else?

----------


## BananaPhone

The initial labour had been arduous, but no less unpleasant than usual. The carts they pushed contained that green, glowing rock with which Nameless had become passingly familiar while toiling within Rashabangs workshop. _Warpstone_ they rat-men called it, and it was everywhere. Or at least, the _desire_ and need for it was everywhere. From currency to fuel for their machines, the Skaven utilized the unstable material with prodigious and insane fervor, forever testing the limits of their knowledge and application of the material at the cost of inconsequential lives. What little Nameless knew of it was enough. She knew not to touch it with her bare hands, she had observed as such when greedy little slaves had grown ambitious enough to snatch a piece, so that they might trade it for freedom or some other trinket, only to realise their error only too late, their hands blistering out into tumors and their bodies rotting away within a matter of days. Rashabang, meanwhile, had always used gloves to handle the material, his example being taken on board by anyone with two brain-cells to rub together. She also knew it was valuable, incredibly valuable, and volatile. The instability of its nature was caused by the power locked within its dimensions, and machines that were able to harness that energy could perform quite spectacular feats.  

So that begged the question: what did the ratmen need with so much of this material in this pit?

It didn't take long for Nameless' question to receive some clues as to the answer. Wheeled into an enormous cavern, her and other slaves stood aside and into positions of diminished importance, the tall girl instinctively found a dark corner within which to skulk and watch. She beheld the teeming masses of chittering rats, the relish and wild adulation sweeping across the ocean of fangs and claws as something bleak and profane stirred within the centre of the pit. Nameless was not religious. She had no means to be. This was really the only life she knew, but even she felt her skin crawl as the black festivity begun and the first slaves were offered, tossed into that brewing miasma of dirt, warpstone and sacrifices with cut throats and bound hands. The sights and sounds were offensive to the senses and the soul, but the _smell_. The smell! That man rats in one place. The dirt under their feet. The ever growing pile of bodies festooned across that central pit that was taking on a shifting life of its own...even if Nameless had turned her head to the side her attempt to escape that smothering stench would have been an effort in futility, for there was nowhere to go flee that fetid mélange of bodily humors, filth, dirty fur and putrefying cadavers that smothered her face and sinuses like a wet blanket over her face.

"Men also have gods..." Kee-Ruh-Sis whispered from Nameless' side, yanking her attention back to the present and pushing away the suffocating stench, if only for a moment.

"and they will not permit their children to suffer like this forever." 

Nameless stood, mouth slightly agape, wanting to respond with some quick or clever retort, but she had none. She could only watch as Kee-Ruh-Sis locked his own mind away inside a trance, turning and placing his forehead against the dirt wall and chanting softly, whispering into the black hell around them in the hope that a ray of light from his patron would somehow find him in the depths of this hole. 

And then, _it_ rose. 

The fervor of the ratmen increased. Nameless didn't notice it at first as her attention was still glaring at Kee-Ruh-Sis, but the pitch of the frenzy reached beyond the ceiling of her focus and and tore her back to the gathering: the squealing, the chittering, the choir of gnashing fangs and wailing for that _thing_ that crawled out from the stew of frothing blood, melting bodies and warpstone. The long, terrible limbs ending with claws, the ghastly, monstrous head like some horrifying amalgamation of a rat and a deer-bucks antlers and that towering, body that came to stand upon two bent-backwards legs and so that it could bellow with raised fists to a crowd. Nameless _wanted_ to step back, she wanted to turn, assess a viable route of escape and then flee down its corridors to freedom, but there was no such path to salvation. Not here. Not in the presence of that _thing_ that glared upon its assembled worshipers with cold, dead eyes. The menace that radiated from its gaze penetrated dirt, flesh and soul, as Nameless could feel her spiritual reaction as part of her soul blistered beneath the lifeless stare of that thing as it swept past the assembled slaves and up onto its chosen, beastly children. Paralysed with terror, her joints unable to move, Namless closed her eyes and drew upon Kee-Ruh-Sis' suggestion that something _else_ might be at work in this world, something else outside of the fetid, disgusting world of the ratmen and their vile creations. Whatever it was that returned control of her body for a second, be it a god, a motivating imagination or her own willpower, Nameless yanked herself back and away in the pit of slaves, her head turning as she looked back down the tunnel way from which she had came, her chest heaving up and down and her breath burning within her lungs. Clamoring down that that hallway, Nameless turned and double-took as she picked out Skee-Ruh-Kris from the crowd of braying ratmen. He was only a slave, like her, but he was also a Skaven. Slave or not, in this euphoric concert, he was well above her in the food chain. 

Narrowing her eyes, gritting her teeth as she felt that cut on her head throb, she determined quietly to herself: but not for long. 

Nameless had barely taken a step when something _else_ seized her attention, something glimmering in the dirt below, its telltale green image hidden beneath the ruddy brown of the compacted tunnel mud...warpstone!

Some must have fallen free from the cart they had been pushing. Even some shards such as this, invaluable though they were, would have easily been overlooked when compared to the huge quantities shoveled into the pit for this black ritual. Eyes open, mouth wide, Nameless knelt down and drew her sleeve around her hand, gathered some mud upon it as a second barrier, and scooped the warpstone up. 

It was heavier than it looked. It wasn't even that large, about the size of a marble. But it was enough. 

Skee-Ruh-Kris was linked with his fellows in thunderous applause and squealing rapture when something hard-soft struck him from behind. Snapped from his ecstasy and whirling around on the spot with claws brandished, he was greeted with...no one. No one but the empty tunnel, and some dirt crumbling away. Narrowing his eyes, he dropped to all fours and scurried forth, filled with the vigor of the rat-lord before halting at deeper into the cavern, turning about and -

Two long, hairless arms grabbed him from behind. They wrapped around him with surprising strength, his body hoisted from its padded feet and kicking wildly in the air. Hissing and squealing, his voice was not even audible beyond 5 feet, as those in the grip of the raucous assembly heard nothing.

"Meet your maker, scum!" 

Skee-Ruh-Kris's eyes flew open as he recognised who it was. "Yo - " was all he got out as he went to speak, to offer some dire warning or desperate sneering, but the moment he opened his snout, that manlings hand slapped over the front, a small ball of mud shoved into his mouth. Skee-Ruh-Kris coughed and spluttered, eyes wincing shut as he thrashed his head back and forth, but the apes hand gripped his snout with surprising strength - his claws lashing away at her arm that was locked in place through sheer hatred and adrenaline.  

But then he tasted it. 

The mud had washed away in his saliva, spluttered out the sides of his mouth. But...oh no...

Skee-Ruh-Kris thrashed wildly as it felt it go down his throat, his squealing reaching a pitch as those arms let go and he tumbled forward onto the floor before him, grasping uselessly at his throat and then at his chest. Hurried footsteps were heard overhead as that tall, slender manlings figure darted off into the darkness, leaving Skee-Ruh-Kris to his fate. 

He had swallowed raw warpstone down into his gullet, and it was already reacting with his stomach acids...

----------


## MrAbdiel

So ends Skee-Ruh-Kris.  He struggled and gagged, his forepaws left crisscrossed bleeding scratches all up and down your arm; but then he could not help but autonomically swallow, and that was the end of it.  The last you saw of him was the rat ramming his paw into his mouth, trying to undo what had been done; as the wall of his abdomen flopped open with liquifying flesh, and the muck of his innards poured out into a dissolving pool around him.

You ripped off the sleeves of your ragged shirt, and bound up your arm.  The smell of blood and death was so high in the air that surely they would not pick up on the oddity of your acquired injury.  Indeed, Rashabang did not; when some hours later the dark event was over, he merely found you and his other slaves, and sat in euphoric bliss in the now vacated cart for the long walk home.

No one asked about Skee-Ruh-Kris.  You never heard about anyone finding him, or looking for him.  Another slave; dead and gone, like so many that had gone before.

But _you_ sent this one to whatever gnashing pit there ought to be for such things.  It is the first time you were able to make something wrong _right_ with your own strength.

It felt good.

*Spoiler: OOC:*
Show

The Twelfth Scar - Skee-Ruh-Kris's Eulogy - Criss-crosses scratches over the right arm, wrist to elbow.

*You gain the +10 Agility Advance from your Advance Profile.*


You hadn't known home since the Northmen had you; and that was only 'home' by a stretch of definition. Here, in this pit of horrors, you have a _cage_.  But even that had grown familiar; a cage you had returned to over and over for... what feels now to be most of your life.  A cage in a rat-hole, near to a greater hive of rat-holes.

_"Nee-Ruh-Kaha.  You come-come now."_  Snitchbiter's summons drew you to conciousness one last time; once again to Rashabang's service.  But this time, it was not to assist in his strange and lethal designs.  You helped him pack; loading tools and devices onto a trio of carts to be hauled by rat-slaves.  No hauling for you; you walked along side, the only human with a train of rats.  He talked to you, as he sometimes did; jabbering about is barely decipherable plans.  He didn't _listen_ to you, of course; none of the rats would think to recognize you as something close to a conversation partner.  But the engineer had too many thoughts for his head, and needed to get them out; and he seemed to value you more than the rat-slaves, disposable as they were.

You were going somewhere else.  To a different hive of rats; a thing that seemed to be an opportunity for Rashabang.  He had made some kind of good impression at the demonic bacchanal where you had killed Skee-Ruh-Kris; and someone in the hierarchy of rats elsewhere in this lightless empire had made him an offer.  So off you went; the longest journey you have ever taken.  Longer, you think, than the soul-crushing walk from your Norscan keepers to the rat-den where you had for so long dwelled.  Long enough that you began to encounter human slaves who spoke a language you didn't understand at all; even if you were in a position to aid them as you once aided some others, they could not understand you either in the rat-tongue or the broken remnants of the human tongues rattling around in your brain.  Meeting these poor souls at hubs and waystation warrens along the way, there was nothing you could do for them except exchange the look human slaves had for each other; desperate, helpless pity from a million miles inside one's own head.

The rats here, in this new place, were different in some ways; subtle coloration differences, and a different... what?  Posture?  Attitude?  More pride in cunning, than raw sadism?  Hard to grasp; hard to ignore.  Rashabang and his slaves had meetings with these foreign rats; they seemed to disagree a lot, even bitterly at times; and the engineer's enthusiasm, growing in fervour as your great pilgrimmage had gone on, began to sour.  Finally, his luck began to break - an invitation, it seemed.  Somewhere to work.  Someone to host him.  Not in a great metropolis of rats like you had been led to imagine, but in just another dingy warren not much different to the one you had back ... Well, back there.  Except here, the humans mumbled pitiably in gibberish you had not begun to learn.   Was this is?  Would you end up in another cage, like the last one?  Would you live another interminable lifetime as you had lived the last, just without even the baseline familiarity with location you had come to know?

As it turned out, the answer was no.  When Rashabang lead his weary and travelled slaves and wagons to a meeting spot, he had intended to arrive late - but he had been first, and his sponsor no where to be seen.  And then they were on you: knife-weilding skaven vaulting from the dark, hissing and cursing their hatred with red-eyed malice.  A half dozen of them, wrapped in strips of black cloth to mute their fur against the dark of the tunnels... and a leader, the left of whose face was a molten ruin of scar tissue; and whose right was hideously familiar.  You knew him well enough; you had been the one to cause that ruination, in Rashabang's lair when he attacked once before.  And when the assassin's good eye spotted you, it flashed with poison hate and recognition; knuckles whitening on the grips of neon-green blades.

It was unlikely that it was Rashabang's intention to save your life.  Not in such a sentimental way, for sure.  He was saving his own - and 'saving' you was more an act of securing an asset than a value of life.  But the now aging engineer had suspected foul play, and made his best move: he drew the whip from his tatty robe, cracked it across the back of one of his rat-slaves, and screamed: _"Kill-kill!"_

As the two dozen remaining slaves  jerked into suicidal obedience rather than suicidal disobedience, they fed themselves into the blades of the enemy... And Rashabang ran.  He shoved you, as he went - not out of the way, but in the direction he was running; up a particular tunnel, winding and narrow; leaving you no choice but to stoop, and run.  You heard the crack of one of his pistols behind you, and a skaven shriek; the crack of the whip a few times before it was torn away from him.  The slaves had bought seconds, before they had likely broken.  Those seconds put you seconds ahead of the blades of the gutter runners; and you fled with Rashabang's bullying directions through, and around, and up, and up - up, to a world that might have ceased to exist for all you know.  Up to a place you no longer had much capacity to imagine at all.




And then there is light; and air carrying smells you cannot process; and all at once the cavern opens up; and you stumble with your Skaven handler into a world so bright you can make out nothing but white all around you, stinging your eyes and making them water; and Rashabang a few feet away.  His right paw, furthest from you rests on his belt, near one of his holstered pistols.

And the other pistol, on the hip closest to you...  Is just there.  With its holster unclipped, in a sudden moment of Rashabang's inattention, and disorientation; sunblind, like you.

That's what it is - it's the sun.

You're standing in the light of the sun.

*Spoiler: The Thirteen Scar*
Show

A deadly killer you had thought died has returned - and your last encounter has put you in his crosshairs.  In desperation, Rashabang is guiding you to flee up - a tunnel you may dare to hope leads to the surface.

It's not possible to fight such an enemy; just barely possible to escape.  How does Mey-la, Nameless, Nee-Ruh-Kaha gain a thirteenth and final scar as she is fleeing for an exhausting hour through narrow, awful tunnels towards the surface?  Does she strike herself on the rocks?  Does she catch a gutter-runner's shuriken to the shoulderblade?  Does Rashabang inflict it, as he drives you before him?

This is it - time to break free, and get away. But before that, you need to decide how to escape.  You can run blind; you can go for the gun; you can try something else, if you think of it. 
 But I've deliberately chosen to give you very little surrounding detail, while you're sunblind.  If you could end your as you make your break, or pull a trigger, or otherwise try to incite your escape, I'll cap it off with your 13th scar and we'll be rocking and rolling.

----------


## BananaPhone

Nameless



The initial walk had been the first thing that had aroused Nameless' suspicion - you did not last as long as a skaven slave as she had without being either a favoured pet, or developing a strong Sixth Sense. Nameless, apparently, had both, as even when Rashabang had directed their little enoutrage forward the human peered around at her situation with a sceptical eye. 

Where were the other non-skaven slaves? They were always around. Since arriving in their clutches, Nameless could not recall a single day when she had not been around others, be they man, goblin or some type of creature dragged in from the surface by the rat-men and, sadly, not long for this world. But now, here on this exercusion, she was the _only_ one. 

That was the first red flag. 

However, Rashabang's talking did at least partially set her at ease. She knew the Skaven didn't _love_ her, or anything as silly as that. But she believed, or maybe hoped, that he at least _liked_ her. Not on a personal level, but the way one might have a favoured dog among the bloodhounds, a special pet, if you will. She had the mind to understand things spoken to her on the first attempt, she never needed supervision in the workshop and she didn't cause any problems. Indeed, she had often been entrusted as a type of 'foreman', so to speak, over the other human slaves that came and went, her ability to communicate to them via body language, vocal tones and facial cues that the Skaven could not detect, had proven invaluable. And perhaps it was for this reason that she was the lone human pet brought along to Rashabang's new venture. 

If she understood it correctly, he had drawn a favourable eye while at the black ritual they had attended months prior, and through that patron the aging Skaven was going to be setting up a new, larger and better workshop from which to ply his obsessive trade. 

However, as time went on, it became more apparent to Nameless that this would not be the case. Once again, that Sixth Sense of hers tingled at the back of her head when she observed the arguments between Rashabang and his new liaisons. She _knew_ how to read between the lines of the Skaven verbiage, she knew what little cues to look for on their facial mask and movements, the gesticulations the rat-men exhibited under duress and when plying deception. She knew something wasn't right.

That was why when the first shuriken hissed through the air and slammed into the rat-slave beside her, Nameless was already movement. 

*"Kill-kill!"* Rashabang's voice hissed over the chaos, the rat-man seemingly _allowing_ Nameless to escape with him. He could have tripped her at any point, stabbed her in the leg or sent her off in a different direction, anything to buy himself a couple of seconds by placing her between himself and the murderous enemy rats. 

But he didn't. 

He let her escape with him. 

As the tunnel air shot into Nameless's lugs and she took flight with Rashabang, her long legs enabling her to keep pace with the usually spry and swift-moving skaven while staying far enough ahead from those in pursuit, Nameless _felt it_. A sharp, slicing pain bit into the trap to the left side of her neck, the bite of steel into flesh as her eyes widened in both surprise, but then panic, as she continued to flee. 

Grasping at her left shoulder, the human whined as she tore something out of her hair - a knife! A slender, surprisingly well made knife, no doubt built for aerodynamics and best employed by hurling it at a target. But - her hair! Nameless would have laughed right there had all her energy not been focused on flight, but her hair! The assassin must have been quite some distance away already when he had first taken aim and hurled the weapon at him, for by the time it passed through the air it had lost most of its kinetic energy, so that when he had impacted against her from behind, it had become entangled in her clumped hair and only  inflicted minor cuts to the left side of her neck, where the tissue met the trap of her shoulder. 

Further inspection of the blade while she ran confirmed her second biggest fear: it was _not_ poisoned. Nameless knew the scent by now, and the visual hints. That meant this was a secondary weapon, a back-up. 

Nameless grinned as she ran, staring at that knife and tucking it away. She wanted to laugh right there on the spot, to double over, catch her breath and praise whatever force in this world that had looked out for her a third time. But such celebrations would have to come later, as Rashabang hefted along before her and the tunnel expanded as the humans long legs carried her as fast as they could move. 

oOo

Down in the tunnels, the rat-men had the advantage in senses. They needed less light to see clearly, and it took a considerable time for their human slaves to adapt, if they ever did at all. Nameless had done so, her eyes becoming quite keen and used to the dim interior as she had been forced to adapt during her physical development. But the basal level of human toleration for light had never gone away. Nothing made that more clear than when Rashabang and Nameless emerged up onto the surface world and the sun blasted both of their eyesight with pitiless, purifying light. IT were as if the filfth of the fetid pits from whence they came needed to be seared from their eyeballs and scortched from their flesh, for the brightness that smothered them caused master and pet to keel over, grasping at their eyes in a useless attempt to rub the sun away.

But as considered, the basal level of human toleration had never gone away. It had just remained dormant, waiting for the time when it was needed. And that time, most certainly, was now. 

Nameless' eyes adapted before Rashabang. The human blinked, squinting against that blasted sun as she cast her vision across the boreal valley that swept out before them, her nervous system seized for a moment by the green and blue beauty that was before her. The air was clean. Birds could be heard among the trees. A gentle breeze kissed her skin that had not seen the blessed surface for almost a decade. 

But where Nameless found rebirth into beauty, Rashabang hissed in frustration as he still rubbed at his eyes. 

And that's when Nameless spotted his pistol, the strap on the holster unclipped. 

Time seemed to slow down once more for the human, her adapted eyes looking at what might be her sole opportunity for escape. But she couldn't...could she? Rashabang...if there was any_thing_ in this world that filled the role of a father, it was him. As depressing and perverse as that sounded. He had not been kind to her. Not directly anyway. He had been kind in what he had _not done_. He hadn't beat her, he'd never raised his fists at her, nor directed others to do so. He had even given her jobs of responsibility, which meant less lethality, and had shown her favour at times. Though the cruelty of the Skaven had been a fixture of her life thusfar, Rashabang had been also, and he had almost been like a talisman for the human girl, before which the expected sadism and violence of the Skaven had dispersed around her and flowed onto other slaves instead. 

Even now, they stood upon the surface, safe from assassins, her being there the result of that indirect kindness. She knew he didn't _love_ her or any such silly thing, but as she had reminisced upon before, he did favour her. She was a favourite pet. 

She couldn't kill him in his moment of paralysis, could she? Reward his preservation of her life with murderous treachery?

Nameless drew her furthest hand to her hip, where she had stored the knife from before. Silently, she withdrew it, her eyes always on Rashabang. The aging rat was spluttering, rubbign his little clawed hands at his eyes, his whiskers twitching as he glared at the scene before them through grainy slitted eyelids. 

Time was running short. She only had a couple of seconds. The ear! Right through the ear and into the brain. Death would be instant. One moment he would be viewing the surface and its beauty, the next would be the blackness of death and the peace of the grave. 

_That_ was the mercy she could return to him, a gratitude she could show him. Even as they stood there on the surface, Nameless knew that this was the end of the line for Rashabang. His flight had only prolonged his enemies desired fate for him, as it was clear he had been betrayed by the patrons who oversaw the part of the Under Empire that was far beneath their feet. They would send agents after him. He, an aging, mechanically-inclined rat who had not been on the surface for decades, fleeing through these forests? How far would he get before those assassins caught up with him? Or something else? Where would he go? He was alone. No slaves, no support, no help, and wanted in this region. It was only a matter of time before the murderous rats caught up with him and either brutally killed him or hauled him away for torture. Alternatively, he would succumb to the elements, starve to death or something else within the forest would bring about his end.

It was only really just dawning on Nameless, like a weight in her chest, that this really was as far as Rashabang would go. Beyond the next few seconds was only delaying the inevitable.

Right now. That knife through his ear. End it swiftly. Thank his indirect kindness with another indirect kindness. 

Nameless gripped the hilt of the knife, her lips pursed, a tear in her eye, as Rashabang nodded once, _"let's go-go_ and stepped forward. 

_"Ugh!"_

Nameless' eyes widened. 

Rashabang reached into his coat, underneath his armor. He felt around, exhaled, withdrew his little clawed hand. 

Blood!

And not just blood, but Nameless could see the tiny green droplets suspended within the humors. One of the assassins poisoned knives had found him. 

Rashabang stumbled forward, as Nameless quickly threw her knife behind her and rushed to the Skavens side, her hands on his shoulders, trying to steady him. Mere seconds ago she was preparing to knife him in the brain, but now she didn't want him to go. The physical exercion of their flight had only expediated the venoms passage through the circulatory system, its final result possibly only held at bay by the adrenaline that had initially carried it through. 

The Skaven tumbled forward, rolling clumsily and landing heavily on his back. His left leg kicked, his right arm and had spasmed and in his final look he beheld his favoured pet looking down at him with tears in her eyes before stillness set in. He was gone. 

Nameless had become desensitised to death even at her early age, but she still stared at that image. The aged, closest thing to a father she had now lay before her, his spirit off to whatever fate awaited his kind in the afterlife, if there was such a thing. Her vision blurred, her nose sniffled and she choked a single sob as both hands came to cover her mouth. 

He was gone. She was free.

oOo
Nameless had no taken too long to linger at the mouth of the cave. She did not think the assassins would given flight too far, as long as they didn't have reason to. 

Her stature came in hand as Nameless dragged-carried Rashabang's body away from the cave entrance and deeper into the forest. She walked for what felt like several miles while she rubber-necked at her surroundings, sometimes even taking the time to run her hand along the bark and soft leaves of the beautiful vegetation. Even her feet, used to the soft-hard tunnels of the Skaven Under Empire, found traversing the forest floor a new and cathartic experience.

When she found a proper spot, Nameless stopped. Using her hands she dug a little ditch into the soft earth, several feet down. Into that pit she pushed Rashabang's body, and quickly covered it up. Naturally, she had taken everything off of him first, as it sat in a pile off to the side. Standing above his impromptu grave, still unable to believe he was gone and she was here. She had never attended a death ritual before, nor had any real concept of them to begin with, but standing there above that grave, she felt compelled to utter their last words together.

"Thank you."

oOo
Nameless had taken everything from Rashabang's body, even most of his clothes. As a slave, she had rags that barely covered her, rotting bits of cloth that were damp and sticky even to the touch. Rashabang's, as a Skaven of wealth and some position and influence, had _far_ nicer materials. She took his guns. She took his whip. She took his armor. She even searched for any scrolls and wallet-pouches of warptokens he was carrying on him, particularly as he had been dressed and stock for an entire move. 

Once she had gathered these things, she changed clothes. Rashabang's were not a perfect fit, indeed they were a bit awkward, but they were nicer linen and would do for now. 

Having changed in the forest, the human girl continued on her way, drawn to the sounds of water where she rushed to meet the aqua liquid. Grinning at the first sight of a running stream, Nameless first put her hand into it, its cool, gentle texture across her hand causing her to softly sigh at the touch. Wasting no time, she stripped and bathed, washing her hair, her teeth and her mouth and for the first time seeing _herself_ in a reflective pool: her image, her face, _who_ she was. The face that looked back at her when she stared into that reflective water was...nice. She grinned. A genuine, warm grin. A thin scar over one eye. Three smaller ones on a cheek. But the teenager looked nice. 

For the first time in a decade she laughed, swimming in that water. Washing her tall figure and running her hands through her hair, she laughed.

----------


## MrAbdiel

You could not _remember_ tasting water so clean.  Your instincts demanded you gorge yourself on it until you threw some of it up on the bank, then rinsed with it to clear away the taste.  Your eyes were finally adjusted, now; but so many years in the dark had taught you to expect danger from deeper shadows.  In a sunlit world, everything was suspicious - but also beautiful.  The forest floor was a bed of golden brown foliage.  The trees - the first trees you'd seen since the snow-dusted pines in Norsca - were short, thick, and... somehow _happy_ looking.  And the sky was so clear and blue you could scarcely believe such a color was real.  No wonder the other slaves died while you survived - had you grown up in a world like this, you might have died rather than endure, too.

You wash the better part of the filth from your skin, and some from your tangled and now bloodied hair.  The wound on behind you is hardly accessible; and moving your arm too much stresses and opens it, causing it to bleed more; so you try to be delicate.  You've come so far, now - you cannot die from something so small.

But when you turn back to the bank to dress again... the pile of possessions you had laid in a careful bundle by a stubby green shrub is gone.  All that remains is the crumpled heap of your bloody and cut rags; and the  winking, crooked steel of the throwing knife that had not managed to find your heart.  Dribbles of blood lead from the spot back between the trees; back... to the hand dug grave for the strange sponsor who had brought you here; the least-evil rat you had known.  The earth is rumpled and shifted; and sifting it you, find no body within at all.

Was the old bastard faking?  Had he taking a wound less lethal than he acted, fearing you would have shown him less mercy if he were more hale?  Had he received a second wind of desperation and claws his way out of his own grave?  Had something else snuck through while you were washing, and taken your prizes and the body in its wake?  No answers presented themselves; and the blood-drop track dies quickly up as it crosses the stream.

Well.  If Rashabang did beat the odds - ...Good.  So had you.  The gutter-runners would be swarming around the cave mouth, now; and if you had left him there, he would be taken.  Perhaps you had saved each other.  Perhaps that's enough.  With nothing but the rags on your back and a single, awkward knife in your grip, you look up at the shafts of light piercing through the canopy above.

You are hungry, and alone, and cut, and lost.

But you are free.

*Spoiler: OOC:*
Show

The Thirteenth Scar - The Price of Freedom - Shallow Cut over the left trapezius muscle.

*You gain the Nightvision Talent.  This one's a freebie.*

You have *15 out of 17 wounds remaining.*
You gain 1 Rags (Poor Quality).
You gain 1 Throwing Knife (Poor Quality).

Press X to repeat this tutorial.  You can access it later in the game through the _Memories Portal._

----------


## MrAbdiel

The Power of One
_Part 1 - "In Sterquiliniis Invenitur"


Chapter 1 - Free_

You stand in a light forest - the first of its kind you have ever been in.  A stream of apparently fresh water runs nearby, and you have had your fill of it - sweet, fresh, clear water.  You regret not having a way to carry it with you.  The cut on your back has stopped bleeding, for now; but the dull ache of it vanishes in the adrenal thrill of being able, for the first time ever, to choose which way you should go, and what you should do - however dangerous those things are, or unprepared for them you may be.  You have the rags on your back, and a small knife in your hand designed for throwing - but it's sharp, atleast.  You know if you strike back through the trees away from the stream, you'll soon come to the rat-hole from which you and Rashabang had emerged.  That seems like a bad idea - the gutter runners may be there.

You could follow the water downstream, or head upstream towards its source; or else try to cross it, and see what is on the other side.  But without knowing how deep the water is, or what lurks in it ... that contains a risk of its own.

*Spoiler: OOC:*
Show

Game on!  It's strictly speaking about midday, but Nameless doesn't have a solid grasp of day/night cycles, and even the fear of cold that comes in the evening. You've been living on slave-time - nature's time is something you'll have to get used to.  But you can certainly decide whether you want to go upstream, downstream, or try to cross the stream - or something else, as you prefer.  You're hungry, but not starving; the grisly, root-and-cartilage based slave rations in your stomach will last a little longer before your gut begins to ache.

Where shall you go?

----------


## BananaPhone

Nameless

The loss of the guns and whip and the nice linen was a great loss, but Nameless could not sit on her laurels. Now somewhat paranoid about who might be watching her, the human took the time to quickly wash the rags she had before donning them, as she gripped her knife and looked at the various directions available to her. 

Back to the cave was the path of madness. She wasn't going back there any time soon. 

Up stream would...she squinted into the yonder, lead to mountains, she believed they were called. Enormous jags that spired up into the sky and wore coats of snow and dotted forests. No, she didn't want to go there for now.

That left one option: down-stream. 

Skaven settlements had their own little rivers and creeks too, as the Skaven did need sustenance. Though their water was foul, putrid and poorly maintained, it should follow the same principle that settlements were dotted along rivers and lakes, with access to beautiful water like this. 

Her eyes all about her, inhaling that fresh pine scent, Nameless moved up onto the bank of the river and followed the path in wonderment of where it would take her...

----------


## MrAbdiel

As you proceed, your paranoia peaks and drops.  You have never been in a place _less_ dangerous than this seems to be.  Not so much as a large animal crosses your path; and the dark feathered songbirds in the trees seem to have little fear of you.  They perch, and watch you, and whistle their opinions to each other.  Perhaps they, like almost everyone else you have met in your life, have conspiracies of their own.

The stream winds, and widens a little, then narrows and continues narrowing; still definitely wide enough that it seems a bad idea to  wade into the water as it runs.  Fish with shining silver scales and slim rose-hued fins zip downstream past you, in threes and fours. You walk, keeping your wits about you; resting when _you_ want to, keeping your own schedule.  But soon the sun in the sky has made its move, progressing across the sky away from the length of the stream; and the sky begins to change colors.  You have not seen a sunset in a long time; and you are reminded that one of the small virtues of the underempire is the all pervading warmth of the deep places of the earth.  It will be _night_, soon; and with night, you know, comes cold; and likely a need for shelter.

*Spoiler: OOC!*
Show

Time for the first rolls of the game!

Give me three rolls:

A hearing based Perception check.
A sight based Perception check.
And an Outdoor Survival check - naturally at half int, on account of lacking the skill.

----------


## MrAbdiel

Your night eyes are good, but daylight is better - just the ability to see if long distances and not encounter gloom or tunnel corners is refreshing and new, and these hours, you decide, ought to be spent in an effort at foraging both for something to eat and a place to rest.

Your first effort is to follow the birds.  Birds have nests, and perhaps eggs; but there are too many of them, too scattered, for your eats to track any to nests.  The ones you're able to follow are the peering, conversational voyeurs who reveal nothing; and are beyond your equipped ability to catch.  You make an effort to try to nab a fish, too; leaning over the edge of the stream, even calf deep in it; trying to snatch with your hands and stab with your knife; but the effort is for nought.

Pacing the immediate area looking for a place to rest in relative safety, your eyes do come across something unusual.  First it seems to be a small rock, barely worth noticing - but it rests in the elbow of a curled tree root, and the contrast of the loose object to the bark draws you closer.  It's not much, once you pluck it into your palm and look over it; apparently, a snarl of dried plant roots no bigger than your smallest finger.  But the natural knotting of the roots have formed an odd shape - a clear semblance of a closed first, with index and middle fingers up, crossed.  It strikes you as significant, somehow; and you have no trouble binding it up in one of the tattered flaps of your rags.

*Spoiler: OOC:*
Show

You're going to be hungry, tonight - we'll roll that soon.  But you do gain* 1 Lucky Charm.*


As the sky shifts from blue to dark blue to black-blue above you, your search for shelter seems to pay off - the earth beside the stream here rises up into a tree-capped hillock, and in its side beneath an arch of roots is an entrance to an earthen cave that certainly would avoid much of the night's chilling wind.  A mucky, cloying odor wafts from within - perhaps something has died, within - but it might be worth chancing for the shelter alone.

*Spoiler: OOC:*
Show

Want to investigate the cave, or take your chances spending your first night above ground more exposed?

----------


## BananaPhone

Nameless

Though the hunger stirred within her belly, Nameless found it impossible to be angry. She walked along that bank, the blue river flowing beside her, the sweet chorus of nature her sole companion as she wandered in the cradle of surface beauty. To think such a place was even possible after dwelling within the bowels of the earth for so long, a verdant paradise of trees, birds and water and that she might walk among it for even a moment, let alone the rest of her life. 

Pursing her lips, nodding and drawing in that clean, pine-scented air, Nameless determined that should the gutter runners come for her, she'd go down swinging. There was no chance she would return to that pit in the ground, no second longer she would endure the custody and bondage of the ratmen. She was born on the surface and she would die on the surface. 

It was during this rumination that Nameless' attention was drawn up to the branches above her, the offshoots of the tree trunks that swayed gently like fans with bodies of green leaves catching the wind. It was a beautiful image in and of itself, but dotted through the foliage were black birds, their feathers catching the light of the sun as their heads jerked about in sharp and sudden movements. One cawed. Another returned. Those black eyes peering and beholding, before dark wings spread and the animals took flight as a murder. 

Grinning at what she saw, Nameless held up her right hand and scooped it through the air, index finer an thumb outstretched to mimic the image of a bird soaring through the wind. To be up there, with wings, choosing where to go and when to leave, the ultimate freedom. 

When nightfall crept across the pinetops of the forest, Nameless was peering curiously at the fist-shaped root she had retrieved, her eyes narrowed and brow furrowed in contemplation. 

Bah! She would figure it out later. Perhaps it would bring her luck. Or maybe someone would trade her something for it. Or maybe the ability exchange it for food and clothes _was_ the luck?

Seeing that cave buried into the roots of the tree, Nameless smiled and entered, having no qualms about the scent. It wasn't any worse than where she came from. And this was _her_ cave.

----------


## MrAbdiel

You wander in; the earth soft and mossy beneath your feet.  It's not a deep cave - maybe thirty feet in, before it hooks left for a slow curve of another thirty to a final corner.  There are small bones, littered about; but no large ones, which is comforting.  If whatever lived here dined on small creatures, it could not be so dangerous.

Or so one might think.  The stench grows more ripe as you venture in - but then you hear the rhythmic breathing as you reach the last corner.  Cautiously, you poke your head around the earthen corner.

Reclining in a dried mudpit, sleeping with inapproachable peace of mind, is a monster.  It's as big - perhaps bigger - than the rat ogres you once had to feed; covered head to toe in grey-blue rubbery skin, with webbing between its fingers and toes.  Warm, reeking air rolls off it as it snoozes; and seeing it, with its huge tusks and teeth, you conclude that the reason there are small bones scattered about is because such a creature must _eat_ the big bones; and the small ones are merely those that slip from its clumsy hands.

The little knife in your hand feels pitifully small, against such a monstrosity - you feel supremely unconfident on delivering a killing blow against such a thing, even as it sleeps.

But there is detritus, scattered nearby it.  Perhaps... it has left more than tiny bones.  Perhaps, something that could be of use.

*Spoiler: OOC*
Show

Wuh-oh.

Your choice.  If you want to retreat from this place right away, give me a Silent Movement roll at +20%.

If you want to search around the den on your tiptoes before you sneak out, give me a Silent Movement roll at +0%.

Heads up - fate points refresh after an IC night's rest.  Don't be afraid to use 'em.

EDIT:  You may, of course, attempt to solo the troll.

----------


## BananaPhone

Nameless


Nameless stood there, feet compressing against the soft mud, her eyes as wide as nickels as she beheld that...thing.

She backed up immediately and left the cave. She then walked quite quickly along the river bank, her body given wings and any sense of duress from the elements oddly supressed.

----------


## MrAbdiel

It's probably best you spotted the cave and investigated it - you dare not imagine what might have happened if you hadn't, and had instead just camped nearby, within its hunting ground.

With careful steps, you extricate yourself from the cave without waking the beast - and then once outside, make haste away from the den.

When the adrenaline wears off, you find the next best shelter you can - a hollow log, easilly enough swept of bugs - and curl up inside. It's not much less comfortable than the stony floor of your old cell, and the cold night wind still reaches out to chill your skin; but after the flight from the assassins, and the travel through the woods, and the brush with the monster back there, you are so, so tired.

*Spoiler: OOC:*
Show

It's not the safest option, but it might have to do.  If you want to stay awake through the night so not to become vulnerable, you can do so - You'll take an accruable -10% to all tests that might be impacted by fatigue, and you'll be able to roll me a* Perception test (+0%)*.

If you'd like to take your chances and sleep, you take no penalty; and need make no perception test.

Either way, give me a *Toughness Test (+20%)* to avoid infection on your wound.  Your resistance to disease does apply.

----------


## BananaPhone

Nameless

With the night chewing at her skin, Nameless could not help but drift off to sleep. She had been awake for longer than 24 hours, survived a deadly encountered with gutter runners, watched her surrogate father die, buried him, barely avoided an encounter with a troll and won her freedom. It had been a long day. 

To sleep...perchance to _dream_!

----------


## MrAbdiel

*Spoiler: You Dream.*
Show

_The rats, in their grand throng; in their unholy place.  They dance, they caper; you at the fringes, try to get away up through a tunnel in the ceiling... but it's too slippery, and you slide back down.  Furry clawed hands grab your ankles, and your wrists, and pass you over the top of their mob down the pit, down the layers of the assembled creatures, down to the pit of blood and slit throat corpses.  One of them grips your hair; you feel a flash of heat on your throat..._


You wake.  The world melts back into your senses.  You are above ground.  You ran.  You escaped.  Rashabang died - or atleast, fell, and fled, perhaps to curl up and die somewhere else.  But you're here.  You're alive.  You're free.  A shard of sunlight is cutting through a crack in the log, warming your neck; providing the phantom sensation from your dream.  You brush some curious ants and beetles off your skin and pull yourself free of the log, stretching and taking in the breeze of another mild, and quiet day under the sun.  You drink from the stream.  You feel your stomach growl.

Your first day free taught you that preferable as it is to be up here, you are not yet safe.  Perhaps, today, you will get a little closer to leveraging freedom towards safety.

*Spoiler: OOC:*
Show

It was a chilly night, but you warm as the morning comes; and your wound doesn't seem to be getting infected.  Recover one wound from the night's rest.

What now?  Upstream from you is the troll cave; downstream a mystery.  Away from the stream, away from the  mountains and the rising sun, deeper woods - but woods without a stream of water, your one precious discovery so far.

Do you want to keep travelling, or try your luck spending a chunk of the day foraging?  You aren't particularly skilled in it - but there's no way to succeed at it without rolling!

----------


## BananaPhone

Nameless

Nameless woke up and dragged herself from the wooden confines of the log, her little protective cylinder having been her first bed as a free woman. Or girl. She didn't know the difference. 

Nor did care! Her stomach growled, but she had been hungry before. She had awoken when she wanted to. She stood and looked out upon the beautiful morning of light and sunshine cresting the pine-tops and filling the valley, reflecting off the stream and warmly kissing her skin. 

She smiled. 

Setting herself to the task of continued travel, Nameless returned to the riverbank and once more continued down its length. To venture into the unknown woods was perilous. The water was her source of life and cleanliness. If she wandered off and got lost in the pines, then she would be dead within days. Best stick to the river.

----------


## MrAbdiel

Pine might very well be the only tree whose name you know - but as you observe while travelling, the trees here are very different to those in the far north.  There are some with that familiar _scent_, but not the steepling shape; they weave narrow trunks into the air and then a haphazard balloon of branches and needles near the top.  And other trees all around are different entirely, with all kinds of shapes of leaves.  But they appear, atleast, to be in regrowth; healthy and surging with life, having recovered from a great abandonment of leaves which crunch soft under your feet.

A couple of hours of travel following the stream takes you, finally, to something new:

Some kind of campsite, here; modest, or even poor; but someone has dwelled here.  A rickety tent made of scrubby, badly skived hides stretched over branches leaning in a pyramid formation sits in front of a circle of stones, surrounding a pit of ash.  A cluster of fish bones, and a pair of chewed-on fish heads, lie discarded in the fire pit.  The ground around the tent looks to have been purposefully cleared - and there's no sign or sound of its owner, or owners.

*Spoiler: OOC:*
Show

Gadzooks!  Signs of life!

Give me a Search check (+20%, for the fine and fair conditions) to scour around the campsite for useful things.
Give me also a visual perception check, at flat, to keep an eye out.

----------


## BananaPhone

Nameless


Nameless' ducked down instinctively when she saw the campsite, her fight or flight instincts kicking in immediately. Trying to hide herself in the bushes as best she could, the teenage waited for as long as curiosity would allow, before slowly emerging and cross the distance between herself and the cantonment.

Pursing her lips, eyes swiveling about as she remained sharp for wherever the owner of this place may be, the towering human slowly crept about on a hair-trigger, her knife in hand, but not yet wielded menacingly - rather just there, 'in case'.

She started by counting the number of bedrolls, followed by the number of used cooking utensils. That should give her a good indication of how many where here or nearby.

----------


## MrAbdiel

You pick through the camp site, doing your best to determine the occupants from what you find.

No utensils at all.  Cooking over this fire has been done by putting a stick into a fish's mouth and putting the fish over the fire.  No bedrolls - a heap of damp, moldy grass has been piled up inside the tent as ground matting.  It smells of sweat, and urine.  You have no tracking skill - but there are two rocks pulled up, beside the fire.  This tells you atleast two people use this camp at a time - though perhaps the rocks are for two keeping watch, while others sleep?  You can't say for sure.  But it doesn't look like an army has been here - a small group, for sure.

Searching in the immediate area, you find several different locations where dung is piled up until appalling little mounds.  But, fortunately, that's not all.

Behind the camp, shrouded by the big fan-shaped leaves of a tree-hugging vine is a heavy wooden trunk.  You can't imagine carrying it with you - or rather, you can, because forced labor has been your life - but you imaging it would be not much different to forced labor, and that isn't very inviting.  It is well made, though clearly the lid and sides have been viciously attacked and chipped with weapons in a clumsy attempt to open it.  A fat iron lock build into its front remains smugly fast; its keyhold stuffed with broken sticks from various idiotic attempts to pick it.  Lacking a way to open it yourself, after inspecting it, you cover it back up - but take note of the leafy vine behind which it hides.

In addition, behind the tent within arm's reach from beneath its rear face, you brush aside some of that matted grass and find a wooden 'lid', beneath which is a cavity dug in the ground. Nestled within it is a leather satchel; what once might have been a fine, rose stained bag before it has seen a great deal of irreverent use.  Within it are its owners few belongings they did not see fit to take with them, wherever they are - and judging by the faintest traces of heat in the fire pit, they left earlier today; and probably intend to come back.

Within, you find a length of firm, waterproof string wrapped around  a grooved wooden circle and a fist sized, leather pouch with a few compartments housing different J shaped hooks.  A handful of desiccated red mushrooms, wrapped in a torn square of cloth.  A necklace adorned with the small, cleaned skulls of birds, and rats.  Another leather pouch, this one containing seven copper coins embossed with symbols you don't recognize; each of those coins grimy with the obsessing fondling of dirty hands.  A leather bound tome, its title glittering in gold-leaf characters you never learned to decipher; half of its hand-inked pages torn out... perhaps for kindling?  A wooden pipe, engraved with a poorly rendered, abstract form of a busty woman gyrating in dance on one side.  Two worn stones of different shades, that seem to have been clashed together over and over.  A clay jug, with a cork stopper - out of which a desperate spider escapes and scuttles off, when you pop it open.  Finally, a scuffed brass tube engraved mysteriously, a little more than a hand long.  It has seams, and  ridges, and the marks of artifice - perhaps some kind of grenade?

Looking up from your find to make sure no one else has turned up to disturb you, you make a note that the the grass that leads away from this camp has some marks of wear from repeated travel.  This is the first 'path', or close to it, that leads away from the stream that you could theoretically follow away from this camp, or back to it.  It seems likely that whoever uses this camp frequently, perhaps daily, travels out that way.

*Spoiler*
Show

You_ can_ drag the chest around, if you want - but it's going to slow you right the hell down.  But you can take any or all of...

1 Slingbag
1 Handful of Mushrooms
1 Fishing Reel (Good Quality)
1 Animal Skull Necklace
2 Leather Pouches (Small)
1 Cloth Scrap
1 Book (damaged)
1 Wooden Pipe
1 Flint and Steel (Poor Quality)
1 Clay Jug (1 Gallon)
1 Brass Oddity
1 Large tent (Poor Quality)
7 Pennies

After that, you ought to decide what to do now.  You can continue following the stream; or you can follow the trail to see where it goes, and perhaps learn who you are stealing from... Or atleast what's worth leaving this stuff behind to seek after.

----------


## BananaPhone

Nameless


Nameless perused the makeshift campsite, her mind already piecing things together and forming a coherent story in her mind. At first, the idea of them returning and, potentially attacking her, was not desirable. However, by now the teenager had become desensitized to violence. She had seen plenty as a slave to the Skaven, not just from them but among her own collared kind. Being a girl of rather attractive features, she had had to fight off more than one mad or desperate creep that wanted some desperate relief from his suffering. Likewise, there had been the poison globe incident, and the other with the warpstone into the belly of that rat that had attacked her. She was not shy about violence. 

But she didn't want to attack these two fellows. From what she could gather, they were thieves, or brigands living on the fringe of society. They had stolen, or acquired, that well-made chest and that they had attempted to bash it open implied strongly that it was not theirs. Likewise, no cooking utensils, the barest of camping amenities, no real path to the camp and hidden away from a road. They were thieves, bandits most likely. At this point in her life, because she didn't know any better, Nameless did not begrudge them doing what they needed to do to survive. It was a world she knew well. But that leniency worked both ways, as all was fair in love and war and there was no honor among thieves. 

First, Nameless took those pennies, but she chose to redeposit them - underneath the stone that was furthest from the tent. That, she guessed, was the subordinates chair. She left one penny just poking out from underneath it, to ensure it would eventually be found. That would cause a...suspicious interaction between two desperate thieves, if her guess was right. 

Her second action was more elaborate. 

Gathering up those fish-heads, Nameless went and smeared them against that chest to get the smell into it. 

Then she left the camp. 

And headed back to the den of the River Troll. 

Along the way she placed the fish heads, however far enough it took. Just far enough to stretch the distance out, but not too close that she ran out of fish heads. The smell was repugnant, especially when the wind caught it and sent it blowing into the den of that Troll. But that's what she wanted. The troll could follow the strung out trail all the way back to that camp, to whoever resided there and to that locked chest. Believing it contained more goods inside, it was her hope the stupid creature would smash it open. 

Finally, she washed her hands in the river to rid the scent from herself, before she returned to the camp, and climbed a tree a safe distance away. Perched up in her little hide-out among the leaves, she waited....

----------


## MrAbdiel

It's a pair of plans of not insignificant cunning.  A troll like that would have to be hungry; and would have to range a fair bit, to get enough food.  It might be dumb enough to crack open the chest - hopefully, it wasn't full of food, for that would defeat the purpose.  And it might even wipe out the campers... which would be sad, but also perhaps necessary.  And you lurk in your hiding place, waiting to see the fruit of your fragrant labor; morning turning to evening.

But you hear them, before you see them.  Shrill; giggling; self delighted; sneering and mocking voices whose words you don't understand but whose tones are as malicious and wicked as the rats who once kept you.  There are four of them, as they wander into the camp; green skinned; gangly; ugly; mean.  They might be as tall as men, if they weren't all hunched forward in a forever craven posture of scheming intensity.  They wear 'armor' made of crusty, untanned animal skins.  Two carry lumpy wooden cudgels; one a spear with a wooden head lashed to it; and one a miner's pick in contrastingly decent condition.  They're leading a horse which seems unhappy to be there; burdened with half a dozen bloated burlap sacks carried over its back.  The quartet of goblins unload the sacks into a pile beside their tent, one of them ties the reigns to the nearest tree.  Then they get about the business of settling in, for the night.

One goes to the bag, produces the fishing line, and starts foraging around the camp for bait.  Two gather sticks from clusters they've already accumulated nearby; and the fourth tears a couple of pages from the book in the bag, wadding them up and tossing them in the fire pit before he starts building the fire.  The first drama erupts when, apparently unilaterally, the one with the spear decides to stab the horse through the neck.  The creature screams and kicks; but as a domesticated creature, it is utterly at the mercy of its captors - something you cannot help but sympathise with.  As it strains against its tether and then sinks down in shock to die, the goblins gather in a rambunctious group to begin bullying the killer.  This, it seems, was not the plan; and they slap and shove and rebuke him until he is cringing and whining in a tone that suggests a protest of innocence.  Finally, the one with the pick takes a small, sharp knife from a ragged boot and forces it into the speargoblin's hands; standing punitively sentinel over the stabber while, apparently as punishment, he begins to roughly butcher the beast.

As this drama simmers down, there is a cry from one of the other goblins - he has discovered the poorly concealed penny, barks in irritation, checks the bag to confirm the theft and then hollers to gather the four around the now cracking fire.  Accusations fly.  The fisherman accuses the butcher.  The pickman seconds the accusation.  But then the butcher, cringingly, mounts some kind of cunning verbal defense that shifts suspicion back to the firestarter, who called the meeting to order in the first place.  The pickman seconds _this_ accusation also; the fisherman gets on board, and the butcher, almost hysterically delighted to have climbed up off the bottom rung of the pecking order, hops foot to foot and eggs the inquisition on.  The firestarter's defense does not convince; and soon, the other three are kicking the crap out of him.  He covers up and takes it like a champ rather than going for his club and defending himself with lethal force, suggesting this is not an uncommon sort of brutality roulette that they have all accepted; but soon the sullen, bruised and bleeding firestarter is charged with cooking the meagre fish that have been caught, and then a huge hunk of horse meat from the previous, now forgotten crime.

The smell of it cooking is _amazing._  You cannot remember the last time you had cooked meat or fish that was not cold, and chewed in tiny flakes from already picked bones.

*Spoiler: OOC:*
Show

Oops - it's goblins!  Four goblins it seems, though one has been beaten half to death already.  None of them are straying far from the camp, right now.

Also... It's been most of a day, and the troll hasn't shown up.  Perhaps it's... not that hungry?

What do you want to do?  Wait in your hiding place?  Try to sneak way?  Dive-bomb attack to die gloriously?

----------


## BananaPhone

Nameless

Nameless watched from a bit away and above, her eyes narrowing at the sight: goblins!

She had encountered plenty of the vile little beasts as slave for the Skaven, but none as free agents on their own in the wilderness. From her time around them, she had nothing good to say. They were just as vile, domineering and sadistic as the Skaven were, but weren't half as clever. Possessed of low-cunning, they were cowardly little sh*ts. 

But that horse. That made Nameless cover her mouth with her hands as it died. The relationship between man and horse was long, and something in that primordial symbiosis still lingered within Nameless as she felt her stomach sink at the sight of its demise. Even the subsequent infighting taking the goblins strength down by about 25% did not cheer her up. It only hardened her heart to them.

However, that cooking...

Nameless felt her tummy rumble again. She had never in the past decade smelled something as seductive as what was in that pot! How were the goblins able to cook that well? 

No matter. Nameless had to fight the urge. She _wanted_ to climb down, maybe sneak around and slit their throats in their sleep to steal that food. It would be worth the risk, she knew that. But...

That horse had screamed into the empty night air and thrashed about as it had died in what could doubtlessly be heard for miles.

Its belly had been slit, its meat carved up - its blood emanating its scent into the air.

And thirdly, that cooking. The scent was beyond incredible to the former slaves nostrils, but she knew the power of scent. She had cleaned the cages of enough rat ogres and fed them numerous times to gather an understanding of the power of such a smell to carry on the wind and lure. 

Besides, it would be the height of embarrassment to climb down now, only to have that troll come along in 15 minutes time.

No, she would wait. Steeling herself, Nameless leaned back against the tree trunk. She had waited a decade. What was another few hours?

Besides, if the goblins could walk a domesticated horse back to their camp within a day, that meant there was civilisation nearby. Hope!

----------


## MrAbdiel

The evening crawls on.

The goblins roast chunks of horse; gorge on them, rare and bloody; then roast more.  They eat, infact, until they are bloated; having stripped much of the meat off the neck, and ribs.  It makes sense - a beast of that size is more meat than four goblins however hungry can handle.  It will go bad before they get through it, so best to over-eat now, while it's fresh. You've eaten bad meat before - and only someone in that desperate situation would.  Strangely, they have not eaten the horse's legs.  These, carved off from the joints, are stacked to one side, in the blood pool of the equine massacre; perhaps for some other purpose.

With the stars winking down at you through the canopy of the tree, the night draws on - and still, the troll seems reluctant to appear even with this extra sensory provocation.  Perhaps it can't smell, over its own stench?  Perhaps it has already eaten?  The damn creature just seemed not  to be manifesting.

Firestarter and Butcher are left on guard duty, sitting on the rocks facing away from each other as two other goblins, snore away in the tent with full bellies.  Predictably, these two are not on speaking terms right now; they watch the dark around them with unusually grim determination, as if that might spite the other.


You are so focused on listening for the crash of a troll in the distance and keeping your eyes on the wretched goblin guards that you don't spot the new entrant into the camp until it's too late do even consider doing anything about it.

It's a man - older than you, but not old, certainly - with a shaggy mop of curly black hair, and a wispy beard that has not manifested in full strength yet.  You spot him because of his beige color tunic when it's picked out by the firelight; but by then he's managed to make his way right up to the camp.  He holds in his hands two wooden rods joined by a rope threaded through the end of each... and with a face full of some cocktail of anger and fear, he rushes into the camp from behind the tent.  _Butcher_, spear across his lap, blinks lazilly and turns just in time to do absolutely nothing as the flail clocks him in the upper left arm.  There is a crack of bone and a pitiful goblin caterwalling as he tumbles off his stone seat, yelping and wailing.  _Firestarter_, facing away from this incursion, looks over his shoulder in dumb shock at this arrival.  The two goblins in the tent simply moan; apparently too full of horse to respond quickly to an alarm even so pained, and urgent.

It's a good hit - but whatever this fellow's intentions, he is picking a fight he is likely to lose, once the other goblins get their act together.  The man is unarmored, and clearly inexpert.

But if _you_ intervene, you'll be... two unarmored, inexpert, outnumbered humans.  The odds would be better... but are they good enough, to risk for a stranger in the night?
*Spoiler: OOC:*
Show

P.S., I'm doing some of the rolling myself with a discord bot called Jodri, which is AMAZING for WFRPe stuff; so if you're wondering where some of the rolls are, they are there.  Can send screenshots if needed, but trust me bro.

If you want to join this combat, you'll need to roll initiative.

The Flailer's initiative is *9*.

The Goblins will be *(1d10+3)[9]*

_Butcher_ and _Firestarter_ will spend next turn surprised, still; Butcher's also managing a nasty crit, and Firestarter is already beat up.  _Pickman_ and _Fisherman_, incredibly, are still asleep - gorged on horsemeat, dreaming of that time they kicked the hell out of _Firestarter_ while he was wailing and yelping.

If Nameless is going to wait it out, give me merely a hide roll at +20 as the goblins are suddenly more alert of threats around them.

If she's going to dive in, you can either spend a turn climbing down and join combat the turn after, or risk it for the biscuit with a crazy jump-charge into the combat.  You'll make _Three_ consecutive agility checks, one for each three yards you're dropping into the combat.  If you fail any of them, you'll fall the remaining distance.  Pass or fail, I'll count it as a charge, and let you roll as if your charging attack had the impact quality.  Even if you twist your ankle and fall on your ass in the attempt.

And with that, it's time for me to go to bed! 

Edit: Flipped a coin for the Tiebreaker.

Round 1:

Flailer 9
Gobbos 9 (Surprised/Sleeping!)

----------


## BananaPhone

Nameless


Nameless watched, pursing her lips as she did so. Seeing the hooded man emerge out of the darkness in a whirring fury could mean only one thing: this man owned the dead horse. 

What other reason would he have for tracking them down and throwing himself heedless into the fight?

Swallowing, Nameless made a few calculations. 

If she helped him, he was her ticket to civilisation. If he was passionate enough to avenge a horse, chances are good he would show sympathy to her situation. Wouldn't he?

But doing so put herself at risk. If they didn't beat the goblins, they would surely have to at least flee. 

If she didn't help him, then she'd be stuck up here, waiting for a trap of her own making that wasn't appearing to spring. What's more, she _was_ getting hungry, and even if she waited for the goblins to leave and go about their day, she'd be running a strong risk of drawing their attention in the wild if she did manage to sneak away. 

Perhaps her best chance was with him. 

Nameless quickly moved and scurried down the tree, her knife soon in hand as she came up upon the camp of goblins fighting the human, the darkness still cloaking her.

----------


## MrAbdiel

While you shimmy down the tree, the flail-wielding avenger continues his rampage.  He is not especially strong looking; and has no grace, or _élan_ in his movements.  You have only foggy memories of playing at war with boys from the village in the north; but even you can see there is no soldier in him.  The weapon he is using is plain, unvarnished wood; not bloodstained, or capped with metal.  A tool designed for something other than killing.  It's awkward for him to heft as he moves, with big overhead chopping-swings and not a drop of the mock-swordplay that a girl named Mey-la once possessed - and a mile from the liquid steel _murder_ in the movements of the skaven killer-caste.

But hot-damn, if it's not a little impressive; the lad has caught them napping, and snuck up, and left one braying in the dust with a ruined arm that squirts blood from the ruptured green skin.  And then,  staggering in his stride but resetting his blow, he plows on forth and swings the flail again - this time at _Firestarter_, who throws himself forward off his stone into the dust to avoid the blow.  But not far enough - the flail's head cracks down on the goblin's calf, breaks a bone through the skin, and now two of them are screaming and bleeding.

_Butcher,_ one ruined arm flopping at his side, scrambles to the tent and starts jabbing the sleepers with the butt of his spear.  They start and bleat, fumbling blearily for their weapons.

*Spoiler: OOC Round 2 Outcome*
Show

The Flailer charges again, and wonks the pre-tenderized goblin *Firestarter* for enough damage to crit his leg, leaving him helpless!

Goblins recover from surprise.  _Butcher_ spends his turn jabbing _Fisherman_ and _Pickman_ awake.  They are prone, and not yet armed.

At Initiative 10, Nameless begins Round Three.  All targets are theoretically within charge distance.

----------


## BananaPhone

Nameless


Nameless pursed her lips and swallowed as she watched it unfold, something coiling up within her as she took half a second to watch. 

In the pits of the skaven, she could never come to a fellow humans defense, no matter how much she felt instinct compel her to do so. But here? Something stirred within her.

*"Ahhh!!"* her banshee scream ripped through the clearing as she barrelled forward, her towering figure ploughing through the foliage and blasting aside any of the weak shrubbery that stood between her and the nearest goblin - one of the sleepers.

----------


## MrAbdiel

You have fought, before. You have killed, before.  You have striven for your life amidst the chaos of a battle, before.  But for the first time, you let loose with no reservation - there are no masters to think about, who will shovel you to the rat-ogres or send you back to your cell when it's over.  There is no one here, whom you do not intend to kill, who will accuse you and see you thrown into a pit of corpses with your throat cut.  There is you, and the enemy; perhaps an ally too.  And then there is the wide, wide forest; the only uninvolved witness to the battle, and your part in it.

The stranger with the flail takes a backward step, lifting his flail in an awkward block as if he expects you to fall upon _him_ in your wrath.  But you blow by him in your charge, using the weight of your body to shoulder-check into _Butcher_'s ruined side. You swing wild at his face, and he leans away from it; but you bring the knife in your grip down into the meat of his thigh as he totters and _wrench_ it back.  The bloody gouge spurts unwholesome black-red blood; and flopping backwards, he wails and begins crawling away from you.  The two in the tent - _Fisherman, and Pickman_, are finally on their feet, now; club in the hand of the former, pick in the hands of the latter; and they menace you, looking for a moment to attack this wild, frightening new assailant.

*Spoiler: Round 3 Resolution!*
Show

Stranger with the Flail steps back and takes a parry stance.  Butcher and Firestarter are now both bleeding, and helpless.  The other two stand and ready weapons, but can't attack right away. 
 Your move!  Strike and parry stance, you suggested before.  Still want to go with that? Or All Out Attack in hopes to reduce the enemy from 2 to 1?

----------


## MrAbdiel

You lash out with your closed fist and feel it clock hard into the bony skull of the pick-wielding goblin.  He reels, but the blow almost seems to focus him - suddenly, now that he's the one suffering, he can take you as a credible danger.  He and his club brandishing offsider face off with you together; they make tentative swipes and moves, but neither is bold enough to commit to an attack that would forbid them an chance to defence themselves against your looming blows.

The stranger, watching this duel unfold, seems to gather his wits; recognizing, finally, that you are very much focused on his enemy.

_Firestarter_ stops crawling and wailing, now.  His torments, at least in this world, are over forever.

*Spoiler: OOC Round 4 Resolution!*
Show

Pickman takes 4 wounds!  Firestarter finishes bleeding; Butcher continues.  The stranger seems to conclude which side you are on, and will rejoin the combat in the following round. The upright goblins miss you, but take parrying stances!

----------


## MrAbdiel

With two of them harassing you, you are in danger of getting flanked; and you skitter back on the calloused balls of your feet as they menace forward, making warding strikes but finding no purchase.  _Pickman_ makes a move to get around your side, but the stranger finds his decision and charges in again - a mighty blow but one his opponent, this time, is ready for.  The goblin sneers and dodges - but now, atleast, you're shoulder to shoulder with someone fighting with you.  This, too, is a novel experience.

As if intending to enhance the drama of the moment, the forest goes quiet except for your collected breath.  The other wounded goblin has fallen silent.

*Spoiler: OOC: Round 5 Result!*
Show

It's a wash - lots of misses, this round.

Time to experiment a little to see if we can speed things up.  Let's try double turns - each turn you take two turns, as does your enemy, just for PBP sake.  I'll be generous with it - if the enemy crits you harshly in their turn 1, I'll let you reconfigure what might have been your projected more cavalier turn 2; but in an early game with a lot of whiffs and parries, running two turns-a-turn might be the go. 
 So make two turns worth of actions, and I'll do so, and I'll resolve them as if they happened in a normal turn-by-turn sequence.

----------


## BananaPhone

Nameless

Nameless' heart thumped inside her chest as she swiped, her little knife finding flesh, but dodged back out of the way of returning swipes. 

The adrenaline pumping in her blood, the life and death situation...it was _intoxicating_. After such a miserable existence, Nameless felt _alive_.

Turning and shooting a glance at the fellow human, a temporary understanding between them, Nameless moved to the side, moving in to swipe and parry...

----------


## MrAbdiel

Together, goblins and humans enact their microcosm of the battle that has played out since beyond the history of either: greenskins and man, warring for the fate of the surface world.  Given these more even odds, you naturally pair off into two duels; _Pickman_ at you, _Fisherman_ at the stranger.  For him, fighting the creatures one-on-one seems to go well - they struggle back and forth in a weapon bind with club and flail before the goblin, in a display of strange irony, trips when his heel strikes the hoof of the massacre'd horse; one of the stacked, cold legs projecting just enough into his backstep to make him vulnerable to a punishing down-strike that crushes the goblin's hips and leaves his screaming, bleeding, and dying.

Your luck is more mixed.  You are careful not to overcommit yourself, trying to keep mobile; and your manage to strike out again and land a bleeding slice that carves through the goblin's wretched armor and into its chest.  But the attack costs you an opening; and this time, the cretin exploits it well - tricking you into dodging back in time with a lunging blow that punches the spike of the pick _into_ your bicep and out the other side.  In a burst of instinct and adrenaline, you shove off the weapon before the goblin has a chance to twist it and cause even more damage - but the pain his hideous, and the blood pours out of your upper arm from both sides.

Still, trading the knife to your other hand, you are still upright - and so is your ally.  This goblin, slashed and battered, is all alone.

*Spoiler: OOC!*
Show

Alas!  A parry to no avail - he lands a whopper of a hit: 12 wounds to the right arm; 8 off your total, after your toughness reduction.  Now you outnumber the last goblin 2 to 1, for another +10% to hit.  Take two turns and finish the bugger off before he gets lucky again!

----------


## BananaPhone

Nameless

What was it that she felt rush through her body?

Other than mauling, brutal pain as her arm was pierced through? 

Hatred. Sheer, bright hot hatred. 

Screaming a mix of agony and fury, Nameless battered away the pick-axe with one hand and lunged forward - her small throwing knife driving straight into the creatures eye as she tumbled down on top of it. Tears blurred her vision, hot pulsing blood beat through her head as she withdrew that weapon and hammered furiously at its neck and its chest - deliberately striking the parts where she could puncture the lungs and sever the arteries so that it would choke to death on it sown blood beneath her.

----------


## MrAbdiel

You lunge, and stab, and stab again; until your whole body feels leaden and exhausted and your brain tells you that the messy of green skin and gore beneath your hands has been dead for a superfluous thirty seconds.  As your senses come back to you and you begin again to feel the penetration of your arm and smell the blood and goblin filth, you hear a sound that is _not_ novel to you - human weeping is a sound your ears know well.

Just as you'd guessed, the man seems to have come about the horse.  He kneels before the butchered and ruined tableaux of the beast; the badly flayed hide draped over a few sticks, the legs cut away and stacked oddly to one side; the head and neck and body gouged and cut and scraped for meat from the last night's feast.  The eyes scooped; eaten first.

He sobs quite loud, echoing in the night; his trembling hand finding a patch of the horse's face that still has its rusty colored pelt undisturbed.  He strokes it, and babbles in the rapidfire language you heard the slaves of the region speaking.  You understand none of it; except that it is not for you, but the massacred beast.

Then he does turn to you, after all; starts speaking, as he rubs tears from his face with a wrist so not to smear himself with blood.  He seems to take you in, then, for the first time; the strangeness of this towering, scarred young woman who slunk down from the trees to aid him, earning a wound in the process.  A little back and forth of not understanding each other establishes for him that you do not speak his tongue, and that he does not seem to recognize the portions of the surface languages you do in fact know.  But he gestures to your bleeding arm and, once his intention is clear, bandages it with a patterned yellow handkercheif from one pocket.  It quickly stains red; but the pressure slows the bleeding, atleast.

Now, with the adrenaline wearing off and with blood lost from your veins, you remember how greviously tired you are.  How desperately hungry.  How cold, in the night that rolls on in the absense of the creatures you have killed.

Your inability to understand the man's words doesn't seem ultimately have stopped him from talking to you.  Having greived, starts moving about the camp; first retrieving the damaged reigns and bridle from the horse's body, then going to the goblins, one at a time, and shearing off their left ears with a small, sharp knife from his pocket - a neat little contraption where the blade seems to fold out of the carved-horn hilt.

With the ears taken and apparently pocketed, he comes to his next challenge - and pauses, fists on his hips, looking gloomily at the heaped sacks that came in, on the horse's back.

*Spoiler: OOC!*
Show

You have survived your first combat, and made an unintelligible friend!  While he's going about doing his business in the camp, what are you doing?

----------


## BananaPhone

Nameless

Nameless had stabbed furiously at the goblin, allowing years of pent up anger to flow through her arm and into that knife as each stab of the weapon withdrew an arc of bloody droplets.

By the time she was done, she was visibly panting, exhausted and starving...and then the pain in her arm returned. 

"Ahh....!" is all she can whimper as she grips at her arm, the pick having punctured through the muscle tissue, but seeming to have at least passed through cleanly. She had seen puncture wounds before, she knew it would heal with a month or so of rest, but that didn't make it hurt any less than a son of a bitch.

When the other male approached her, Nameless initially scuttled backwards on her butt, her knife coming up defensively. It was mostly the operation of instinct, or at least habits that had been hammered into her during her slavery under the trats. Few people acted out of kindness. But when he gently moved down, hands open and softly wrapped that cloth around her arm to stymie and stop the bleeding, Nameless...smiled. 

It was a goofy smile. Sweet even. But it was a smile nonetheless. 

<"Thank you."> she said, in Queekish, her voice surprisingly gentle, given that she was splattered in blood and had just charged out of the darkness, screaming and waving a knife around.

When the pain in her arm subsided enough, Nameless wasted no time in darting over to that pot and stuffing as much of the stew as she could in her mouth. Like a greedy guts growing kid, she wolfed it down in a rather undignified manner until anything remaining in that pot had disappeared down into her tummy.

That need satisfied, Nameless then went about quickly gathering the remaining things: the tent, the fishing line, the bag, the mushrooms, book etc. 

<"Hey, I've got something over here!"> she said to her fellow human. Obviously, to him she just sounded...weird. Very weird. Her chittering, fast language like nothing the humans had. But the way she reached out and tugged on his sleeve and pointed over to the back of the camp was enough to draw attention, as she took him to present the chest. 

<"We'll share whatever is inside, yes?"> she said, her smile warm, head tilted, as she gestured to the chest, and then to him and her back and forth. Even with body language, it was clear she wanted to share the chest with him.

----------


## MrAbdiel

The stew was horse and fish based.  It would have been foul to taste buds with any discernment at all.  It is the best thing you have eaten since you were forsaken by the sun.

Your new friend looks queasy, but gracious; you are obviously in a desperate state, and he is able to put out of mind the ghastly act of devouring some portion of his horse, considering how you have helped him in avenging it.

When you alert him to the chest, he takes a look at it; but is animated by a certain urgency that precludes being interested in its contents.  He is more interest in the sacks, and going back the way he came; dark though it is.  Through a profusion of gestures and patience, you come to an understanding: he will concede the chest to you entirely if you help him move it, and the sacks, to wherever he is indicating - a task that, without a horse, will require at least a few trips.  With that offer, he gets on the side of the chest and hauls up one of its side handles with his right arm so you can use your uninjured left.  Its heavy, but not immovable - probably not full of coins, or metal, or rocks.

*Spoiler: OOC:*
Show

Does the arrangement satisfy Nameless?  Is she willing to trust him to guide her back out of the woods?

----------


## BananaPhone

Nameless


Pursing her lips, a part of her, the paranoid survivalist, told her to just knife him in the back and run off. But they had fought together. He could have betrayed her easily by now. While she had gorged herself on that stew, he could have easily clobbered her over the back of her head with his bat. He could have grabbed her injured bicep and twisted, permanently disabling her. Or an older man out in these woods, alone, could have done even worse things to her...

But he hadn't. He seemed despondent about the horse, but otherwise gave off the impression of just a guy mourning the loss, thankful for her help and willing to make trades again. 

Swallowing, Nameless nods, moving off into the woods with him.

----------


## MrAbdiel

Fortunately, no treachery ensues.  With his flail under the his other arm and the chest between you, you start making your way together though the gloom of the forest.  He knows the way, it seems; but you have the night-eyes to prevent him tripping and falling and making the whole operation painful and difficult, so an easy synergy quickly emerges.  He continues to talk to you, as you go; perhaps a gesture designed more to sooth his frayed nerves on the adrenal cooldown, than to actually communicate anything.

It's the better part of an hour, before you emerge from the trees.

The first thing you notice is the moon; full, and lonely in the sky with its wholesome silver glow.  No trace tonight of the green moon, which the skaven call 'Morskrit'; and just as well.  Instead, there is a banquet of white stars in the sky you have not seen in so long; and this last night, dared not clear the canopy of the trees to witness.

The second and third things you notice at the same time - the cart, and the dog.  A small cart, designed for drawing by a single horse, lies off the side of the road furthest the forest's face.  It has been upended, though it seems undamaged; turned over gently, perhaps.  And the dog leaps up to guard it - a gold furred beast with an unusually long tail; and the bright, intelligent eyes of a guarding breed.  The skaven _hated_ dogs; their word for the animals had some of the human connotations of _monsters_ and _spoilers._  But like with the horse, you are not so sheltered from your humanity that you do not recognize this friend of man, also.  He springs up from where he lay by the cart, and charges up at the pair of you; giving you customary _bork bork bork!_ of canine enthusiasm and alarm until his master, your new companion, calls him to heel and assures him with a scruffling of the fur on his neck that the stranger is no threat.  You set the chest down for a moment, resting your arm from the strain; and the dog, whom your stranger has called _Rocco_ a couple of times now, is all a-sniff of you, in curiousity.

A voice echoes out from under the cart; small, and tired.  It precedes a young boy, perhaps ten years old and crowned with black curls, crawling from beneath it.  You can't help but notice how different he is, from how you are used to seeing children; burdened in the terrible conditions of labor and confinement.  This one is healthy, and content, and mostly clean; even for having been woken from a nap, beneath a cart on the side of the road.  He trots over to your companion whom you might guess is his father, and they embrace each other.

The child asks a question.  The father hesitates, and looks at the bundle of reins taken from his hip, and offers a reply; one furnished with horizon-pushing gesture of the palm, and a little shrug of the shoulders.  The child responds immediately, pointing back and the forest and down the road, and chirping in some animated call to action.  The father hushes him; offers some quieter, soothing words; and the boy accepts, with some sniffling.

Whatever the boy had been told about the fate of the horse, it was likely a kinder lie than the awful truth of it.

Still tear-faced, the child turns to you, looks over your looming self, and asks you something that causes his father to blink, and puff a little laugh.

"Ah...  Gaulfredo."  He offers to you; and then pats his own chest indicatively and repeats slowly, for your benefit.  _"Gaulfredo."_

And then, with a hand on the boy's head:  _"Vittorio."_

And finally, with a firm rub of the dog's back that it seems to receive with wonderment as unsolicited praise worth panting over: _"Rocco."_

Then he makes a gesture to you, in expectation and hope.

Mey-La.  Nee-Ruh-Kaha.  You have two names, both given to you by people who _owned_ you.  Another name too, you think; but it's buried in the back of your skull under layers of suffering, like mud that has hardened to sediment over some precious forgotten relic.  It's not the first time you have tried to retrieve it; but this time, like the others, it does not rise for you.

*Spoiler: OOC:*
Show

A little RP'ish scene, for ya.  Importantly, how does Nameless respond when probed for a name? Does she give one of her slave-given names, or pull a word she knows as a 'fresh start' name, or politely offer nothing, permitting them to figure out their own name to add to the pre-existing two?

----------


## BananaPhone

Nameless

Is this what working together felt like? Without the threat of the lash or vicious 'encouragement' by sadistic task-masters?

Nameless didn't know, and for about an hour she didn't care. Without the threat of the goblins - and having greedily gathered up all of their possessions for herself - Nameless walked along behind the unknown man with one strong hand wrapped around the handle of _her_ chest and the sounds of nature around them. The mans talking was welcome. Honestly, she liked it. It might have his own reasons for the verbal diarrhoea, but Nameless appreciated the sounds of a fellow human who was not under the coercion of a Skaven taskmaster. Just listening to him talk felt _normal_. Like this is what normal humans did. They carried things around the beautiful forest and they talked. 

The melody of his language stood in stark contrast to the swift, fast-paced chittering of her own. _Her own_, as if she had willingly learned the Skavens rapid-fire language. The language she had been _forced_ to learn as a slave. The mans was instead more melodic, as if she were listening to a gentle music among the soft breeze of a forest. After a decade of brutal drudgery and hissing rats, it was beautiful to her. 

When they arrived at that cart, Nameless oddly deferred to the mans judgement. This was, after all, his realm. If he appeared scared then she would be. But when that - dog!! - arrived and he showed nought but affection, so did Nameless. But then a boy emerged - a healthy boy! Not some wasted looking, pallid little miserable wretch, but an actual boy, with a vigilant father...this is what human children were _supposed_ to look like. 

When the dog ceased its guard-like growling and instead switched its mood to gentle curiosity, Nameless indulged thoroughly. 

She knelt down, hands out, allowing the dog to lick her face as she giggled and laughed. She ran her hands around the dogs beautiful head, patting and stroking its most prominent features as she kissed it between the eyes, on the forehead and under the ears/against the cheek. For a second she almost seemed to have tears in her eyes, an immediate love for the animal visible upo her mien as she had to tear herself away to address the youngling.

Towering above him at 6'5", Nameless offered an awkward, but genuine, smile down to the lad, along with a wave. 

<"Hello!"> she said in Queekish, until the male then performed his 'what's your name?' body language theatre.

When Nameless pursed her lips and hesitated in answering, the more emotionally intelligent could tell that she understood the question but had to think of a response. That meant she had no official name - only what she would call herself now. 

And the only praxis with which she could currently express herself was the disgusting language of the rat-men that had taken everything from her.

Swallowing gently, a pregnant pause lingering in the air between them, it was clear Nameless understood the question. Finally, she shrugged. 

<"I don't know yet,"> she replied in Queekish. Not that they understood.

----------


## MrAbdiel

Rocco isn't fussy, once he's given the all-clear; and when this new friend is dispensing attention, and scratches, and tolerating his over-excited canine affection, he is happy to supply.

The boy, Vittorio, seems curious and unafraid; having been given little reason to be afraid of people, you must assume.  He confers with his father when you are unable to supply an answer, and they go back and forth for a bit.  Gaulfredo gives you a faint smile to suggest that, even if he doesn't understand, he is not offended.  But the work of the evening is not done.  With a little help from each other, the three of you stash the chest under the overturned cart.  Gaulfredo retrieves a knit blanket from beneath it, and puts it around his own shoulders like a cape, demonstratively, before passing the bundle to you.  It's not as cold tonight as the last; but the blanket is soft, and it keeps the worst of the cold off your shoulders and back.

Another four hours pass.  Back to the goblin camp; back to the cart; back to the camp; back to the cart.  You carry one of the sacks over your your left shoulder; Gaulfredo carries one over his, and Vittorio hefts one awkwardly, eager to help, occasionally trading it back to his father when it's too much for him.  Each time, Gaulfredo leaves Vittorio just a little away from the camp - sparing him the scene, perhaps - and hefts the bag to him.  The goblins are there, mangled and silent; the troll, still, has not manifested.  If he intends to after you are long gone, he will have quite a grotesque feast waiting indeed.

The sun is rising across the tree-dotted hills on the other side of the road, when you get back.  The work has been exhausting on your already exhausted body, but atleast it was _given_ work, and not _driven_ work.  With the sacks recovered, you help to turn the cart right way up; and once it is loaded up with the chest, and the sacks, and the almost unconcious from tiredness boy, Gaulfredo shows you how to take the weight of one of the cart's two shafts that would have gone either side of the drawing horse, with your good hand.  Together, you and Gaulfredo begin the work of walking the cart down the hard packed earthen country road.  It's a well designed road, atleast; it weaves around the hills at the same height instead of dipping over them, which would have made hand-drawing the cart impossible.  But another couple of hours, with the sun up and hot on your skin, and your legs burning from work and your arm burning from injury, you come up to the wooden gate of a fenced paddock with a simple house, and wooden barn within its limits.  Gaulfredo nudges Vittorio awake to open the gate and then the barn for you; and you wheel it inside where it is set to rest.  There's two stalls, there; one for the now departed horse; one occupied by a grey coated old mare who looks considerably older than the draft that had pulled the cart.  She watches your arrival with silent interest; snuffs idly at her feed; and then lays down in her stall.  Rocco, who has not had hands and therefore no responsibility this whole time, trots in energetically and laps at a pail of water left at once side of the barn for just this purpose.  Wearilly, Gaulfredo takes a few things from a wooden cabinet, and then beckons for you to follow; leading up a wooden ramp to a loft area with loose mounts of yellow hay.  He lays down a couple of blankets, and offers you another; says something with a placating gesture and something of an apologetic tone.  After changing your makeshift bandage for a clean strip of linen, he makes another apology sounding sentence; and then heads back down the ramp, with a little wave.

_"Dì la buonanotte a Taalia, Vittorio."_  He bids the boy, as they prepare to leave you in this makeshift guest quarters - warm enough to sleep with all the blankets, warmer still in the morning sun.

"Buona notte, Taalia."  The boy waves at you, and then trots after his father; and they close the barn door behind them.  There is no locking of bolts or mechanisms to restrain the door; indeed, there is a hinged wooden flap on the lower half of the door, which does not seem secure at all.  They appear unworried about people breaking in; and certainly not intending to keep you locked in.

Rocco makes his way up the ramp to settle down on the hay, watching you with such expectation like you should do some trick for him - or else you are simply endlessly engaging to dogs, by some gift you never knew you had.

But here you are - free, and now more safe than in a long time.  And what's more, not alone.  For the price of one more scar... Not a bad day, all things considered.

*Spoiler: OOC:*
Show

End of chapter 1 - Free.

Feel free to drop a little reply to that scene; but we'll pick up after I've had some sleep, with Nameless/Mey'la/Nee-Ruh-Kaha/Taalia waking up!

----------


## BananaPhone

Nameless

In actuality? Nameless stayed up for another half an hour playing with the dog. She knelt on her impromptu bed, the happiness in her heart worn on her face as she used both hands to to pet, stroke and rub the top half of the dogs head. Sometimes it would gently latch its muzzle around a forearm or a hand, and even with her injured bicep the now-free woman would go down onto the ground on her side in a giggling heap. 

Was there a possibility that she would be discovered the next day sleeping on her side, the dog curled against her front, her free hand across its forward quarter, a bright smile across her sleeping face? 

Maybe.

----------


## MrAbdiel

The Power of One
_Part 1 - "In Sterquiliniis Invenitur"


Chapter 2 - Tetto_

You might have been so discovered, if your intruder was quiet enough.  But this was no skilled assassin; no goblin skulker, he.  The boy Vittorio scampers through the hinged wooden flap on the barn door that is accessible only to dogs and children.  The squeal of the hinge stirs you; but superanimates Rocco for whom this seems to be a daily ritual to which he is well adapted.  Your blurry waking senses register the dog who had been snoozing against you firing to his feet in a desperate scrabble to be part of whatever is happening; down the wooden ramp and to the battered tin bowl Vittorio has brought him. It's a meal of table scraps and chicken gizzards - not dissimilar to the meals you have grown up on.  Scooting down the ramp a bit to watch, while Rocco avidly _snarfs_ his snarfables, Vittorio takes some kind of vegetable treat from a cloth bag and reaches up to offer it to the geriatric horse in the corner stall.  The beast ponderously gets to its hoofs to take it with mute gratitude, as the boy moves to the next stall, produces another treat, and halts in his tracks.  No horse, in this stall; the disruption of the ritual with the reminder of the reality (or whatever softened lie he was told) bringing a shadow of sorrow to his face.  But then he remembers you; and looks up to see you on the ramp, and smiles; and makes his way to turn the offering to you, instead.

*Spoiler: Intrustive Memory*
Show

_You remember an apple tree._


He calls you _Taalia_ again; and offers the first-sized, pink-red fruit to you. He insists, with an unnecessary pantomime, that you should eat it.  It's crunchy, and sweet, and familiar to your taste buds.

_"Mela."_  He reports, pointing at the fruit.  Then, sitting on the ramp, he seems to decide to take on the mantle of tutor.  He points up.  _"Tetto"._  Is Tetto the sky, or the roof, or _up_?  Or the index finger?  You can't tell, and this child does not have the didactic know-how to know you don't know.  He points down the ramp, at the old horse now settling to the ground again.  "Cavallo."  Is Cavallo _horse_, or is it the name of this horse?  These are mysteries that will take some unravelling, but your teacher seems pleased with your learning attitude.

Through gaps in the barn's walls, sunlight is still glowing.  Since you arrived in the morning, and since the light is flowing in from the other side of the world, you might have slept away half the day; and you're still tired enough to sleep more of it.  It's not, after all, like you have anywhere to be.

Outside your keen ears can pick up voices; Gaulfredo, and a woman. They are arguing; her voice pitching to high, insistent points before grinding into some entrenched, rapidly articulated counterposition by him; and they go back and forth like this for some time.  The argument is less interesting to Vittorio than pointing and naming, however; or perhaps, since it's on the very edge of _your_ hearing, he hasn't noticed it at all.  But the sparring smooths to conversation, as the voices come closer; and the barn door cracks open for Gaulfredo and this woman - you might assume his wife - to come through.  She's a little shorter than him, which makes her a full foot shorter than you  Dark brown curly hair, long and tied back, frames a pretty face of a woman who is, like Gaulfredo, on the mature end of young adult.  She regards you with wary brown eyes; a look and an attitude that one day you would reflect was less about fear of a stranger, and more about the fact that her husband had brought home a pretty young _amazon_ with no name he found in the forest and that she was supposed to be okay with this.

She makes an effort to speak with you, with one eyebrow steepled and a fiery aspect to her interlocution; trying, it seems to you, to see if you are faking.  But once satisfied that you have no idea what the heck she is talking about, she softens a little, and her expression gains a spectre of pity, and she looks you over in your rags, and bandages and sighs.  And then throws up her hands; a sign of concession which Vittorio immediately celebrates.

And that is the final obstacle.  With this hesitant concession, you appear to be welcome in the house of Gaulfredo.  The woman - who the boy tells you is _Ariana_ (likely a name... or _mother_, or _woman_) finds you some clothes.  A faded yellow tunic, probably Gaulfredo's, considering Ariana's size; paired with a brown peasant skirt that would fall to her ankle; and so makes it just past your knee.  Their house is a fair thing; a grey stone building that might have been an old watchtower has been converted into a kitchen on the lower floor and their personal chamber on the floor above; with timber extensions built into the side that give the country home the relative peasant luxury of a dining room, and a washroom, and a separate small room for lavatory and storage.  The house has plenty of wooden furniture, and even more than the minimum of decoration; canvases in plain wooden frames show some quite charming renderings of horses, and the view from the second floor of the tower, and a slightly younger Vittorio.  There is a herbal smell that radiates from the cooking happening in the kitchen, but also seems to be baked into the ambiance of the house itself.

When you are brought to the table, there is more food made available to you than, perhaps, at any single point in your whole life; foods whose styles you have to dredge from your old memories of Norsca, and before.  Seeded bread, whose dough seems to have been contorted into a braid before baking; making the pulling apart of it that much easier.  A red soup of legumes and diced vegetables that you are encouraged to to eat with a _spoon_; a device now almost foreign to your hand.  The roasted exterior of whatever unlucky bird Rocco had been fed the interiors of already.  A bowl of puzzling, slim, worm-like tubes drizzled in some kind of flavorsome oil and dusted with salt and other spices - an alien delicacy indeed, but whose flavor turns out to be thankfully mild.

Before anyone eats, Gaulfredo pauses the family with his upraised hands, and addresses another figure in the room - a pair of small wooden figurines stood on the doorframe; the man horned, proud and holding a bow to his chest; the woman maternal, benevolent, and holding a shepherd's crook.

*Spoiler: Intrustive Memory*
Show

_"Men have gods too; and they will not permit their children to suffer this way forever."_


After that, you are afforded much opportunity to eat as you have no way to contribute to the conversation; but much of it is about you, and you follow a few things.

They seem to have settled on calling you _Taalia._  Ariana seems to have calmed about you, after her earlier bristling; and your displays of mute appreciation seem to keep that suspicion at bay.  At one point, you interpret something Gaulfredo says as he pantomines something rectangular and large, and gestures to you; he hasn't forgotten the chest, and seems to be planning something for it.  He also mentions _Cavallo_, but Ariana objects with a maternally defensive air; and their quiet negotiation that follows yields no clear outcome.  And finally, Arianna gestures at your bandaged arm, and speaks quite firmly with insistence about it; something to which there is no objection. Much more is said, of course; but aside from the words that Vittorio is (sort of) teaching you, it all whips by.  In the evening, the barn is yours again; yours, and _Cavallo's_, and _Rocco's._And this time, you sleep right through from just after dusk, to just after dawn.

*Spoiler: OOC*
Show

Not much for you to act on just yet, but I want some rolls before I go too far!

I want: A flat (+0%) Intelligence test, to see how well you do learning a new language over the next few days/weeks as you recover.
A flat (+0%) Charm test, to see how well you endear yourself to the community that is about to be fascinated by your arrival.
An assisted (+20%) Toughness test, to resist infection in the wound in your arm.

You can also note down that you have earned 250XP for your wilderness adventure.  Nothing to spend it on yet since you're still in the slave career - but options are about to start opening up.  Once you're grounded in the language a little, you already have career teachers available for Peasant (Ariana) and Farmer (Gaulfredo), but more will be persuable, soon.  Trappings, as always, are part of the challenge to entry, however.

----------


## BananaPhone

Nameless



Taalia watched with a smile as the dog gorged himself on the innards of whatever unlucky bird had been culled to supply the feed, her clear affection for the animal undimmed by its behaviour at even its most ravenous. But when the boy approached and spoke to her, Taalia was no longer in a near-panicked and exhausted state of mind. The day prior he had been on the tail end of..._events_ so to speak. Escaping slavery. Losing her surrogate father. Crossing paths with a troll. Fighting goblins. Taking a pick through the arm. Starving. Meeting a stranger and helping him with the labour of retrieving the sacks. These were a sequence of events that were not the most conducive towards stable, level-headed thought, but now that Taalia had been given some to recover and rest, she could afford to ponder more on her situation and those around her. 

The kid seemed sweet, like so many she had known were. If her polite distance from the child seemed rude, she would one day have to apologise: she'd seen so many arrive and die within a week, experience had taught her not to get too attached. 

Nevertheless, he was gentle company, and as Mela sat on the ramp next to him, she watched with her heterochromia eyes as he tried to explain his language to her, but only in the most rudimentary sense that children could grasp. He wasn't old enough yet to conceptualise the construction of a sentence, the position of subjects, verbs and objects or the particles that strung them together to form coherant sentences, even if he understood how to do so on a basal level. And so, his education was no deeper than the nouns of things around them which, under the circumstances, seemed fine enough for now. 

"Mela?" Taalia repeated, holding up the bright red apple in her left hand and pointing at it wit her right. Speaking just those two syllables in a different language changed her appearance. Not physically, of course, but her mien. Queekish, in which she was more fluent than most native speakers, was rapid fire, skittering and harsh. Even when spoken slowly it was an unpleasant, if swiftly flowing language to listen to. But this new one she was being taught? The _-la_ emphasis at the end with her gentle voice made her seem brighter somehow.

But then she heard the arguing. 

The lad couldn't hear it. Perhaps that was for the best. Or he was used to parents of hot-blooded dispositions who wore their hearts on their sleeves and so thought nothing of it. But for Taalia, raised voices could only mean one thing: beatings. 

The Skaven don't raise their voices at you because they're worried you can't hear them. They raise their voices as a prelude to violence. 

Swallowing, biting her bottom lip, her eyes peering in the direction from which the argument wafted, even if such a stare was directed towards a barn wall, Taalia felt her toes curling as she turned her eyes just enough to peer out of the corner of her eye to that small knife which lay next to her makeshift bed. 

The barn door pressed open, and in strode Gaulfredo and the nicest looking human woman Taalia had seen in a decade. The last one, of course, being the Thanes wife whom she had served in what seemed like a lifetime ago. But unlike that tall blonde with her higher cheekbones and cold beauty, this one was more warm, despite the skeptical scowl across her face.

Taalia, of course, thought other things. _'She's come to kill me. She thinks I'm here to challenge her for her partner...'_ she internally chittered, once more checking that that knife was there out of the corner of her eye as she stood when the two approached. _'I can take her,'_ Taalia told herself, steeling her spine. One swift kick forward and then dive for the knife and throw it into her chest. Done. 

Ariana's initial 'test' only solidified this fear, as Taalia pursed her lips, subtly shifting her weight on her feet, readying herself to step back from the assault she just _knew_ was coming...

But it never did. Almost as swiftly as her passion had arisen, Ariana's disposition softened, her voice simmering down into that gentle, pleasant melody of her normal decibel level. Likewise, the tension building in Taalia's muscles found release as the spectre of danger passed, as she looked down at the lad, up at Gaulfredo and then at Ariana. She didn't know what they were saying, but she guessed that she was able to stay?

This idea actually was correct, as the escaped slave swiftly discovered. It was also where Ariana learned more about Taalia. For when the older woman supplied her with some clothes, she also provided a place within which to change into them. Taalia was not skinny, nor emaciated. Indeed, thanks to being a favoured pet of Papa Rat and his supply of just a little bit more food, she was positively plump by slave standards, with her 10% body fat. She was tall, very tall, with well proportioned limbs and physique, but living as a slave like she had, her skin had felt the foremans whip more than once. Some scars crisscrossed across her back like highlighted cracks in a marble statue. Her other thirteen scars, on her trap, her neck, her forearm and elsewhere, not to mention the two on her face, where all visible for those moments she de-clothed in front of the other woman to change, a suggestion to the lady of the house about what this girl had been through to arrive where she was now.

The dinner table, likewise, was an exercise of memories and warmth. Taalia could remember back when she was very small, sitting around the house-hold table, prays before dinner, the use of cutlery. Though the past 10 years had hardwired her to stuff as much food into her face as she could, she was self-aware and smart enough to know that such conduct would not go over well. So she ate. Quite happily. Sometimes a little too enthusiastically, often exhaling through her nose as she took in the incredible new flavours that were for her, a banquet fit for royalty. It was evident just how hungry she was when she polished off bread, pasta, fruit, vegetables - anything put before her quickly disappeared. In short, she ate like a horse. Or maybe a few horses. 

When given the chance though, Taalia did try to show off. Spotting some fruit on the table, when there was a lull in conversation, she reached out with one long arm, plucked up an apple and held it up. 

"Mela..."

----------


## MrAbdiel

_"Mela!"_  Gaulfredo repeats, hands flying into the air in delight and eliciting a laugh from the fellow at once.  Vittorio chirps enthusiastically about the _mela_, perhaps claiming credit for his tutelage.  Even Ariana looks a little impressed - though after witnessing your scars, her disposition to you has markedly shifted towards a more tentative, loosely maternal one.  The effort to speak helps bridge the mysterious divide between you and these people a great deal - they surely will not be able to learn Queekish.  They are not under sufficient duress.

As you backfill ten years of starvation with the food on the table, Ariana becomes mildly self conscious; like her hospitable spread is coming dangerous close to being revealed to be _not enough food_.  The idea of someone worrying that they _had not fed you enough_ is bizarre; even perversely funny, considering how frequently your keepers used to forget to feed you at all.  She rises from the table, takes a slightly less fresh, harder loaf of bread from a cloth bag, and cuts it into wedges, adding them to the table; and this is enough so that eventually you are looking at a plate of a few bread pieces and half an apple without wanting to eat them.  You are, infact, visited by the alien sensation of _guts-ache_; an intestinal tract adapted for famine and forage screaming to your brain about the impractical volume of the present shipment.  But you find later that having eaten so much, your body finds it very easy to sleep; and you curl up in your loft with Rocco gnawing on a hard heel of bread beside you to sleep more peacefully than any other time in your life.

The next day brings a new face: an older, dark brown hair salted almost all the way to grey and braided back against her skull; but still straight backed, and young enough to travel alone on the animal now parked in the barn - a sort of smaller, grey horse with longer ears and a more obstreperous disposition.  She comes in layered skirts with a red shawl around her neck, with brass coin like ornaments on its corner tassels and a necklace with two figures not unlike those above the kitchen door.  She confers with Gaulfredo and Ariana; and then takes a look at your wounded arm, tutting a little as she does.  She pours some foul smelling ointment on to a clean bandage and wraps it around your bicep, then rigs your arm up in a cloth sling to isolate and rest the wounded muscle.  Then she gives you a fond, pitying smile; touches your elbow; and peels away to confer with Ariana, in the herb garden nearby.  Not a moment too soon, it seems; for another visitor comes at that point, his own conveyance moved into the barn as it begins to crowd: an ox, pulling a cart with two large chests fastened to the sides of the vehicle.  The man driving is white haired and blessed with wrinkles, but spry and vigorous in movements; dressed in plain and clean peasant clothes accented with a leather toolbelt, and apron.   Not as tall as you (but who is?), but taller than Gaulfredo by an in inch or two, he gives the farmer the kind of handshake that seems almost like a contest between the two men about who can shake most strongly and enthusiastically without piking out.  It's a draw; but soon Gaulfredo is leading him to the chest in the barn; and he kneels down to look at the desecrated lock with mulling sounds.  He looks to you and asks a question that might be anticipating polite laughter, based on the rising tone; but Gaulfredo supplies an apology for you, gesturing to you, and his lips, and provoking a polite, open handed 'what can ya do' apology gesture from the older gentleman.  He gets to work: forge-blacked steel pliers pulling out the broken off stumps of sticks jammed in the lock one at a time, before a finger pair of brass pliers with hooked, angular tips follow to more delicately fish around inside the mechanism for detritus.  This is a man of tools and devices, you think; a little Rashabang-esque in his squint-eyed devotion to the task at hand.

Your third visitor arrives while the second is still working; a rider on a proud white steed, over whose flank is slung a leather sleeve from which rises the butt of a longarm..  The man is almost, but not quite as all as you; blonde hair cut short to his scalp and retreating either side of a widow's peak; leather armor sleeves and chaps completed by a mail shirt, with a diagonal yellow sash.  He speaks at length with Gaulfredo, who appears to be mostly responding with directional gestures - gesturing back down the road you and he came from, most recently; pushing his hand in the air as if to indicate a place far in that direction.  At one point, gesturing to his own lips, he shakes his head to the tall stranger.  He, finally, turns green eyes to you, having seemed mostly disinterested in you.  He calls something then; and when recognition does not resolve on your face, he lifts a hand to his mouth and flaps fingers and thumb open and shut.  He seems to want you to say something.

*Spoiler: OOC:*
Show

Three new folks on the scene; all buzzing around the farm with interest.  If you have specific interest in keeping an eye on, or trying to communicate with, one or all of them, now's the time!

----------


## BananaPhone

Nameless


The initial guests were well received. 

Only a couple of days had past, but Taalia had made a noticeable improvement. She had been visibly starving, even a tad pale with nervous twitching and skittish suspicion. But the long periods of sleep did her well, as did the copious amounts of food and and warm care shown to her by her hosts. When she sat at that table, uttered "Mela..." and pointed to the apple, the response from all brought a happy, girlish smile to her face as memories from before that raid were exhumed from deep within her mind. _This_ was what it felt like to be around those who cared for you. To sit at a dinner table, gifted with bountiful, delicious food, in the enjoyable company of family. How much she had missed out on during her years imprisoned to the ratmen. 

The first visitor to inspect her was initially fascinating to Taalia, mostly due to her age. In all her time within the pits, she had never seen a woman older than Ariana. Never. Though the skills they brought to a community were invaluable, in many ways serving as the glue that bound it together and as a long memory and repertoire of skills and knowledge, the Skaven had no need for such qualities. And so, when the older woman arrived with her braided salt-and-pepper hair and smoldering dark eyes, Taalia couldn't help but stare. Though she flinched when the woman inspected her arm, and sucked in air through her teeth when that balm oil was applied, during the preparation of those materials the ex-slave had been likewise captivated by the mixing process. One part this herb. Two parts that oil. Three parts this buffer. A pinch of this root. In some ways it reminded her of the fiendish alchemical vats the Skaven had sometimes forced her to attend, but instead of a foul spelling liquid that would be vaporised into poison wind globes, this was a mixture of local ingredients to doubtless disinfect a wound and accelerate the healing process. 

<"What's that?"> Taalia asked, pointing to one little pot of oil. 

The response was, of course, unintelligible, but by the way Taalia reached out, plucked it up and inspected it with her dexterous hands, it was detectable that she had handled chemicals and reagents before. She inspected each of the ingredients this way, setting each one back neatly at exactly the position she had found it.

But when she went with Ariana to the herb garden to converse, Taalia's attention was drawn away again, this time to the barn. Moving through the farm, taking a moment to sweep her gaze across the verdant green crop fields and beautiful sun, her towering figure emerged into the barn where her eyes immediately spotted the new fellow, and the delicate means within which was undoing the lock. Initially, Taalia had pictured just tying the back of the horse to it, bracing teh case and then getting the equine to pull it free using sheer brute strength. But this method was much more precise. 

"Ahh!" she said, drawing herself down near and close so that she could watch the means by which the refuse that clogged the inside of the lock was being withdrawn. She watched with her bright and curious heterochromia eyes. Much like with the older woman and her mixology, it was clear that Taalia discerned what was happening, she wasn't just watching for fun: she _understood_.

The third visitor didn't get any "oohs!" and "ahs!" out of her - not initially anyway. However, when she was called out to come and talk to him, she felt goosebumps across her skin as she saw him for the first time. His blonde hair, sun-kissed features, his bright blue eyes and arriving on a white steed. Taalia had not been so brutalised that she hadn't felt any inclinations as she got older, and the dashing patrolman on his horse elicited one small blush and bashful eyes-dart-away reaction from her. But when she did, she spotted the stock of the holstered rifle, and her third "Ahh..!" of the day as she approached it. 

Reaching out, pressing a hand against the polished and carved wooden stock, she affectionately patted it, turning to look at the patrolman, who now did his gesture for her to speak. 

<"My owner had two of these,"> she started <"But pistols, not full on jezzails,"> her gestures were to look like she was holding two pistols up before her, as if posing for a Western movie poster. <"He wore them on his hips, but I only saw him use them twice. The most recent time was when we escaped certain death together. I thought they were mine when he...passed on...but...I dunno, maybe he came back and took them but left me? I'm not sure to be honest. But they both made the loudest boom!"> she piped up at the end, grinning, pretending to shoot each invisible pistol in sequence, even making little "Psh! Psh!" sound effects.

She smiled, the memory oddly fond in a perverted way as she looked back at that gun, before the light of an idea clearly shimmered in her two-colored eyes.

<"Could you teach me how to use this?"> she asked brightly, hand back on the rifle.

For Gaulfredo the experience was likely unusual, as this was the most Taalia had spoken since arriving. Where once she had said singular things or little phrases, now she spoke at length in the chittering, rapid-fire language of the ratmen, and with relative articulation it would seem.

----------


## MrAbdiel

The healer-woman spoke back when you asked your questions; neither of you understanding the other, but both in a gentle enough spirit of cooperation.  The old tinker takes avuncular glee in having an audience; adjusting his technique as he goes to give a better view.  Every time he mages to pull another fragment of debris he shows it to you, and then adds it to a little pile on the floor; then dusts the keyhole with a small brush, blows in it, then goes in again looking for more.  Once he's satisfied it's clear of obstructions, he takes an oil can from his tool kit and applies it to the lock; then produces a set of fine lockpicks, and begins the long and arduous process of negotiating with the mechanism.

He's still going, when the roadwarden arrives and draws off your attention. And when you approach to lay a hand admiringly on the stock of his weapon, his hand preceeds yours - flat to the heel of the stock.  It's not a panicked move; he seems not to have read threat in your gesture; but when you touch the polished wood, he has moved a cautionary hand to prevent you from, say, madly seizing the weapon for your own, as if that had ever entered your mind.

When you look up at the end of your Queekish reminiscence about Rashabang and his weapons, you see on the roadwarden's face a look you have not seen among your new friends yet: specific, worried interest.  Not concern for your health, but a limited recognition of the sounds out of your mouth, if not anything close to complete understanding.  He calls over Ariana, and the wise woman; and the two men and two women stand in conference, talking about you.  You read their body language as best you can.  The rider asks something; Gaulfredo shakes his head, gesturing again down the road and loosely upward.  The rider responds; and Ariana cuts in with a nod, gesturing to her forearms, and her face, and behind herself as though to her back.  Finally, they all turn to you; and after a moment of concentrated recollection, the rider sucks his teeth, and offers in an heavilly accented, but accurate enough rendition of Queekish:

_<"Rat-Rat, Man-Man?  Rat-Man Rat-Man?">_

He's not saying it right - the skaven word for themselves comes out closer to "The chosen people" if literally translated, but the roadwarden is clearly trying to mash together the words for rat, and man, in some sequence that inplies rat-men.  It might be the only queekish he knows; but he seems to be figuring out what you have been unable to say.

_"Eureka!"_

This, from back inside the barn; the tinker having overcome the lock and popping the latch; flagging you back to him with one hand as if hesitant to precede you to the reveal.

No pile of treasure; not that you'd expect that.  But when you flip up the lid on the newly oiled hinges, you see mostly a wealth of cloth.  Women's clothes - too small for you, certainly; but fascinating to discover.  Many of them seem very fine; and most of them are rich red in color, though there is a small amount of variation.  A glass mirror in a polished wooden frame lies nestled within the soft clothes; and within a folding side compartment, there are also bags of smaller, personal tools; brushes, and pigments, and papers.

Of the clothes, almost none of them seem able to fit your unusually scaled frame - except the hat, which is wide enough to pop onto your head if somewhat ostentatious in color; and the two pairs of sandals, the buckles of which, with some play, can shift to accomodate your feet - though you are more than used to going without footwear at all!

*Spoiler: OOC: The Chest!*
Show

The chest contains...

3 * Good Quality Clothing (Women's, various.)
1 * Best Quality Clothing (Women's, red.)
1 * Noble Garb (Women's, Red)
1 * Wide Brimmed Hat (Women's Red)
1 * Good Mask (Plaster, Red)
1 * Good Hand Mirror
2 * Perfume
1 * Writing Kit
1 * Cloak, Red
4 * Sash, Red, Blue, Green, Yellow
2 * Sandals
1 * Good Shoes, Red
1 * Good Cosmetics
1 * Disguise Kit
1 * Pouch of simple jewellery, mostly wood and glass beads

And, obviously, 1 * Large Chest is also yours.

----------


## BananaPhone

Nameless

The roadwardens sudden and concerned interest was not unanticipated, but it was still gripping in its severity. 

Taalia stood there, watching the adults confer with each other, no doubt the roadwarden conferring what he believed: she was either a spy or an escaped slave of the ratmen. Ariana confirmed it was likely the latter, given the numerous scars across her body and her age. 

But then the roadwarden turned and address her. In _Queekish_. 

Taalia's eyes visibly widened as she understood the first set of words yet on the surface. It was broken, and the words he used to communicate his question were not the right ones for the task, but Taalia knew what he was trying to ask. 

<"Skaven,"> Taalia replied. Kneeling down, she held her right arm out, extended her index finger and then pressed it into the soft ground and started to draw a symbol. It did not take long to complete, just three swipes of her arm, but the result was unmistakable:

*Spoiler*
Show




She looked at the Roadwarden as she drew herself back up to her full height. Looking at him, trying to gauge his response, Taalia drew her wrists together, her hands clenched into fists. She was posing as if her wrists were tied together, shackled. 

<"Slave,"> she said, keeping the syllables low and trying not to overwhelm him. 

Given how fluent she had proven to be, and her age, one could reasonably ascertain that she had been a slave for a very long time. That she spoke no Tilean at all, not even a few rudimentary words a child might know, also suggested that this was not her native land. She had been taken from a long way away, spent years surviving under the ratmens lashes, and had somehow emerged here in this sunny land of plenty.

_"Eureka!"_

The solemn and unsettling atmosphere that had been gathering was penetrated by the cry of success, as Taalia's head whipped around back to the barn. Like the excitable teenager she was, eyes wide, she hurried off in that direction, bringing herself next to the tradesman as that chest was opened to reveal the glorious bounty within: clothes!

But very pretty clothes. 

"Ahhhh!" Taalia inhaled, covering her mouth with her right hand as she knelt down in front of the rest, reaching in and prying through the contents. They were, without a doubt, the most beautiful clothes she had ever seen. The beautiful reds, the fine fabric, the gentle and well-crafted pressing, the stitching and embroidery. The teenager defied no stereotypes at all as she grinned widely, the sun across her face as she looked positively over the moon. She reachined in, retrieved that hat, and immediately brought it up to her head and placed it upon her crown. 

Hands on her hips, she looked up at Ariana, the female influence and role model in her life at the moment, and smiled bright, even posing a little, before an idea flashed in her eyes. 

"Ariana," she said, <"Most of these would fit you!"> she exclaimed, reaching in, grabbing that Nobles Garb and withdrawing it. Standing up, she turned and faced the shorter woman, holding the dress up against her with the happiest looking smile one could wear. In a way, this was her repayment for their kindess.

----------


## MrAbdiel

The crowd of rural Tileans take in your pantomime, conferring among themselves about your meaning.  They have come to no vocal conclusion before you are drawn off to the treasure you spent hours treking in the wilderness to recover - very little in the way of practical things, but what they are indeed are _things you own_.  Gaulfredo doesn't reneg on his insistance that the items within are yours to keep, after your help against the goblins and recovering the sacks.  Ariana (and the wise-woman) both look over your collection of crimsons and scarlets, and admire the fairytale finery of the clothes within; but also confer with each other with a sense of nervousness, as if there is something worrisome about this discovery that taints it somehow.  Ariana is overwhelmed with even the suggestion of having what seems to be such an expensive dress near her; but your insistence wears her down to accept atleast the comedy of it; and after some persuasion she holds it up to her front, swishing it a little as if imagining wearing it somewhere such things are worn.

Then she advances on Gaulfredo, her approach a swaying, playful gait; her unintelligible words light with cheek and flirtation.  He acts unphase until she has completed her comical strumpet-walk all the way up to him, and then without warning, as if overcome by lust, seizes her, and carries her over his shoulder while making a break for the house.  She tries to rebuke him, but she is breathless with laughter as she is kidnapped; and Rocco, feeling as though he is lacking some critical understanding of a very fun game in motion, chases them both, barking and desperate for inclusion.  They are all laughing, infact; the wise-woman, and the tinker-man, and Vittorio; even the roadwarden manages a snicker, as he mounts up and kicks his horse into a lazy trot back to the road.  Gaulfredo carries the performance on all the way to the farmhouse and then, for added comedic emphasis, hastilly draws the plain linen curtains in the window before Ariana escapes his villainous grasp and comes back out.  She folds the dress as she goes, and scolds him; but her heart is not in it, and her projection of temper is undercut by her giggling, and the general tone of good feeling left in the air.

It's a good day.

* * * * *
A good day turns into a good week.  Your arm has much recovered, faster than you dared hope; still painful, but healing, as long as you don't overly stress it.  Your hosts do not require much of you; they seem to understand that rest is something you have been denied for a long time, and it's something they are happy enough to offer now.

This, inspite of the fact that the week is less good for Gaulfredo.  As the language opens up for you in fragments, you gain a clearer understanding of things; mostly from Vittorio, who is endlessly fascinated with you and in no danger of being bothered by questions.

_Cavallo_, it turns out, does indeed merely mean _horse_.  The old mare in the barn is _Dahlia_; the slain one who used to occupy the other stall was _Bartolemi_.  Bartolemi was the farm's work horse; Dahlia once filled that role, but was now too old for the job.  This is confirmed during the week, when Gaulfredo brings her out of retirement, and rigs her to the one-horse plow to prepare the field.  It's not a particularly big field - not that you have much to compare it to, agriculturally speaking - but it's clear as you watch that Dahlia is hesitant pulling even the plow even to create the shallow breaking of ground required of her.  They try with Gaulfredo guiding the plow from behind and Vittorio walking in front holding the guide lead; but the progress is slow going, and once it is clear they are inflicting pain on the old beast's joints, Gaulfredo cannot bear to pressure her further; and unbridles her.  She wanders on her own back to her stall in the barn; apparently, her favourite place to be.

Vittorio explains. _ "Dahlia, she too old.  No plow, no harvest; no harvest, no money; no money, no horse; no horse, no plow."_  He explains the conundrum of finances with blissful optimism; an impenetrable expectation that his parents will figure something out.

Later, Gaulfredo finds you; and with a smile that does not show the stress he must be under, he asks you if you'd travel with him.  _"We go to Bella Collina, ah?  The village?  Market, ah?"_

The fact that Ariana is comfortable with you travelling with her husband must mean you've worked your way out of that 'threat' category entirely.  And perhaps she is apprehensive to allow Vittorio out on this trip, given what happened last time; but travelling alone, it seems, is ... if not unwise, certainly a needless risk.

*Spoiler: OOC:*
Show

Presuming you want to check out the village, what would Taalia bring with her?  Her first opportunity to go anywhere with a market, and people in numbers that may range to the double digits.

----------


## BananaPhone

Taalia

Taalia giggled and laughed as she watched the kabuki theatre, the pretend back and forth, Ariana carried off before admonishing her husband in gest, all around at least snickering at the playful banter. This is what family felt like at the best of times, and Taalia laughed along with the others as she enjoyed every moment. While the group enjoyed the little show, Taalia subtly looked at the Wise Woman, saw how she reacted, stood and behaved herself in a group enmeshed in comedy, and she replicated it. 

Though others may have noticed the disguise kit, wondering what it was for among a chest full of clothing and a mask...well, Taalia did not speculate as such for now.

oOo
As the week rolled on, Taalia tried to help out where she could. Not used to being inactive, and still feeling grateful for the incredible luck that she had receive by being taken in by this small farmers family, Taalia wanted to pull her weight...particularly as she ate even more than Gaulfredo did. 

Vittorio, likewise, grew in Taalia's eyes. A week had past since she had been found and ingratiated into the farm and he had not died. That was a good thing. It was also unusual to Taalia, who had been used to seeing kids age not last longer than a week. But now that he had, her internal defences came down and she was noticably warmer with him. Patient too. Very patient. She had never really had 'conversational' partners before, people to talk to about anything that crossed their fancy. In the slave pits, such mirth and winsome enjoyments were not permitted. The Skaven wanted their property constantly anxious and on their toes, unsure whether death would come from a foreman or fellow slave. 

But here? Taalia was getting used to and enjoying it. She would indulge his questions, and would go for walks where he would sometimes accompany her. She wanted to see more of the beautiful farm and surrounding forests, to enjoy the sun on her face and breeze through the umbral tops of trees. 

Though her left arm was not yet fully healed, Taalia helped where she could. If she saw Gaulfredo attempting some physical labour, she would soon approach, gesturing with her right hand. "Aiuto? Aiuto?" and if he acquiesced, she would assist, unwittingly demonstrating that her years of manual labour had made her rather strong and tough, even for her height.

Ariana also received Taalia's presence as a little helper, though her duties usually involved managing the house and less strenuous, but no less important, growths such as the herb garde, the vegetable patches and the chicken pen. (assuming there is one) Showing a keen interest and good eye for following instructions and gauging measurements, weights and keeping track of time, Taalia also started to help Ariana cook and prepare meals, the girls love for doing so a genuine enjoyment in the action but also the melliferous scents that arose from the kitchen when things went smoothly. She would watch, understood partially the instructions, mentally note the recipes and learned. When she produced a large bowl of red-sauced pasta, complete with tantalising herbs she had gathered from the garden, and the results had been pleasing to those who tried it...well...that was another memory that went into the vault. 

But as the week went on Taalia also thought about the horse, and the difficulty its death had now inflicted on the farm. She had seen it die, heard its death neigh. She had also seen that the other goblins were not pleased with the action of their comrade, punishing him severely. When she pondered the concept, it was striking to Taalia the great turns life could take as the result of a single decision and five seconds. The goblin had decided to kill the horse, five seconds later it was dead and now this entire farm faced hard times unless some blessing befell them. 

The raiding party that took her from her home all those years ago. The Norscan captain had plotted his route on a map, and just like that, her town was in their crosshairs. A little action led to all these consequences. What if the Norscans had travelled further down the coast? What if they missed her town by even an hour and she and her parents had gone further inwards? What if storms had made their travel unfeasible? A million scenarios, anything to avoid what actually happened, and Taalia spared a thought to where she would be now if those Norscans had failed. Would she be now in her homeland, learning how to cook form her mother, learning how to tend to a field from her father and her hand already promised to the boy of a local family who they would join through marriage? The plight of Gaulfredo, Ariana and Vittorio would never be known to her. Indeed, it would be more than likely Gaulfredo would have perished facing the goblins, his son returning to Ariana, whom would now have to face the years ahead as a widow and without beasts of burden to manage the farm. What would have been their fate if that Norscan captain had not plotted his route past Taalia's village and taken her from the burning frames of her home?


When Gaulfredo informed her of the departure, Taalia grinned brightly. Her hair now well groomed, regaining its natural texture after years of neglect in the pits, the flush of health across her sunny features, she would nod.

"Yes, would like much!" she would answer in her broken Tilean, though even learning as much in a week was an impressive effort.

When asked what she would bring, she wasted little time in bringing the mirror and holding it up. She also had folded the three sets of good womens clothes she had discovered in the chest, and *if Ariana had graciously declined the offer of the Nobles garb* the expensive looking noble lady's outfit was there too. 

"Precious, yes?" she gestured to the assembled items.

She physically paused for a second, blue-and-green eyes up as she was thinking out her next sentence.

"Trade for new Cavallo. Or...trade for new..." she paused, eyes drifting off as she thought. Then she brought both hands up to her head and held her index and middle finger on each one up to form a pair of horns, then gestured to the fields as if walking through it. It was discernible she was talking about an ox - trading the items for an ox that would be able to haul the equipment to plow the fields.

The way she spoke was cute more than anything, but it was clear her simple sounding self only _sounded_ that way because of her very limited vocabulary and control over the sentence structure.

Also, it would not escape Gaulfredo's notice that on the day of travel, Taalia had gotten into the cosmetics kit she found in her chest, and had used the mirror. She was no professional, so had kept things simple, but a little shade there, a pinch of color there, and her hair well groomed, she came along nicely. Why would she be doing that on the day they were going to town, to be around others? It was a mystery.

ooc:
*Spoiler*
Show


Taalia will bring the mirror (it's about 30gc as per quality and item, though I'm not expecting her to get it), the three sets of good womens clothing (about 9gc) and, if Ariana had not taken Taalia up on her offer of receiving the dress, then she'll take the nobles garb too (50gc). That's about 89 gold crowns in value. Now keep in mind I'm not rules-lawyering or anything saying you must value it at this Mr GM the rules say so! I'm just using these numbers as a general frame of reference for the setting, and I'm not expecting strict adherence to them hah.

She doesn't even have to trade for currency, but looking at page 119 of the core rulebook, there's a variety of livestock she could trade them for in equivalent value. The most obvious one is an ox or a draft horse. 

Others include a large number of chickens, or sheep, or a few cows, or pigs even.

A pedigree dog is also 3gc, maybe she'll get a puppy lol.
Or a kitten for a shilling.

----------


## MrAbdiel

With a broken conversation after the fact and a second offer, Ariana accepts the gift.  It's a beautiful garment - make of fine sheer silken elements that is nicer than anything she has ever owned.  She models it once for you, and Gaulfredo and Vittorio.  Gaulfredo is appropriately gobsmacked - though he seems the type to have act that way even if he wasn't.  Vittorio remarks on it warmly, and his juvenile praise, however he says it, is highly prized by his mother.  But after that, the dress is carefully put away in her room, hidden amongst her things; waiting, perhaps forever, for an occasion worthy of its wearing.  Her gratitude and rapid warming to you is discernible - you are very welcome in the kitchen, and the things you show preference to on the table seem to crop up more often and in larger volumes.

Your idle pondering about the death of the horse Bartolemi yields more questions than answers.  Goblins are strange creatures, and you know them less well than the ratmen; but do they practice animal husbandry?  Did they intend to use the horse for something else, which their shortsighted member failed to grasp?  The seemed happy enough to eat it.  Why did they scold and punish the one who did the most necessary preparation for that eating - the slaughtering?  The answers are not immediate.  Something about the way the horse's legs were stacked to one side, and all the gorged meat taken from the body and head, suggests some missing element to the picture.

* * * * *
Gaulfredo looks over the assembled items, hand rubbing his chin thoughtfully.  He seems confident enough that there is value there, for sure; but when you begin advocated to use some of it to trade _for his benefit_, for the farm's benefit, he shies back and holds up his hands, and does his best to deflect.  It's too much, you don't owe anything, and so on and so on; he wheels out a variety of excuses, but in truth, he could use the break; and you wear him into a kind of 'well we'll see' acquiescence.  Between this, and the dress given to Ariana, you begin to understand a subtlety of the Tilean's culture: meaningful gifts seem to only be given through a gauntlet of strenuous objection.  You'd refine that thought over time to understand it: it's a kind of face-saving gesture, a loose ritual that allows the giver not to seem frivolous with valuable things, and the receiver not to seem unappreciative or greedy in receiving them.  It must be tiring to have to pretend to decline things you want - what if the person mistakes your performance for genuine declination, and withdraws?  How do you signal you _don't_ want the given thing and that your own declination is real?  It must require practice, to become automatic.  You barely remember gift-giving in your former life; and the rats and their slaves certainly did not have any problem with feeling greedy when they had the opportunity to claim something.  Perhaps this is just what people do, when left in peace; they develop these interesting little complexities in how they interact, so that every relationship has not only an exchange of information or power, but also a kind of rhythm.

When it comes time to go, he does not remark on the makeup you've chosen to wear aside from a curious little narrowing of one eye.  Ariana doesn't seem to wear any - she has already bagged her man, the only one for a mile in any direction, and seems happy with her purchase.  But he doesn't seem bothered by it; and looking out to the road as you step onto it, smirks a little as he guesses _whom_ it might really be for.

Gaulfredo has a laden backpack on, when you go; and seems well used to carrying it along himself, even if he has been more recently accustomed to driving a cart.  Lashed to the back of it is the pickaxe taken from the goblins; and over its top laying on its side is the flail that had visited them most grievously.  The rest of the pack is full of candles, a few matches, and other odds and ends; and a side pocket with treats for Rocco, who comes along for the journey.  He lends you a belt, with a hook on it; and after awling a hole in the handle of your looted club for you, the weapon swings merrily from your hip as you walk.

You set out early; and the plan is to make it to _Bella Collina_ by the end of the day, and spend the night there; back the next day.  The road is the same you came to the the farm upon - if you had blundered west through the forest, you might have come to the road; and turning north, made your way into the village proper with your scars and wordless desperation.  As it stands, you head there now a little more sure of yourself; full of stomach, bright of eye, rested and with some wealth to your name - hopefully, soon to be made liquid.  You have no experience trading anything like this, and your grasp of money is as loose as a child's; but Gaulfredo has seen you through before, and may again.

Now that you have a cursory grasp of the language - enough of it to pass time bumbling through conversation - Gaulfredo's rambling on your walk is discernable (atleast, with a few clarifying questions and slow repetitions and rephrasing.)  He tells you about his family - his father Micheluccio, and his mother Perse.  He was born well to the north, in a place called Trantio, which he assures you is also beautiful.  He moved to his mother's homeland, Verezzo (apparently the region in which you presently reside), when he was fourteen; rented a plot of land of a local land baron and purchased it after a few fruitful seasons harvesting wheat.  His parents were very fruitful, too - he has two older brothers, Rambertuccio and Ranuccio, and an older sister, Osana, all of whom are back in Trantio.  Their farm in the Trantine Hills could not sustain so many offspring; and the burden fell on the youngest to strike out and make life elsewhere. Thus Gaulfredo and his younger sister Fenicia started the homestead upon which he lives now; and Fenicia married a young man named Polo de Mirici who would become the village's clerk and make a decent life for the two in Bella Collina itself.  It's their hospitality you are relying on, when you arrive.

He asks you questions, too; but with mostly terrible stories about life underground to tell, he fills the air mostly with his own pleasant palaver to save discomfort for both of you.  You walk down the road for  six hours, with some short pauses.  At once point, a strange woman passes by you on horseback; giving the pair of you a cool and untelling look as she goes.  Gaulfredo pulls to the edge of the road, as if she needed it, as she goes, and offers no cheer or wave to her.  Her broad rimmed, dark hat and cloak mark her as mysterious; but you pick out the more unusual features without trouble as she passes.  Big irises so dark they seem black, dominating the eyes; and ears tapered to points at the top.  An _elf_, Gaulfredo explains; strange people from far away who sometimes do business with the big coastal cities; and sometimes strike out on their own for other reasons.  He does not have much to say about them - he knows as much as you do, vaguely recalling the exotic allies that you were told visited the city near to where you were born.

You pass by the place where you emerged from the woods on that fateful night, and further by to the point where you are sure the troll's cave is well behind you; and then Gaulfredo leads you to the woods, where a sign nailed into a tree advises - he tells you without reading it - that the stream comes close to the road here, and it's a good place to stop for lunch.  He takes from his pack rectangular wooden frame that is lined with knotted string netting, expands it to its open form on nifty wooden hinges, and places it in the water of the small creek that has peeled off the main stream that you are familiar with, apparently further in.  The wood is lighter here; you can still see the road sunlit behind you, along with the blackbirds who return to peer at you again and make their conspiratorial chirps to each other.

Gaulfredo hands you a hunk of bred, and a wedge of soft cheese from his pack; takes the same for himself; and waits for the fish to swim into the trap.

*Spoiler: OOC:*
Show

No event on the road so far!  If you have any questions about the world, or the region, or Gaulfredo and his kith and kin, or anything you think he might be able to answer now that you are capable of sort-of asking, you can do so now.

Also, give me a flat Intelligence roll for the week as you learn the language.  After you've accumulated three successes this way, I'll consider you conversant, and you can learn the language for free.

----------


## BananaPhone

Taalia

Taalia enjoyed the walk, for it was the longest she had moved away from the farm since she first arrived. Her first trek into nature had been through the untamed forest outside of that cave, and though it had had its beauty it also contained hidden dangers, such as the trolls den and the four goblins. But on this cleared and patrolled path through the beautiful sunny landscape of Tilea. The girl carried her things in that slingpack and any other bag that was provided. Gaulfredo might have noted, or not been surprised by, the ease with which she took to the procedure. Given her athletic stature and her life of labour, carrying a moderate load across a gentle road was one of the easiest physical exertions she could perform, as even hours into their trek she didn't seemed phased, her smile still present as she rubbernecked her eyes around the scenery unfolding around them. The windswept green fields, the natural beauty of the forests, the songs of the birds they passed and that sun smothering her in a warm embrace. Taalia wouldn't have been surprised if Gaulfredo had've turned to her and spoke truthfully that she had died back in those tunnels with an assassins blade between her shoulders, but that this was the afterlife the gods deemed fit to reward her with.

But of course, no such mystical revelation came. For all of his salt-of-the-earth sensibilities, Gaulfredo was no hidden agent of the divine sent to withdraw the curtains on the illusion after easing her into the afterlife. He was just a man. A man with a long family story to tell, which Taalia enjoyed discerning and piecing together in her head. She couldn't understand all of it, but pieced together that he was the youngest male of the family, and financial situations required that he and his younger sister fly the nest, so to speak, only for them to end up where they are now. Through committed and persistent work, Gaulfredo bettered himself, expanded his holdings and fostered a small family of his own. His sister, meanwhile, Fenicia, had moved into the graces of a respectable partner in the town to which they were heading. It was quite a story and Taalia enjoyed listening to it. The idea that people moved about as they wished and _owned_ their own property was so foreign to her. For over a decade _she_ had been the property, her labour the benefit of someone else, while all she counted as hers in the world were rags on her body and whatever food she could scrounge from the pits. Possessing something, having it for herself and using that to acquire even more things...that was momentous to her. Hearing Gaulfredo's story as they walked, sometimes Taalia would zone him out - not deliberately out of boredom. But rather because her mind wandered, because his tale of migration, settlement, acquisition and expansion prompted the question: could she do that?

Surely she could now, couldn't she?

This was the first question she asked him, when given the chance. It took several attempts, of course, because it wasn't so much the words but the confirmation of a concept that lay behind them. For any Tilean such an idea was easy and self-evident, but for Taalia who had spent a decade as a brutalised slave who owned nothing, it was not a natural idea. She'd seen the prosperous members of the Skaven own things, trade warpstone tokens for items and objects, but she'd never even considered that _she_ could posses things.

Though the questions he asked often had answers that all stemmed from her time in the pits, thus serving to collectively highlight the miserable and wretched conditions under which she had toiled, Taalia spoke of them as if they came from a past lifetime, because in may ways they did. She had meant what she had promised herself when she first entered the forest after the escape: she'd go down swinging if the ratmen had tried to catch her. Emerging out into the blinding light and beautiful forest after servitude to those vile creatures in that pit had been like a condemned soul clawing its way back into its former body and lurching to life, reborn with a second chance acquired and determined to be better spent.

When they stop, Taalia nods as she receives the food, "Gracias," she says gently, as her blue-and-green eyes curiously watched upon the little fish trap Gaulfredo had planted. It was obvious to her how the mechanism worked, but sitting by that stream with the wind rustling the tall trees around them, she enjoyed the process all the same.

----------


## MrAbdiel

_"Gratzi."_

Gaulfredo corrects you, jovially; enunciating the word for your benefit.  _"Gracias is gratzi in Estalia.  But Estalians are pompous, and you might meet ten of them before you find one capable of honest Tilean gratitude."
_
He goes on for a short while about Estalians and their relationship to Tileans.  Estalia seems to be a land far to the west; and Tileans, or atleast Gaulfredo, does not like them very much. You gather they have some kind of disagreement about one of their gods; beyond that, the language is a little to specific to take in without an extended session of careful communication, and informative pantomime.

Rocco works his way closer to where you sit over a few minutes, cunning in his caution, and then plops himself half in your lap to harvest your precious, precious attention while Gaulfredo checks the trap. The net has snagged four fish; none longer than your hand from wrist to fingertips, and maybe half as wide.  They have ceased to wriggle out of the water; but when he selects the two smallest, he gives each of them a kiss on their scaly sides, and tosses them back into the water where, after a moment's floating, they animate again and vanish downstream, relishing their luck.  The other two are not so fortunate, but their purpose is more noble.  He shears off their small fins, scales them and guts them so quickly the action seems almost trivial, and washes them in the stream a final time before laying them on a plate of salt and ground pepper laid out a moment before; and after seasoning them them, finally, cooking them over a small fire, the kindling for which you gather.  You learn that Rocco also helps, in this way - when asked quite simply to _gettastick_, he hares off into the trees and returns with a stick that, with some persuasion, can be shifted out of service as a trophy, and into service as firewood.

Gaulfredo laments that he has no lemon or butter, but the little fish is a fine enough complement to the now gone cheese and bread; and after a lean meal and a little cleaning up, you are once again on your way.  You pass no more travellers on the road; and no goblins harangue you from the forest's edge.  Your fortune holds, and as the sun dips toward the rolling hills and scattered clusters of trees to the west, the road finally gets you where you are going - _Bella Collina_.

The last leg of the journey is uphill, and you pass a few modest homes as you near the village centre. Four homes, this way; all with large barns and two with tall silos; and similar numbers to the west and east, where a road that crosses yours leads towards the intersection that serves as the centre of the community. There can't be more than a dozen so buildings in the village itself; so there might be as few as thirty people who live here; but from how far out you came from Gaulfredo's farm, this little hub must service three or four or more times as many farmers scattered across the countryside.  This is the time of afternoon when people are typically packing up, preparing to sleep away the dark hours and rise in the lit ones; but the village is alive with activity.  In the middle of the crossroads, there the junction flares out into a broad, dirt and gravel town square, a bonfire crackles and jumps.  There must be forty people here, at least; and ten children of varying heights that you can see, though distant squeals suggest there are more.  Four men, marked out as some kind of attendants facilitating this event by yellow bandanas wrapped over their hair and left with trailing tails behind them, are lighting lanterns, and standing torches to keep the whole square illuminated.  Men and women are setting up tables and chairs around the perimeter of the square; and the electricity of anticipation hangs over the event palpably.

But the village itself is very new to you, even if this festivity wasn't occuring; and your eyes mark the prominent buildings in the square.  There is a large, well made estate house with two stories and a host of lovely flowers at its front - the home of someone important, you must imagine.  Two other buildings of note grab your eye - one, a steepled hall of pale wood whose sides are dotted with artwork made from carved wooden panels, with hemp-rope frames.  And two; not a building at all, but a kind of shrine.  Stones are stacked and mortared  into a tall, open faced half-dome that, at its peak, might be ten feet tall.  You wonder how they got the sides to stand up, waiting for the keystones at the top of the half-dome to hold it together.  But more than that, you wonder at the bronze statue within; cared for enough that it is not discoloured except in the cracks of its details.  A warrior woman, with armored calves, and forearms, and with a breastplate molded to her feminine shape above a skirt made of strips of something loose, but sufficiently concealing down to her knees.  In one hand, she holds a spear; the other, a shield; and the helm on her head bears a tall crest that runs from the front of the hairline to the back of the neck. The helm itself on the statue is tipped back, revealing a pretty but serenely distant countenance.  What is most remarkable to you us the woman is as tall as you.  Not just the statue - that would be one thing.  But the scale of her, the length of limbs and the posture in which she is rendered, suggest a depiction of a woman as physically imposing as you.

_"Ah; it is Guizzo Marea.  After all that had happened, I had quite forgot."_

Someone starts playing music, somewhere in the crowd; a jaunting, enticing shuttle of bow on string that elicits a whoop from the crowd, as if now things would begin in earnest.

You have made it to _Bella Collina_; just in time for Flicker-Tide.


*Spoiler: OOC*
Show

Loving seeing so much of Taalia's development as she adapts to and thinks about the surface world.  But now a new experience - people, and lots of them.  It's a party!  With only the foggiest memory of attending a wedding once, your memory of parties is... let's say, sparse.  The last event you attended with a bonfire was a norse sacrifice ritual - but this is nothing like that (unless you decided one of your phobias is bonfires.)

How does Taalia act, in such a situation?  Run off to find answers and meet people; keep calm and ask questions?  Or simply not know what to do, and mind the excited Rocco?

----------


## BananaPhone

Taalia


"Gratzi," came the gentle correction.

"Gratzi!" Taalia nodded, that smile still there.

Rocco found a warm lap with the girl, but by now Taalia was onto his tricks. She eyed him with a smirk and skeptical eye, knowing as soon as she fed him a bit of fish and bread his affection would no longer be so forthcoming.  Manipulative dog.

"Just want food..." she snickered, watching the eyes of the dog somehow expanding as he peered up at her pitifully. His heart-string tugging efforts were soon rewarded as he desired, with a bit of the caught fish, cheese and bread. Tail wagging, happy, he proceeded to roll in dirt on his back, before they all soon got underway.

The arrival at the village was a brand new experience for her. The people were numerous, the sound of early festivities in the air with the scent of roasting walnuts, sweets, pastries and music. Taalia was no stranger to groups of people, the slave pens had a constantly arriving stream of them. Nor would she ever forget the foul, hideous pit within which the Skaven had conducted their black ritual to summon that..._thing_ in the bowels of the earth. But this could not be further removed from that blasphemous desecration. Here people were happy. They were speaking jovially, dressed in a beautiful riot of colorful outfits with little dancing circles gathering around the scattered musicians while children and adult alike seemed to be enjoying themselves. 

But there were an awful lot of them. 

Taalia's former eagerness to arrive seemed to be shrinking within her as she gazed upon the large crowd, her towering image slinking closer to Gauldfredo as if she could half-hide behind him while peering curiously over his shoulder at the festival. Her shy disposition diminished somewhat when she came upon that statue, the rest of the world seeming to disappear as she became singularly focused on what looked like herself captured as a statue, brandishing armor and weapons and captured in a magnificent pose of strength and intelligence. It was a striking image and one that seized her attention and held it for a good long while - so much so that Gaulfredo had to gently tug upon her shoulder to snap her out of the daze. Issuing a few doubtless teasing words with a friendly smile, his eyes on her, then up at the statue, then back at her. "Tua sorella?" he snickered.

With the spell seemingly broken and only giving the statue a quick look over her shoulder as they moved on, Taalia held the excitable Rocco close by her side as a deep-seated, but long buried anxiety chewed at her nervous system. There were so many people. The scent of sweets and pastries was aromatically delicious. THe gentle strum of festive music brought small smiles to her face and seeing so many children enjoying themselves with compatriots while their parents remained at a watchful distance continued it. But there was something eating away at her esteem, something worming into the back of her head that caused her to stay unusually close to Gaulfredo's side, even bringing up a hand to rest for assurance on his elbow. 

Despite this seemingly demure and bashful state, the curiosity in Taalia's eyes and the small smiels rising across her lips communicated that she wanted to be there. She'd just need a little time to adjust to the over-stimulation.

----------


## MrAbdiel

This cluster of humanity, fortunately for the nebulous discomfort in your gut, seems more than happy to be self-occupied in what transpires. This means they do not react as a mass to you - though they might, under other circumstances.  You are, certainly, the tallest woman here.  Perhaps the tallest person - the middle aged fellow sawing at a viola may be your height, though he is seated for his performance so it's hard to say.  Beyond that, you're distinct in another way - while the citizens of Bella Collina have skintones ranging from Gaulfredo's light tan to the swarthier brown of some the violist, your own skin is pale.  Not the bleached ivory of the Northfolk you once served, but a fair hue with even a dusting of pink where the sun has bitten at you earlier n the week.  You are a stranger, here; but the firelight  as the dusk gives up the sun does wonders to bridge some of the divide, and soon you're another form picked out in oranges and half-moon silver like the rest.

Flicker-Tide, Gaulfredo tells you as you hover at the perimeter of the festivity, is a local tradition to Bella Collina.  One of the town's favorite sons travelled to the distant Empire of Sigmar to learn at their magical schools, and returned a fledgeling wizard many years ago.  When he came, he brought an assortment of mysterious powders that burn strange colors.  The whole town was so amazed - with a few naysayers intractably worried about magic, despite their knowledge of the local lad - that they made a tradition out of it.  Each year, at a half-moon in springtime, they host a feast, and a dance; ostensibly, to celebrate travellers who journey far and then come home.  The original event was some twenty years ago; and the wizard is now a court mage for a merchant prince in the city of Verezzo itself; but he keeps the village supplied with 'spark bags', at request.  You get to witness the highlight of the evening - little cloth bags of what feels like gravel are sold at two pennies a bag.  Some of the impatient children throw them into the fire early, resulting in a flash of colour (mostly blues and greens) and a sustained flare of a clue or green flame that reverts to its typical orange after four or five seconds.  After an hour of taking the event at leisurely pace - you have walked all day after all, and watching the people enjoy themselves from the comfort of a blanket to one side is not uninviting - then the wisewoman you met once before calls the assembly to order.  Her name is Madre Angeletta, so you've learned; and she conducts a prayer with raised hands that calls for wanderers to be drawn home in safety; and then absolves the people (children especially) of their restrain.  There is a bombardment of the bags onto the fire; perhaps a hundred, mostly launched by the children.  And the rainbow of colours that flicker and flash from the bonfire is something to behold. Gaulfredo throws one in, too - the fire from it turns out to be scarlet red, and he seems happy enough with that result.  Only Rocco seems not to enjoy the flicker-fires; the flashes, and the smells, are all quite a lot for him; and he requires Gaulfredo's attending scritching to bear him through the event.

*Spoiler: OOC:*
Show

You can spend 2p for a bag, up to three; and roll a D7 for each, to determine where in the standard ROYGBIV array the color comes out, 1 being Red, 7 being Violet. You might interpret the results as you will!


The acrid, chemical smell hangs in the air in low, thick smoke immediately after; and the four bandana'd workers you'd noticed before get to work fanning the cloud away with big cotton sails suspended in wooden V's.  Notable individuals in the array of assembled people includes the old tinker, Maso Cestié, though Signore Cestié may be appropriate for the older gent; he declines the circle-dance around the bonfire that is kicking up, but sits on a barrel beside the violist, tapping his foot and waffling to the very distracted musician.  And the road warden, Bertuccio, is present too; sans horse, apparently waiting with arms folded for someone to become too drunk and require escort to the pavilion erected just north west of the ring of buildings, for the visitors.  Strangest of the people assembled is a dwarven fellow - you have seen one such creature taken as a slave; but after his beard was cut by his captors, he became lethargic, useless as a prisoner, and was beaten to death without protest.  The squat, thick limbed little man seems to be having a good time like most of the others - he claps and cheers when everyone else does, and tries to provoke conversation with the other revellers; but it seems to taper off.  Either people struggle to relate to the dark bearded mountain-kinsman, or he is an odious conversationalist.  Everyone knows him, though.  "Nogrom", Gaulfredo tells you. _ "He has been in the village since I arrived; his plot is off the north road, on the way to the Pavona.  Barley and hops, mostly; brews ale, sometimes; but does not sell much of it."_

After the smoke is cleared, and the gabble of conversation is moving on, the dancing begins in earnest.  It begins with two loose rings of dancers around the bonfire; men on the inside, women on the outside, reversing at intervals after some simple enough steps toward and beside and around a partner.  The rings rotate opposite directions, changing partners, then swap inside and outside with each pairing; and at a final acceleration of the music, they merge into a single ring large enough for the dancers to hold hands and gallop sideways, twelve steps left, twelve steps right, while those not dancing chant for them in singsong lilting voices: _Spark-a-dark, dov'è il mio sire? Mi poserò? Rimarrò? Benedici questo campo con il fuoco!_


*Spoiler: OOC:*
Show

  Depending on how much interacting you want to do, there's things to do!

For 2cp, you can try the local festival food - feel free to describe it, this whole tandem operation is working out great.

If you pass a flat WP roll, you can join the dance.  A subsequent agility roll at +20 to intuit and follow along will mean you pick up the basics - it's an accessible folk dance, so no Perform: Dancer required here.

As above, for 2cp per bag, you can buy up to three spark bags and yeet them into the bonfire.

For free, you can engage with the children who will be immediately fascinated by your height and want to show you off to each other, perhaps finally inviting you to a game of _nascondino_.

Finally, you can make a gossip roll to check in with the people you've met, and/or to meet the people you don't know, like the dwarf Nogrom and the violist.  Feel free to mention any and all of the folks you want to check in with - you can do it all in one post, to save us a million back and forths; a little interspersed gossip montage never hurt noone.  For each person you are going to gossip with past the first, you can add +10% to your effective Gossip roll.

*Any and all of these things, presuming they go well enough, may endear you to the people of Bella Collina.*

And then, after all that interaction is done, please make me a WP check - with a -5% penalty for every social thing you've done - buying food from the vendors, dancing, playing, engaging in the flicker-flame ritual, and for each person you gossiped with.

The outcome of this roll won't be hair-pulling terror; but it may be lingering challenge.

----------


## BananaPhone

Taalia

Once Taalia had gradually acclimatised to the increased number of people, she hovered a little further away from Gaulfredo and gravitated towards the periphery of the crowded centre, which allowed her to participate at a gentle distance. In some ways it was oddly comical, this towering late teenager, her fairer skin, heterochromia blue-green-eyes and scar across her face...the phrase 'stuck out like a tall person at a midget convention' might have been fitting, if a bit condescending, were it not for a few of the men that were close to her height, and one seemingly at it. As if she could hide in the crowd! As a young woman woman emerging onto a social scene, Taalia was noticing it more and more. Ariana was more than a foot shorter than Taalia was. The wise woman had likewise not even come up to Taalia's shoulders. And then seeing more of the population around them, she felt awkward, almost. Though her movements were fluid and she had been developing a natural long stride and gait, seeing the typical Tilean woman being a friendly-looking, dark haired woman almost a foot and a half shorter than her, hammered home that Taalia truly was a foreigner, a fact that was only accentuated whenever she tried to speak with her broken Tilean. Where-ever she had come from, the rat-men had taken her far, far away. 

But no matter. The music was beautiful, the gentle choir of happiness intoxicating, the odiferous melange of roasted chesnuts, bakery produce, sweet fruits, ales and ciders that all wafted past the girls nostrils and threaten to unseat the moorings of her apprehension, so that she may cast herself out deeper into the crowd. Like a lost foal slowly inspecting a new herd of deer with cautionary curiosity, Taalia slowly ingratiated herself and mingled. 

Her first stop was a stall upon which were arrayed a mouther-watering variety of amber-and-gold pastries. Ariana's cooking was descended from heaven, but these little things must have been the prototype, because Taalia came to a halt before them as if an invisible anchor had suddenly been tossed from her waist. Her eyes wide, mouth slightly agape, as he inhaled softly as she peered across the selection with her elevated perspective, her presence startling the small old woman behind the counter who had to crane her neck back to meet Talia's gaze.

"Un albero si è sradicato da solo e ha deciso di visitarlo?" she chuckled softly to herself, adjusting her glasses.

Taalia didn't understand, but she gathered from the elderly amusement that it was something gentle at least.

Perusing the selection, Taalia settled on a longer one; a pastry tube that contained meat within it, as she pointed to it excitedly. 

Receiving the piece of food straight onto her left hand, Taalia inhaled over lightly oiled, crisp sensation, as she paid the lady her two pennies.

"Gratzi!" she said enthusiastically, which seemed to make the older woman smile.

It was a sausage roll, and it was amazing.

oOo

Surprisingly, Taalia wasn't as impressed with the sparkle bag as her Tilean hosts might think. She _appreciated_ them, certainly, and when she watched a group of children giggle and squeal in excitement as they tossed one onto the fire, only for it to blossom into a plume of green sparks, Taalia grinned from ear to ear as her fondess for the diminutive people grew and grew. It was just that she'd seen so much more advanced in the Skaven pits. Not that the sparkle bag was _trying_ to be advanced. But when the last piece of technology you threw was a poisoned wind-globe that killed a room full of ratmen, it was hard hard to top that with pretty glitter.

Nevertheless, Taalia bought one, handing over another two pennies and tucked it away in a belt.

"Oh! Aspetto! Uno straniero!"

She turned around at the high-pitched voice, her eyes settling on the forms of a group of children that had gathered about her when she had been distracted buying that sparkle-bag. 

"È un gigante delle montagne!"

Taalia didn't know exactly what they were saying, but when the other kids giggled while staring up at her, a mixture of fear and curiosity in their little eyes, Taalia felt a youthful maternal instinct bubble up within her. It would have been easy for her to simply kick the boy and thus rid herself of their presence...but she just didn't want to. 

She guessed that with their postures and attitudes, they were a little scared of her.

"Ah..!" she gasped, kneeling down and bringing herself closer to their height. As she did this, she brought both her hands up and formed pretend claws, splaying her fingers outs - but between that demonstration was her obviously playful, pretty face and grin.

She uttered something in broken Tilean, as she reached forward and nabbed the boy under his shoulders with one hand, and tickled his tummy with the other. 

He giggled. 

It had worked with Rocco. Taalia had guessed right!

She then tucked her other hand under his arm and started to stand up. The boy kicked his feet as he laughed and squealed in mirth as he went higher...and higher...and higher...Taalia hoisting him above her head easily, her arms and height elevating the child to eight and a half feet off the ground - his whole body and head above the crowd as she looked around, laughing and kicking his feet around. Slowly, Taalia started to pivot on the spot - drawing the boy around as if she were a living merri-go-round. As the bravest lad to approach her, he enjoyed thrills, as his childish excitement was a torrent of giggles and squealing, before the towering teenager placed him gently down on his feet as he laughed.

The other kids were grinning, their little faces alight with exhilaration as they suddenly surged forward - all with their little arms out stretched, wanting to be next.

oOo

The dwarf had been a source of fascination for Taalia, had she had finally received the chance to speak to him. 

Or at least try to. That would be the theme of the day. _Try to_. 

When he was seated, she approached. She wore her friendly smile on her scared face as she did so, though once again her height became even more apparent as she struggled to hear him, let alone understand him. 

"Pleased to meet!" she was say warmly, hoping to receive a similar return. She did. Kind of. The dwarf tried to speak to her, he seemed happy that someone had approached _him_ for once, even if she could barely vocalise her thoughts. 

She did, however, soon point with interest to the kegs he had with him and the cider. 

oOo

Like Ariana, Madre Angeletta filled a feminine role model position within Taalia's current understanding of life, one that was even more senior than her younger host. That Madre was one to stand up before a crowd and announce the beginning of festivities suggested she was of some local prominence, and that her word was respected. Clearly, then, if Taalia was to be a woman in this land, then Madre was one to emulate. 

The tall girl had finished speaking with the dwarf when she happened upon the chance to share some words with Madre. Having known her from earlier, clearly, Taalia didn't feel as awkward, but the language barrier was still a problem. 

"Pleased to meet!" she announced friendly-like, not yet making the distinction that the phrase was for the first time people met, rather than a regular greeting. Then again, it had only been a week since she had started to try and learn, so even that was impressive in itself.

"Thank you, my arm, get better!" she held her left arm up. Though covered in the cloth of her outfit, the exertion it had performed earlier with hoisting the giggling children around suggested that her recovery was well on the way, and though painful, the initial wound had been a relatively clean puncture.

Thus their conversation started...

oOo
Though she had not gone out of her way to visit him, Taalia came across Maso Cestié during her wandering, her eyes widening at the side of him as she brought her right hand up to wave, almost goofily.

She would hurry over, wearing that bright smile, "Pleased to meet!", as she leaned across to give the older man a kiss on the cheek in greeting before pulling back, clearly intending her action to have been one of affectionate greeting rather than anything more seedy.

She hoped it was in greeting. She had seen it exchanged numerous times between other adults, and it was the thing to do, yes? She assured herself. 


oOo
The man with the violin had played some beautiful music, the otherworldly sound unlike anything Taalia had heard before. But, her eyes drifted to someone else that was sitting watchfully near the entertainer, as the girl suddenly straightened up, drawing a handful of her now more aptly groomed hair back behind her ear. Her cosmetics touch had been light in mirror with her experience, but even still, her fair-skinned, angular features contrasted with her hetereochromatic blue-green eyes, and the scar that ran down from forehead to cheek over one of them. 

Approaching, Taalia smiled and offered a little wave to Bertuccio, the faintest of blushes across her cheek as she also nodded.


"Pleased to meet!" she greeted, her voice a little higher than other conversations. 

"Thank you for seeing the...other...day" she continued, her pauses moments of visibly thinking about how to convey what she wanted to say.

"I speak! Just little. Learning," she beamed brightly.

oOo

When the time came to toss the sparkle-bags onto the fire, Taalia had little trouble. She waited, predicting off prior observation that the little ones would rush to the opportunity, given their youthful excitations. She was not wrong, as the flurry of little sacks were tossed forward into that burning pyre, the air around it blasting to life with a shower of multi-colored sparks that, when joined with the exuberant giggles and squeals of the children, drew even a smirk across the most composed adult present. 

When the coiling plumes of glitter slowly receded, Taalia spotted her chance and tossed her own forward, the little sack turning about in the air before impacting against that crackling fire and exploding in a fount of golden yellow sparks. Though she had handled more lethal objects, which had also resulted in death, the girl smiled as the amber firecrackers detonated, the colour reflected in her eyes as she watched the aerial tinsel explode to life and slowly dematerialise.

----------


## MrAbdiel

The mothers of the children form clusters at intervals throughout the little festival; and at any given time while you are hoisting them, atleast one of them is watching you.  They intuitively rotate their vigil between themselves; but perhaps it is a good parent who watches the children with a stranger; but judges wisely to find her no danger.  Some of them even offer you encouraging smiles; but none approach you to speak directly.  They prefer to talk about you, instead of to you.

*****
Nogrom, once you sit to speak, is first astounded at you, then almost pitifully pleased to have someone listening to him.  But the fact of his native accent, and the truth that he seems to keep unconciously dropping into and out of atleast two other languages you don't know in the slightest, makes meaningful communication impossible.  You spot prompts where his intonation rises, apparently expecting something; and a nervous positively enforcing smile seems to be the key each time, that leads to a ragged guffaw and then what you assume is a gesture of physicalised endearment - an open palmed shove to your shoulder, almost firm enough to knock you off your chair.  This happens three or four times between strings of rambling until he has let of enough pent-up need to be 'heard' that he settles down some, and seems to relax.  The violist, nearby, catches your eye midsong and gives you a plaintive, thankful grimace.  If nothing else, you have taken the pressure off _him_ to be the dwarf's situational friend, for a window of needed recovery.

*****
Madre Angeletta is better equipped to understand you; and considerably less inebriated than the dwarf.  _"Ah, Taalia - look at you, look at you"_.  She proceeds to take her own advice, looking at you; the good to your person that a little more than a week of blissful freedom and sunlit, spaghetti fuelled living has done.  She seems almost _proud_; certainly pleased to hear your report about your arm.  "Is good, is good.  Here - for you, this one.  For you, this one."

_This one_, in this case, is another pastry; which she seems to insist on purchasing for you.  You make a good guess, at the interaction - a gentle attempt to refuse before permitting her the chance to be generous, and the whole thing goes very well.  She seems pleased to have done something in spite of your attempted humility; and you have eaten what seemed to be another sausage roll, but is in fact willed not with sausage but some kind of mild, almost liquid cheese and shredded dark green vegetables which, together, make a fine filling indeed.  She works hard to understand you, and mostly succeeds, and vice versa; but before you are parted, she entrusts you with a message: _"You tell Gaulfredo that Adolpho look for him; he can be roped."_

_Can be roped_ is an idiom you can't for the life of you understand, neither have you met an Adolpho; but you are thusly charged, and Madre Angeletta hustles off with a pat to your back.

*****
Signore Cestié recognizes you, and seems surprised and amused to see you out and about.  He rises from his seat to meet you, but your kiss of greeting seems to catch him off guard.  You've read the gesture wrong, maybe - is it only for people who know each other well?  Does it not work, if the woman is taller? Is there some other secret meaning to it?  Fortunately, he does not seem offended; just off guard.  He plays it off by fanning his face, and looking to a few of the gents nearby who saw the interaction, giving them a look as if to suggest disbelief in his fanciful fortune to receive such a peck.  He is not as good as the Madre at the hard effort of having a conversation over an only partially broken language barrier; but he does point out to you one of the buildings around the town square.  It has a hanging wooden shingle, and some script on it you don't comprehend; but there is a woodburned image of a masonry saw crossed against a farrier's hammer.  His shop, perhaps?  But then it's his turn to mind the drunk and babbling dwarf; and the old timer takes that bullet so you don't have to, sending you off with a blown kiss, rather than a delivered one.

*****
Bertuccio sees you approach.  He doesn't smile - he doesn't seem to offer those easilly - but nods and squints through your fractured greeting.  _"Good.  Good learning."_

A seemingly sincere compliment, but it doesn't leave you much to go off from.  He doesn't seem to notice the make up you've put on; he has, while addressing you, the expression of a man who is waiting with much patience for someone to reveal their real intention; as if you were going to ask him a favour, or a direction, and this was preamble rather than a sincere effort to better get to know the roadwarden.

Practical.  Quiet.  Attentive.  These are his watch words for the conversation.  Perhaps he has no time for girls who just want a moment of his attention solely upon them.  Perhaps he is so strictly attentive to his duty as a keeper of peace and order he cannot let that guard down at all, except in private moments.  How stoic such a man must be, in that case.

And then comes a woman unknown to you; a little older than you, and beautiful in the way that dares an onlooker to defy it; with neither scars on her face, nor makeup; just a cascade of black ringlets to frame a pleasantly heart shaped countenance.  When she comes near, you vanish from being; or might as well have.  Bertuccio's attention switches to her completely, and the disengaged pragmatism he seemed mired in is blown away to reveal an expression of delight, and amazement, and pleasure.  He compliments her yellow dress; she swishes it once, but does not say anything; and instead continues to sway a little, reaching for his hands.  He surrenders them; and she draws him almost hypnotised away into a new round of the dance by the fire.  He does not even look at you, as he goes; and you are left on your own, with a chest full of the broken elements of the confidence you were beginning to feel.

Suddenly, the world's nature seems to change; the spread of it; the boundlessness of the open surface.  The lack of walls to put your back to; the profusing of people, people you don't _know_, people who might be _anyone_ of _any kind_, whom you cannot all keep in sight and whom you are blindly trusting to be kind to you.  Your chest tightens, and itches crawl up your back, and up your neck; unbidden thoughts urging, insisting, that you find somewhere small, and contained, where you can rely on your survivors' wits and not the endless, impossibly complexities of this dangerous world.  Then you feel the jaws on your leg.

Gently, of course.  Rocco had detected, and cunningly seized, a large flake of pastry from the sausage roll that had fluttered down during a moment of your savoring and clung to the strap of your sandal.  He licks incriminating crumbs off his nose, and peers up at you, panting peacefully.  Rocco, atleast, can see you.  He is endlessly interested in your presence; and radiates his unspoken appreciation for all attention visited upon him in turn, be they scritches, or treats.

Before you know it, the tighteness has passed; and with it, the desire to run.  Still, the night is moving on - and you find Gaulfredo speaking to a couple you do not know.  The woman cannot be much younger than Gaulfredo; a dusting of acne scars on one cheek depleting what might otherwise have been a strikingly lovely countenance with ash-blonde hair and dark eyes that seem almost sad, despite her apparent good mood.  The gentleman is similarly aged, blue of eye and yellow of hair, with a rail-thin build that competes with some of the emaciated slaves you'd known in your time below.  He's almost as tall as you, too; and that should make him gawky and unpleasant to behold.  But he has a large nose that was broken to the right, and never quite straightened when it healed; and that, paired with a wide smile as friendly as any you've ever seen, somehow turns his whole arrangement of gangly limbs from unsettling to charming; like a friendly puppet.  This is Fenicia and Polo, Gaulfredo's sister and brother-in-law; and they greet you warmly -  she with a gentle hug, he with a smile and a hand (minus one ring finger) over his heart.  The festival has drawn on, and you and Gaulfredo are both tired from the journey; and your hosts lead you to a fine looking house adjacent to the main village hall and estate.  It's a much 'nicer' place, than Gaulfredo's; the wooden floors fit more perfectly together, and are stained a uniform dark brown with slick polish.  Plaster on the walls within is whitewashed and clean; and pots in every room contain flowers that are just now starting to wilt.

Gaulfredo gets a bed made up on the floor in a room that seems to have no purpose except for sitting on comfortable chairs; you are afforded the guest bedroom.  There is a bed.  That bed is composed of a feather mattress, and cotton sheets.  There is a pillow of duck down, under your head.  It is a sumptuous amount of comfort that borders on obscene, to your body that has grown up on stone cave floors and just now had the pleasure of sleeping on hay.

But sleep finds you, all the same.  Tomorrow, to market.

*Spoiler: OOC:*
Show

Okay!  For a start,you might add 200XP to your pile for all this goodly story writing/roleplaying.  You nailed the WP test, so no lingering traumas! 
 You are on your way to adapting to surface life!

Tomorrow is the day you're hoping to make some deals.  I know you've had some ideas, in the OOC - you're hoping to sell the stuff you brought, or trade it for livestock and perhaps also some possessions.  If there's anything you want to add to that list, or if you've settled on a preference between chickens or sheep, say so!

Also, the time is coming to settle on a career choice.  With your particularly positive interaction with the Madre, you can add Hedgecraft Apprentice to the list of Peasant and Farmer options you presently have, if you can get the trappings lined up, begged borrowed or stolen.  I will warn you, however, due to the adapted and meticulous way I'm doing career changes and advancement in this solo, that the Madre _does not have the Petty Magic (Hedge) or Speak Arcane Language (Magick) advances, and cannot teach them to you._  I put her through Hedgecraft because she's the wise woman of the region, but not the magical kind.  Plenty of useful stuff in that career, but you would not be able to get the magic out of it this go-around.  Because I'm not charging for shifting out of completed careers, this means you could go into Hedgecraft Apprentice, learn everything not magically relevent, then consider it complete; but return to it essentially for free later if you DID find someone who could teach you those parts... and, for that matter, if I come to what I feel is an equitable way of determining if Taalia actually has magical capability in her blood, which is not something really addressed in the rules of the game!

----------


## MrAbdiel

The day after, Polo is gone to his work before you wake; but Fenicia prepares a breakfast for you both - crusty bread with some kind of preserved tomato and herb paste.  Fenicia is not the cook Ariana is by a long shot; but the difference is heaven and earth between this simple meal and the slop you were made to eat this time two weeks ago.  With a little more time to watch her interacting with her brother, she seems content, and healthy; a little uncertain of herself, in the medium-wealth of her home.  Gaulfredo tells her how you met; and she sheds tears when he tells her about the horse; her brother loosing a couple as well but trying to be stoic.  This family are _horse people_, it seems; she must have greeted her brother and that horse pulling the cart to town for seed and supply dozens of times.  Rocco seems to approve of her; when she calls to him, he pops up on his paws and produces a funny, wonky howling song; a warbling _rooowoooroooroowooo_ that makes her laugh, and _rooowoooroo_ back at him.

The rest of their conversation is not so funny, as much as you catch of it.

She talks of the news from other provinces - with Polo as the town clerk, he manages most of the communication for the man who lives in the estate next door.  That man is some kind of village leader or delegate, though he did not manifest at the events the previous evening, and this seems to be common enough behaviour.  There are threats to Tilea from many directions, it seems.  An important river to the north east has been sabotaged by a foreign state (though how one sabotages a river requires creative thought), cutting off a major trade route.  Orcs and goblins in the mountains far to the north are engaged in a stand-off campaign against Tilean merchant hosts battling to open a pass towards a northern neighbour on the other side; and the coasts, apparently in a common state of affairs, are suffering under the predations of coastal raiders.  This last situation does not require so much imagination.  All of this forecasts lean times to come; but self sufficient in the interior of the country is the safest place to be, and Gaulfredo resolves to buy as much supply as he can, while he's here.

The 'market' the next day considerably less impressive than the festival prior.  The workers from the night before are out again cleaning up festival debris left behind; but a handful of stalls in the square established by peddlars and petty merchants do business with the dozen or so villagers drifting in and out.  Most of it is small stuff - cloth, and wooden plates, and homewares.  Beyond that, it's simply a matter of knowing who in town might want or need a thing; fortunately, information Gaulfredo has.

His early business is conducted quickly enough, speaking to another of the farmers who came in for the festival and, with a series of rapid conversations that seem to escalate in energy and then smooth down to friendly agreement, he gives the man both the flail and pick.  He comes away with a bag of silver coins that _looks_ like a lot to your numerically untrained eyes; but he seems nervous still.

It seems like it will be a bad day, for your own sales.  There are some ladies interested in the clothes you have, and Gaulfredo is happy to do most of the talking and dealing for you.  They make some offers, and he makes some strident defences of the quality of the dresses and their wholesome provenance which might not be expressly accurate.  Ultimately, he does not seem happy with the offers - he thinks you ought to hold onto the garments for later sale, perhaps some day in when you have the opportunity to try a market with richer patrons.

*Spoiler: OOC: Offers.*
Show

For the Good Clothes * 3 and the Good Mask * 1, for a totall of 4 gold _corone_ and 4 silver _scellini_.  Gaulfredo thinks this is a bad deal, but it's money available right now; perhaps the opportunity cost makes it worthwhile.


The mirror, he assesses, is very fine; so fine he does not think anyone in town will be able to afford such an expense!  It's a trinket for fair and noble ladies, casting back a clean and clear reflection of the face within; and while a few folks entertain the fantasy of it by pretending to be interested, Gaulfredo identifies they are wasting your time.  But then, luck breaks in your favor, in a disguised blessing; the local _il fisco_ comes to down, tan rouncey beneath him; the man himself liveried in yellow sash and cap on top of fine riding leathers.  Your cunning companion sees his opening, and seizes upon it.

The _il fisco_ is responsible for enforcing the collections of dues and rents from the properties around the villages near to the town; and in turn responsible for finally conveying the town's dues to the city of Verezzo proper, and the merchant princes of the republic within.  The farmer's pitch is simple enough - why do all that travelling with bags full of coin, cumbersome and troublesome, where he might carry instead this simple piece of silvered glass?  And when he reaches Verezzo weeks from now, a man of his connection should certainly be able to sell it at a neat profit to himself - and no one the wiser.  The _il fisco_ sees profit; but unfortunately, he doesn't have the coin on him for the proposed deal.  He hasn't collected it yet; and it will be more than just this village to get it.  But Gaulfredo has an answer for that too - bringin Polo out of his office to oversee, he arranges a deal where the _il fisco_ can pay in notes of credit against his agent as a collector for the merchants of Verezzo.  This seems doable; all parties seem pleased; and Gaulfredo seems particularly pleased with his guile in making the opportunity manifest, if you're happy to take it.

*Spoiler: OOC: Offers.*
Show

Well, Gaulfredo rolled poorly on the haggle rolls for the clothes and mask; but he rolled a 09 for the mirror, and that was the big one. 
 You actually undervalued it - a small silver mirror is 20gc, so a good one is 60gc of premium value.

Gaulfredo's deal will get you an effective 50GC of credit notes, ten for 5GC each, which are as good as coin in the province of Verezzo for anyone who has to pay taxes, which is everyone.  That 10GC of difference is what's needed to compel the _il fisco_ to take the deal, expecting to make that profit when he hits bigger markets.

In a very small market like Bella Collina, it's the best deal you're going to get! 
 But if you had ambitions to head to the big smoke sooner rather than later, you might be leaving gold on the table.


As for your purchases, Gaulfredo does his best.  Even with this wealth potentially in hand, the local merchant scion who is typically absent but who is more or less the 'lord' in these parts is unlikely to sell land to an illiterate stranger who crawled out of a hole in the ground.  Polo grimaces a little at the discussion of land exchange - some kind of friction between merchant elements closer to Verezzo means that such a mysterious buyer might be interpreted as someone's catspaw making a political move.  Citizens in good standing can buy land in good times; but with the agitation on all Tilea's borders, the mobility of property is freezing up.  Gaulfredo and Aliana seem happy to have you on their property for the foreseeable future - you've been a good guest and, not to forget, essentially saved their lives and farm by helping Gaulfredo against the goblins and assisting him and Vittorio in bringing back the sacks of seed corn he needs to plant this spring, if he's going to recover from the failed wheat crop the season before.

Their land is not especially big; it would not support a full flock of sheep without devoting acreage to grazing land.  But handful of the creatures might be penned and tended.  One of the children you played with the night before, a shrewd 11 year old daughter of a local sheep farmer who will undoubtedly excel when the farm one day becomes hers, negotiates as her absent father's advocate as Gaulfredo advocates for you.

*Spoiler: OOC: Sheep Offers.*
Show

Gaulfredo nailed this roll, too.  For 14GC, you can get five young ewes and a good quality ram - a saving of 2GC.  The cost of materials and labor to build a pen and shelter for them will round that out to 20GC to set up that operation on the farm, with the pen being constructed over the next week and the livestock delivered the week after.  Gaulfredo thinks it's a good deal, and expects he can teach you to tend such a small number of the animals.


The old man with a permanent crick in the neck whom Gaulfredo jousts with over the price of chickens is more intractable.  He has his price for birds, and won't be bargained with; disappointing for Gaulfredo, but a fair tactic for someone who has what the other party wants.

*Spoiler: Chook Offers.*
Show

No remarkable fail or success here.  Gaulfredo and Ariana already have a small coop at the back of their house with a dozen laying hens and an old, possessive rooster.  But they can build another, larger coop for your operation off the side of the barn.  You'll pay sticker price for chickens, 5p each, for up to twenty - the most available right now.  Gaulfredo recommends a rooster for each ten hens.  A lower ratio than that, and they'll fight.  To build a coop for that many chickens, you'll have to fork over 10GC - mostly for materials and a few hands to get some elements of the building done, with Gaulfredo and you finishing most of it yourselves.  At that standard, it'll be reasonably fox-proof, and it'll keep the weather off the poor birbs.


Gaulfredo hems and haws over the virtues of oxen over draught horses.  He likes horses most; but oxen need only graze, and with the forecast of difficult times ahead, it'd be irresponsible to take the option that requires more expensive maintenance; and that he'd be reluctant to eat if he had to.  Talking to a pair of red-haired brothers who are switching to dairy stock, Gaulfredo finegals a price for an ox.

*Spoiler: OOC: Beefy Boi Offers*
Show

With another well timed haggle winner of a roll, Gaulfredo has a deal on the table for a healthy young ox capable of drawing cart and plow for 24GC.  He wants to split it with you, 12GC each - on account of the fact that you'll both need the beast to take the cart into town for supplies.  You'd already offered to buy it for him outright; but he still feels in your debt, what with the life saving.  A split purchase like this seems, to your intuition, to suggest an evening out of any feelings of debt one to the other; a graduation from guest and host to affectionate business partners, and even friends.  He'll sweeten the deal by letting you name it.


At the mention of dogs, he knows just the man - a neighbour called Adolpho, whose farm is 'next door' down the road home; and will be a stop on your way home.

----------


## BananaPhone

Taalia

Taalia had crawled into bed mostly happy. Dinner with Gaulfredo's sister and brother-in-law had been enjoyable, and though the cookings not quite up to Ariana's level...oh goodness heavens, who was _she_ to start talking about cuisine being on a particular level? It had been delicious as all the surface food had been. Even the goblins had cooked better food than those...nevermind. Taalia didn't want to think about it. Just be thankful for her surroundings, as she sunk into that beautifully plush, soft bed, her towering figure welcoming the sensation of laying on a cloud. 

But though Taalia tried drifting off to sleep, her mind inevitably wandered back to that bitc - no, that wasn't nice. To that _lady_ in the yellow dress, the one Bertuccio seemed so smitten with. Taalia felt her lips purse tightly as her skin warmed up, a dreadful sensation bubbling up deep from within. What did _she_ have that I didn't? Well, that was a silly question, she knew. An intact face for one. A pretty yellow dress for second. No language barrier to over-come that makes you look like some graceless idiot barely able to string a sentence together.

Numerous dark fantasies that usually featured Yellow Dresses' ironic demise ran through Taalia's head as she lay there stewing in the failure of her attempted conversation, but failure was a generous word. Failure implied something at least partially gained momentum before halting. Taalia hadn't even gotten that far. She could barely hold his attention for more than a few seconds. That snake could though. Show off cow, Taalia grumbled to herself. Fine then, she didn't want to talk Bertuccio anyway! She rolled over onto her side, face half-clenched, eyes closed as she huffed to the thoughts in her own head. 

Opening her eyes, Taalia reached out and rummaged through her slipbag and withdrew that mirror, the beautiful quality item being held up so she could see herself in the moonlight. She looked, considering her features. She imagined herself without that on her face...her free hand reaching up to gently run her finger down the two sets of scars as she pursed her lips. The handiwork of the rat-men would be with her forever...

Blinking, Taalia snapped out of it as she growled gently and put the mirror back in the bag. Two weeks ago she'd gone to sleep on a cold floor, two days hungry and her back red from a caning by some zealous foreman - and she was now _complaining_? She was living in the lap of luxury! Surrounding by community, people who meant her well and amazing cuisine. She more of a future now than she ever did back under those misbegotten fleabags. So some handsome, rugged, brave man didn't want her...no, Taalia rephrased that in her head. So a man who took his duty to honor seriously, and only had eyes for his existing beloved. 

Taalia smiled. Yes! That was it. 

Smiling a little, feeling at least a little better having rationalised things, she soon drifted off to sleep...


oOo

The next morning Taalia was her usual quiet, but friendly self for breakfast. She spoke in broken Tilean still, but a few words here and there were getting better, her attitude one of over-all warmth and gratitude to be there, thanking her hosts each time something was handed to her.

Taalia had readied herself quicker than Gaulfredo that morning, as she was used to the up-and-work schedule of the Skaven while her host took his time with important matters such as breakfast and reading oneself for the day ahead. And so, when she was standing outside of Polo's house, she spotted a group of boys across the street, seemingly around her age. Brazenly confident, Taalia simply approached, their attention swiftly secured as she neared to within 10 feet or so, her unusual features and height causing her to stand out immediately. 

"Pleased to meet!" she smiled, friendly, giving a small wave. 

The boys looked at each other in exchanged glances that all shared the same confusion as to how to answer. What do we say? Doubtless one thought. What does she want? Speculated another. 

"Er...Buongiorno!" one said, a smiling coming up as the others joined him, nodding their heads, each repeating the word. 

Taalia knew what that meant. It was a greeting for the _morning_.

Looking for a second as if she recognised that, Taalia spoke again, "Buongiorno!" she nodded, smiling brightly, if a bit dorkishly.

"Ah...ah you...ehh...from here?" the main one asked, clearly trying to dumb his speech down to meet hers.

Taalia shook her head, "No, I am visitor."

The conversation continued on innocuously enough, and when it ended and Taalia pulled away once Gaulfredo emerged, it was clear that the boys didn't know what to make of her. She hadn't come off as unpleasant, just...not that accessible, which had hampered her natural friendliness from endearing her to them. When she nodded and said goodbye, and they likewise bid her well, it felt more awkward than pleasing, and as the teenager moved to catch up to Gaulfredo, she felt even more like an outsider who didn't belong.


oOo

The series of trades were a fascinating exercise in haggling, bargaining and appraisal for the ex-slave. Having thought about how incredible the idea of just 'owning' something was, that people weren't just knifing each other in the back to steal what they want was furtherly amazing. Thus, she watched and listened to the dance of the haggle. Someone didn't just give a price and money was handed over, no no. This was as much a social ceremony as anything else in this culture, the back and forth, interest and apprehension, refusal or acquiesced, it was all a social dance that resulted in goods exchanging hands on a voluntary basis. It was quite beautiful to her, actually. 

The initial refusal to sell the dress Taalia left up to Gaulfredo's recommendation. But the mirror - that caused the biggest amount of activity. Clerks were involved, bills of credit, wealthy dashing men with beautiful clothes on horses. The intricacies of what was happening was over the girls head, but she understood on a fundamental level what was happening: the mirror was worth a lot. _A lot_. The man did not have the funds on him, as ascertained by his lack of bulging coin sacks and shrugs of non-possession, but the signed strips of paper provided by the respected authority was some type of loan or credit. 

It turns out Taalia was right. Gaulfredo was more than happy with that trade, and as he handed the notes to Taalia the girl felt a rush through her body the likes of which she had _never_ felt. Holding those bills in her hands, her heterochromia blue-green eyes savoring their image and feel, knowing not just what they were but what they _represented_! Stuff Bertuccio, he could have that yellow-dressed hussy - Taalia had money! In one moment she had become arguably the wealthiest teenager in the region, and 2 weeks ago she'd gone to sleep on a cold floor, hungry and beaten by deformed rat-men.

But what good was money without things to buy? Once again, as she had reminisced upon during their trip, the idea of _owning_ things was portentous to her. Having stuffed the bills into her little slipsack and hugging that bag to her chest with a powerful, protective grip, Taalia had followed Gaulfredo as they passed the other farmers and the animals they had for sale. 

Yes, for sale! Now _she_ could buy other things!

Taalia loved the sheep the moment she saw them, their dumb but gentle faces and the white fluff of their wool. The chickens, likewise, were cute to her, the idea of having some pet bird to pet a rather entertaining idea. But it didn't take Taalia long to see what else these things were: productive. 

And not in a brutalised-and-worked-to-death way like her life as a slave. No no, they were treated nicely, but as she saw the stacks of wool being processed for sale and the rows of eggs for sale, Taalia saw why these animals were valuable. She also soon learned how many eggs each chicken could be expected to produce, and the cogs started turning in her brain.

Having learned the numeric system relatively early, Taalia used her knowledge of numbers, pennies, silver and gold crowns to gauge just how much money she had in her pack. 

She had a lot. She could buy a lot. It seems that her years of misery were being given some sort of reparation by the gods of fate.

Gaulfredo, once again, worked his game brilliantly. Perhaps the fresh memory of Ariana's appreciation for Taalia's gift was particularly motivating to help his new charge and establish a working relationship? Whatever the animus, he did well by her and soon presented her with the options. But now it was time for Taalia to surprise him. She might not know haggling, yet, but she knew numbers. Years working in Papa Rats workshop had taught her a rudimentary understanding of maths. One didn't work with the insane machinery of the Skaven and keep all of their fingers if they didn't. 

Holding Gaulfredo by the arm she spoke to him softly, quietly, where no one could hear. She gave an outline of her plan to return to those women and accept their offer for the clothes, and use that extra money to buy the sheep and pen and half of the available chickens and coop space, use the poultry produce to expand the coop over the coming months and pay him a type of rent for staying and using a small section of his land. She gave numbers where necessary, but obviously stopped short of furnishing his judgement with the truly ambitious, year-long prediction she had mentally calculated within the last minute.

----------


## MrAbdiel

Gaulfredo was a simple man.  Like most, he could not read; but his grasp of numbers was intuitive and deep, and he grasps the picture you paint even through the fogged glass of your imperfect tongue.  He is, as before, happy to be your conspirator in this; even though losing the clothes at a less than ideal price pains him.  But your dream is contageous; and he was not much younger than you when he was carving his own little place in the world, and perhaps your inspired moment reminds him of that feeling of drive and eagerness.  So you sell the dresses, for just enough liquidity to make your purchases; and as quickly as the wealth entered your life, it vanishes in a flurry of handshakes and scheduled drop offs.  The materials first; livestock later; enough time to learn from Ariana and Gaulfredo a little about the animals you've now committed this princely sum to acquiring.  With a little luck, in a month's time, you'll be a farmer yourself.  And surely, after all you've been through, the universe owes you a little more luck still to come.  He makes a purchase of his own, part of which is a gift for you - a pair of quarterstaves of nice, sturdy hickory.  A good staff is necessary for herding sheep, he assures you; and a good companion to walk with.  Not to mention, perhaps, a better weapon on the road than the small throwing knife, or the crude goblin club.

*Spoiler: OOC:*
Show

You gain 1 * Quarterstaff.  If you want to make any other minor purchases before you leave town, let me know!


The vendors have not brought their herds to town - just sample stock, to prove their worth.  The lone ox you've offered payment for will be led to the farm within the week, you're assured; and the other animals the week after, by which time the enclosures should be ready.  So with the shopping done, and plenty of daylight left, the time comes  to farewell Fenicia and Polo and head back to the farm with a few more coins in your bag, and a wealth of promises that, you are forced to hope, the other villagers will keep.

* * * * *
There is one more stop, on the way home; a visit to the neighbour Adolpho's property, perhaps to see about a dog.  But after overshooting your farm by twenty minutes to get to this neighbour, the ruddy-skinned and barrel chested Adolpho does not seem pleased to see Gaulfredo.  Passing through a swinging wooded gate, Rocco hares off around across the ungrazed and poorly tamed front paddock of the farmhouse, _rooowoorooo_ing at excitable pitches and eliciting a chorus of the same from beyond the house.  At the same time, as soon as Gaulfredo is within Adolpho's shouting distance, the shouting begins; a red faced tirade that comes too quickly for you to follow any of it, or your friend's rejoinders as he rapidly becomes defensive.  Their voices become strident and furious; and both men have taken off their hats and are using them to gesture wildly as they point - back at the way they came, toward the house, toward the back of the house, to the route Rocco took on his way around.  You are sure it's going to come to blows, but it doesn't quite; though Adolpho returns to a saturnine simmer, rather than letting the matter go entirely as he stalks off around the house.  Once he's out of sight, Gaulfredo replaces his hat, and looks at you with an apologetic expression.  _"Ah.  Is trouble, but not so bad.  Here, let us see."_

Later, with some work, the whole picture is made clear to you.  Adolpho is a widower, who has alone brought up his now teenage daughter, Diletta.  Adolpho's business is dogs; most recently, Tylesian Corsos, which he breeds and trains to see off to specialty clients in Verezzo.  The process of producing an acceptable and trained specimen of the high shouldered, strong-jawed breed is arduous; but when done correctly, they are peerless war-dogs, descended from the pets of the ancients of Tylos who once ruled these lands long before the land became the Tilean states.  You see a few of the beasts, when you round the corner of the house; penned up and barking at Rocco on the other side of their wood slatted pens.  Rocco barks back; apparently a common enough communion between the canine neighbours.

Rocco is more than a neighbour now, it seems.  The dog - the _sly_ dog, the _absolute_ dog - has made his way over to the distant farm some romantic evening months ago and won the affections of one of the Corsos - one who was supposed to be bred by its own kind, to produce more pedigree wardogs.  Rocco's affair was unknown and discreet, as illicit gentlemen can sometimes be; and Adolpho had already made projections and tentative sales for what he had expected would be a litter of Corsos that he could train and distrubute.  Having left the farm in the hands of Diletta - a plain faced, brown haired girl who is as short as you are tall, but who offers you an embarassed smile given her father's temper - he had gone away for six weeks of travel to Verezzo to try to secure buyers for the dogs he expected to have.  But what he had, when he got home, was a litter of four Tylesian Corso/Trantine Sheepdog cross pups, four weeks grown and mostly weened.  Rural life and dealing with animals is often less than picturesque; and had he been present for the birth of the pups, Gaulfredo suspects the man would have put the pups down.  But now their eyes are open, and their pitchy little yips are in the air, and they are past the point where even such a pragmatic man can simply kill  a creature and coldly call it necessary.  The dog's mother has lost a breeding cycle, and Adolpho has probably lost money on sales.  Gaulfredo maintains that his dog is a worker, who remains off the leash; and he is not at fault if Adolpho left his breeder in heat out and advertising.  Adolpho is predictably unsympathetic to this argument; and they go round in circles for a while before they come to an arrangement: Gaulfredo will take the two male pups, which will just cause mischeif; and Adolpho will keep and the two female pups, whom he hopes he will be able to find a purpose for.  The transaction costs Gaulfredo two of the gold coins he had remaining after selling his flail, and the pick, and buying his half of the ox; but with that token admitting some responsibility for the happening, Adolpho is mollified, and the neighbours are united again.

_"This one for Vittorio, I think;"_ he says, with the pup held in the crook of one arm, crouching down so Rocco, now a father, can sniff and nuzzle and regard his progeny with excitement.  _"With more animals, is good to have more dogs, I think."_

The other pup; whining sadly as you carry it away from its mother and back to the road, sooths itself by mooshing its puppy face into the flat of your stomach, as you cradle it.  He is the size of a head of lettuce.  He has four teeth, for now.  And he, just like you when you came to this sunlit and new world, is in need of a name.

*Spoiler: OOC:*
Show

You and Gaulfredo each gain 1 * puppy. Trapping quality yet to be determined.

----------


## BananaPhone

Taalia

It was on the exit of the town that Taalia turned to look over her shoulder and consider the village. Her social achievements were...mixed. She still felt stupid over Bertuccio, but the teenager wasn't yet aware just how quickly that would pass. Her interaction with the children had been positively delightful, as Taalia felt herself opening up more to them. If she was being honest, it was a flush of warmth across her body to interact with them in such a friendly manner, have having spent years watching them...well...the less said the better. Signore Cestié had been a social misstep on her behalf, she could recognise that now, and she was secretly grateful that he had the graces and elderly lenience to forgive her ignorance of decorum. No more kisses on the cheeks, at least with men. Maybe it was gender exclusive? She would have to learn more. Outside of the children, the meeting she enjoyed the most was with Madre, the Wise Woman who had seen to her arm. Perhaps Taalia had long needed an older maternal presence, or maybe role model in her life, but she saw the way the senior female carried herself and behaved, how she didn't have to say much but when she did speak she was listened to. It was clear she occupied a lofty position of respect within the community, a venerable collection of memories and knowledge that was sought by those wise enough to recognise their value, and perhaps fate had smiled upon Taalia again by having this older woman apparently feel some endearment towards her. Indeed, Taalia tried to picture herself at that age, and when the image coalesced she looked quite different from Madre in appearance, but in mannerisms and position within the broader community it was similar: a reliable presence people appreciated and listened to. Taalia smiled and nodded. That sounded nice to her!

Turning and looking once more at the town whose dimensions were diminishing in the background, the teenager smiled. She then turned to Gaulfredo and, abruptly, gave him a hug before continuing on.

"Gratzi!"

oOo

The initial shouting intimidated Taalia, that much was clear. She had approached Adolpho's estate alongside Gaulfredo, she had not expected such a hot-blooded, heart-on-the-sleeve exchange. But, as she was quickly learning, that's how the Tileans were. Even Gaulfredo and Ariana had these occasional shouting matches, but they never _meant_ it. The elevated voices, the passionate gesticulations, the words flung back and forth, these only seemed superfluous theatre rather than any true feelings of resentment. The Norscans had never been so...openly passionate. They could be ferocious, _everyone_ knew that, their fury was legendary. But in the home life a raised voice meant legitimate resentment. But among the Tileans? It was just Tuesday. Then Taalia thought back to Madre and realised this was another thing that set her apart in her eyes, she didn't _need_ passionate outbursts, no litany of offences to accuse in passion as she shook a fist, no hot-tempered yelling, nothing: she just spoke and people listened.

However, that didn't halt Taalia from stepping back and shrinking her image a little as Adolpho and Gaulfredo whirred their anger engines to life, their exchange becoming so heated at one point the teenagers finely honed danger sense started to tingle at possible violence. But as the crescendo of verbal agitation rose, so too did it diminish like a hot wave of emotion, and soon Adolpho, though clearly not happy with some transgression, was speaking with a more restrained but firm countenance. It interested Taalia as much as it frightened her. Perhaps it was some unwritten social contract? If you rose your voice and shouted, you were giving permission to your other to likewise vent their frustrations in an equally passionate manner, but both knew that such was just another little social ceremony, an reciprocal outpouring that was only entered into if both parties participated. Perhaps if Taalia remained composed, spoke firmly but softly, no such fire would be needed? Her opposite would understand she wasn't 'in the game' so to speak?

In either case, Taalia hung around with Rocco, and when she learned of his...trespassing's, the teenager smirked and beheld the sly dog. 

"Tut tut tut..." she shook her had, waving her finger slowly at the animal, <"You devious little beast..."> she chuckled. It seemed that the humans weren't the only creatures of passion on the surface. 

Not that such a thing was foreign to Taalia. Back in the pits she...well, she had seen things children that age should not have to witness. Vile, grotesque things she only managed to barely escape by hiding, until her impressive stature and surprisingly strong frame could fight others off on her own. As bleak as the memories were, she couldn't bring herself to hate them. None of the men who were brought to the pens had entered with such beastly intents, but the pits broke them in spirit and mind, driving them to madness and foul actions. 

Brought back to the present by the sound of the gate, Taalia entered the breeding pens, the barking cane corso's an impressive breed with strong shoulders and large heads. Having had to enter the rat ogre pens to feed the ferocious beasts, this was nothing Taalia had not experienced before, and a keen eye might notice she knew to stand at a safe distance, not put her hands near the cages and to speak quietly and not look any of the animals in the eyes. 

But then - the puppy.

Taalia's countenance shifted immediately, her blue-green eyes widening, her mouth gaping open in a beloved gasp. 

"Ohhhhh!" she exhaled in an act of instant love as he received the baby animal in her hands, holding him to behold Rocco's offspring before lowering the puppy to her face to smother it with kisses and hugs. Like a mother receiving her newborn, Taalia cradled the puppy and kissed it, pet it and hugged it. Though distracted by how adorable the ungainly puppy was, Taalia could see the mixture between Rocco's image and that of the bitch - a muscular, dark-furred wardog that sat with menacing patience within her cage, watching with yellowed eyes as a stranger fawned over one of her offspring. Would this little boy receive his mothers strong build and guard instincts along with Rocco's devious intelligence and, ahem, drive? That would make an excellent pet.

When they were back on the road and Taalia had set her new dog down so it could relieve itself on the side of the road, she watched as Gaulfredo asked as to its name. The teenager thought, pursing her lips, eyes tilted upwards. Memories took her back to that first day she escaped the ratmen, the first hour she wandered among the forest with broken chains. She recalled the first animal she had seen, perched and spotted among the foliage above and whom took to the skies as they pleased, free as, well, a bird.

"Corvo," she answered.

Ooc:

Taalia will 2 of her remaining pennies to buy some soap to regularly bathe and washe and clean herself in the local river.

----------


## MrAbdiel

The Power of One
_Part 1 - "In Sterquiliniis Invenitur"


Chapter 3 - Vita_

You can barely contain your excitement.  Over the next two weeks, your plans begin to come together.  The ox is walked to your property by one of the red-haired brothers who made the sale.  A healthy looking beast with big crescent horns and a white furred hide, with cannons of rusty red on its shins.  Gaulfredo has had time to rig his blow and cart for the yoke instead of the horse harness, and with a little cajoling and farmland knowhow, he reassures the beast and leads it to its new home in the barn, next to its equine neighbour.  Soon, you and he (and Vittorio, and Rocco and Corvo and Elmo who variously insist on coming along or are in need of constant attention) are making trips to properties near and far to pick up cartloads of hewn logs from neighbours and rough planks from a local sawmill.  Your formative years have been spent moving rocks in pits where you weren't trusted with a pickaxe, or fiddling with the mysterious fine machinery of Rashabang.  Construction with basic tools is something you have never been required to do; but your hosts are growing in affection for you and are patient as you learn and offer help when you can.  

Your plans begin to manifest.  The chicken coop is built again the side of the barn; a simple, wooden board enclosure with  stones and earth healed around its base to dissuade snakes and foxes from trying to get in.   Shelves made of wooden beams inside are set with wooden crates, lined with straw for the birds to roost.  Gaulfredo goes to the trouble of building the door into the existing wall of the barn, in addition to the exterior door; this way, you'll be able to fetch the eggs and otherwise tend to the birds directly from within the barn, without going all the way out and around; and without risking a full blown chicken escape if the barn's main door is closed.  The sheep pen is simpler, but harder work; study logs are used to make a fence off the back side of the barn with a wooden swing gate; and a sloped extension from the edge of the barn's roof offers shade and shelter to the creatures in most weather conditions; though you'll have to lead them into the barn proper during storms.  The pen is split in two, separated by another gate, permitting you to choose which animals are where, depending on your plans for them.  During most of this, Ariana, Vittorio and Rocco look after Corvo, for you.  The needy little pups are adorable and charming neighbours to have in the barn, but they _yip_ you awake to let them out so they can relieve themselves during the night.  Rocco does the hard work of herding them back into the barn, afterward; but the helplessness of Elmo and Corvo is pronounced at such an age.  You enjoy it when you can, mitigate it when you can't.  Ariana showcases yet another skill - she's well used to raising dogs and teaching them to be working beasts, and both Elmo and Corvo are learning the love of collaboration that is the sacred pact of man, and dog.

And on the third week, your flocks arrive.  Four young ewes - unproven yearlings, but from fine enough stock - and a proven, full grown breeder ram of brown coat and  spiral horns.  His name is _Hermes_, and he seems to know it - when you call it, he distinctly turns to look at you with dumb animal curiosity; though he doesn't come to heel, like a dog does.  The ewes orbit him, fawningly discharging all their discomfort with this new living arrangement to him.  Gaulfredo teaches you the basics easily enough.  He simply takes Hermes by the horn, and leads him along for a few steps.  Then, when he releases the horn, the beast understands; and follows him from out the front of the house, to around to an overgrown patch of grass near the barn to let the creatures graze.  The ewes follow the ram, and when one starts wandering off oblivously following the grass under its nose, Gaulfredo merely blocks its path with his staff, and gives it a little nudge, and it retreats to Hermes side.  They are simple creatures, slow, and placid, and needful of protection and guidance; and they seem almost reassured when you close the gate to their pen in the evening.

The chickens are more of a handful.  Ten hens of various hues from dove-white to scorched-wood brown, and a rambunctious rooster named _Hurcio_ after a legendary mercenary warrior of the Tileans.  The chickens do not follow you instinctively, through Gaulfredo assures you they may well come to, eventually.  You leave them _cooped up_ for a few days and then it's alright to let them out during daylight hours.  They wander inoffensively around the area near to the coop, foraging and pecking and scratching at the ground; and by the evening as the sun is coming down, they retreat without prompting into their roosts and all you need to do is close the door, and wait for the next day when you let them out and scoop up their eggs.  Usually, it's one a night; sometimes two, which is an exciting development.  Eggs begin to feature more in Ariana's cooking, and there's a little less stress about getting meat on the table when eggs are available.

But in the fourth week, it's Hurcio who causes the first major disaster of your career as a farmer.  It's otherwise a great week.  Your arm feels almost back to normal.  Ariana has made you a cloth carry-harness for you to bring Corvo hither and yon close to yourself while keeping your hands free; he peeks out of the linen sling while resting against the flat of your stomach, very happy with this arrangement.  But most of the time, when you don't need to be anywhere, he is perfectly mobile on his own, if still a little goofy and clumsy when running at full tilt.  But who wasn't, when they were young?  And your Tilean has become so much better in this short time that you no longer feel like you have to fight to be understood or to understand these people.  You are adapting to a new life; and all its many promises.

The sun is setting.  The chickens are closed in their coop, and you are leading Hermes and his harem into their pen.  Just as you close the gate, you hear a crowing, squabbling racket from inside the coop - sustained and violent sounding. You vault the sheep pen fence, Corvo bobbing in his sling, and burst into the coop to find shocking tableux.  An epic of familial turmoil and revenge is instantly visible, staged out in the scene as the birds scatter.  One of the hens has laid unusually late in the afternoon, while perching one of the high beams in the coop.  The egg naturally did not long balance on the beam, and tumbled and splatted on the coop floor.  Hurcio is yellow in beak and claw - he must have been first to the scene, shamelessly indulging in the cthonic repast of devouring his young.  Witnessing this, perhaps jealous of this grim feast or, more dramatically, maternally vengeful, the hens swarm and peck their rooster, overwhelming him with numbers and girlpower.  Is it that moment when you throw open the coop door and surge in to break up the brawl.  The chickens have never expressed a desire to go out at night, so the state of the door does not cry out to you to be closed first as a precaution.  But Hurcio, humilated and unmanned, flees out the door with a hollering cackle of anguish, and three of the hens shoot between your ankles in pursuit.  The rooster launches into the air, but his clipped wings do not permit him to soar; only to spastically flutter into the sheep pen.  This perceived attack run from an unexpected vector startles Hermes, who at once gets to moving as his best instinct to avoid predators tells him to do.  Corvo chooses this moment to leap from the sling, tumble onto the floor, and start chasing some of the other panicking chooks.  You reflexively snatch him back up again before he can get far; but then to your horror you realise that in your haste to rescue the chickens, you neglected to latch the sheep gate - which wouldn't have been a problem, without the cascade of events.  But cascade they have, and now Hermes has charged unhindered through the gate, with his dashing along behind him.  Calling him does not stop him, in this state of alarm.  It's all you can do to cut two of the ewes off as they begin to scatter in their confusion, and you hoist them physically one after another into the pen with the gate now latched.  By the time you have recaptured these, the others are out of sight - and the sun is getting rapidly low.  You sprint around the barn and find Gaulfredo getting ready to  unhitch the ox from its day's plowing, and recruit him to aid you.

He takes one look at the sinking sun, and then takes Corvo off your hands, and passes him to Vittorio.  "Go inside, mind the pups; tell your mother we need her help, and to bring her lantern."  Vittorio, dual wielding puppies, takes off with full purpose; and soon Ariana joins you, lighting a pair of torches for you and Gaulfredo from her lantern's flame.

One rooster, three hens, two sheep and a ram are somewhere on the property; and they have not been here long enough to hope with full confidence they will find their way back.

*Spoiler: OOC: Disaster on the Farm!*
Show

We gotta bring these critters home!  Splitting up to find them is the move.  You can give me three visual perception rolls, if you would be so kind; difficulty is challenging, though it would be harder if you didn't have nightvision!

----------


## BananaPhone

Taalia





Taalia settled further into farming life, her inclination a natural affinity as she eagerly learned from Gaulfredo and Ariana. Though she was older than their own son, there was nevertheless a growing familial comraderies between them, as she had literally been a babe in the woods brought in from the wilderness. Her naivety, clear history of trauma and abuse combined with her friendly and very intelligent nature and eagerness to help, made her a helpful addition that made her inclusion to the estate a much easier and smoother transition. If she were lazy, despondent, or perhaps even paranoid and violently difficult to deal with, it would be doubtless that the charitable patience of the family would have been breached and Taalia sent on her way with her geld notes, minimal Tilean and little else. Down what path would she have taken under such duress? Where would she have gone? Who would have taken her in for a night? Would she end up as some highway bully, brought in by the road warden? Or perhaps as a reluctant worker in the brothels or street beggar? The former seems unlikely given her prior witnesses in the slave pens, and the latter likewise the graduation from one slavery to another form, only this time in servitude to the mercy of others. Or if she had not followed the river down towards the valley but had instead turned and walked up into the mountains? No, it was most likely that she would have ended up in a violent profession where her stature and impressive strength, combined with her broken Tilean, would have seen her lead a probably short and brutish life. Though she would have the freedom to direct where she went, that didn't always mean it'd be where she'd want to go, and Taalia was becoming comfortable enough that she could ruminate on just how poorly things could have gone had she not gained acceptance into Gaulfredo and Ariana's household. It was ironic then that though it had been the thought of the treasures hidden within that locked chest that had lured her to attempt a robbery of the goblins, it had merely been a conduit through which she had passed into an even more bountiful blessing - the green fields and warm rural living of a household and farm, and the seemingly positive path it had put her life back on.

But, hopeful as things were there were always obstacles to overcome.

The building of the coop and the sheep pen was the first labour of construction that Taalia genuinely liked. She had worked on plenty of Rashabangs insane gizmos' and devices, even developing a gradual intuition for them, their make and purpose, and though she had enjoyed building things she had never made something for herself. Now she was. The wood for the coup required coordination to erect and fasten, the loose, small stones that were compacted tightly with earth around the base to deter the digging claws of foxes or the the prying invasion of snakes. Working with Gaulfredo was a joy, as Taalia even assisted him with his own labours in harvesting his crops. She was tall, fit and strong, motivated and seemingly had no lack of energy, as if she were a substitute strapping son until Vittorio came of age. 

However, it was during the construction of the sheeps pen that the ex-slave was reminded that she still had a long way to go. For you see, as she settled into her life and acclimatized, Taalia became more aware of customs, cultural aspects and traditions that unfolded around her. The slave pits of the Skaven was a miserable land of thankless toil, brutal hardship, selfish survival and endless anxiety that ate away at the nerves. But up here, on the surface, though hunger could certainly set in and the purses weren't exactly fat with coin, life had more sunshine and fulfillments that made the next day worth looking forward to. Sometimes when Taalia was working on the coop, tending to one of the animals or cleaning up after dinner, she would hear Ariana giggling gently, with further hidden inspection observing her and Gaulfredo engaged in flirtatious exchange. Nothing heavy, they weren't animals. But a giggle here, a nuzzle-against the neck there, an affectionate holding of the forearm. Taalia couldn't help but smile whenever she spied these little coupling moments, before returning to her labours, her mind wandering. Being on a farm, she saw the eventual produce everywhere. Vittorio was the obvious marker of such affections, as well as her adorable pup Corvo who came forth from his devious fathers nightly adventures. The sheep she had ordered she knew had a ram to both protect and, ahem, furnish them with young lambs in the months to come. The chickens, likewise, and their rooster. In some alternative imagination of the concept, the fields had the crop seeds deposited into them, from which would come the corn and wheat that was Gaulfredo's main produce. So, Taalia wondered to herself, where was hers? 

The ex-slave thought that she might test her curiosity during the construction of the sheeps pen. She had helped acquire the materials, she had watched and participated as they were set down into place, but she was not the sole one responsible for its finalisation. She still had other duties to attend to on the farm, and so the last stages of the pens make was entrusted to a handful of boys not much younger than herself. One seemed to be the son of the sheep trader whom had likely not been available during their market negotiation, but whom was present now with a handful of his friends to earn some pennies, doubtless for some ales at a tavern later. They were fit lads, sculpted by rural life as they were, and Taalia found them appealing enough to approach when they were taking a breather. She did so carrying a tray upon which was arrayed mugs of cold water that came from pots stored in shadowed regions of the house to serve the needs of cold refreshments. 

"Buongiorno" she would smile, approaching the pen, holding the tray out. 

"You all look tired...I brought some water," she offered, her Tilean improved considerably since market day but was still rather jilted. 

The boys exchanged looks, smiles creeping upon their faces, as she was half a foot taller than the highest among them. 

"Thank you, did you reach to the top of the trees to collect the rain water?" the son asked, a coy, playful look across his face. To his sides, the other boys snickered, one shaking his head as he did so, another rolling his eyes. 

At this, Taalia was confused, but seeing others laughing had, so far in her experience, meant that something fun was being spoken about. Smiling awkwardly, "No...we store jugs under the floor, keeps them cool."

"So it comes from your jugs?" the boy asked again, his friends now openly laughing to his side as he struggled to retain his composure, desperately wanting to join his companions in their mirth.

"Is that's why there's so much?" his friend commented, and this time the son's face split into raucous laughter.

Taalia's smile slowly rescinded, her eyes swiveled back and forth between each lad, the realisation that she was being mocked, and rather vulgarly at that, dawning across her reddening face. A part of her wanted to disappear into the earth to avoid the jostling, while another aspect of her mind wanted to smash the tray over the boys head to make an example out of him - but she had learned enough to know that that wasn't how things were done on the surface. Besides, the cool-headed little businesswoman seated at the back of her head managed to yell over the fury of her other assembled emotions to tell her wisely that she wanted to have good relations with the local sheep farmer, not brain his son with a tray because he was acting like a little ******** teenage boy would.

He also had to finish building the sheep pen. He couldn't really do that with a concussion.

Her eyes hardened, her jaw clenched. For a moment it seemed like she would discard civilised decorum and at least throw something at the boys, but she restrained. One seemed to rein in his laughter when he could see that she was actually hurt by the comments, rather than taking it in vulgar jest and throwing back her own barbs. But the other two were not as aware.

"You get nothing!" Taalia hissed, fighting off the temptation to get physical, as she brought the tray back against herself as if to protect it, before she turned and stormed off. As she departed, a few words of assurance that they were just joking and to not take things too seriously followed, but she only suspected she would be returning to further teasing at her expense, and so cool water refreshments were the price they paid for their mockery. She would have to talk to Ariana later, find out how best to deal with this. Or Madre. Yes, Madre could be asked too. She'd know what to do.


oOo

The breakout came at about a week after her third bumbling attempt at socialising on her own. Corvo, the gorgeous puppy in his sling, had been the love of her life for now, as despite his constant, and sometimes annoying, need for attention, she was very fond of the growing dog and often found herself talking to him. She had been told the time would soon come when she would need to place the baby dog into situations where he was separated from her, the time of which extended futher and further. He would whine, he would yip, he would likely even profess a little baby howl and loud yapping as instincts told him he had been abandoned and needed to cry as loud as he could so that he could located be rescued. But it would teach him eventually how to cope with being separated from Taalia for as long a period as was necessary. Taalia knew it needed to be done, but in her heart she dreaded the day.

She was likewise becoming more affectionate with Vitorrio. Her prior cool detachment as a defense mechanism had gradually melted away, and as her Tilean became more proficient that she could fluently converse, she could talk to him about things, her experiences and her thoughts. She'd give him hair ruffles, kiss him on the forehead, hold his hand if he wanted to walk somewhere near the forest where it might not be safe. As Gaulfredo and Ariana were her surrogate parents, in a way Taalia was his big step sister, and he taught her as much about the social fabric and culture of Tilea as a equally valuable reward for her presence.

It was perhaps this absentmindedness that caused her not to secure the latch on the sheeps pen, because complacency had assured her that the unadventurous and cowardly sheep never tested it under normal circumstances. But when _non_-normal circumstances arose, Taalia could only watch in futile horror, shouting at her pets, as three wooly arses fled off into the property, a few chickens darting by for good measure.

Staving off the panic that was setting into her nervous system, Taalia had inspiration from the most unlikely of places: her prior Skaven owners. 

They never chased down slaves. They didn't need to. Why? Because they were everywhere slaves were likely to flee to. This made long-term escape a veritable impossibility, and an idea formed through Taalia's head. 

Don't directly chase the animals down, they would just flee and they were faster than she was ever going to be. Instead, head them off and herd them back to the farm, as Gaulfredo had also demonstrated.

Shutting up the pens and coops to stop the flow of freedom-seeking animals, Taalia discarded her puppy-sling to Vitorrio with a little surprised yelp from Corvo inside. 

"We're going to herd them back here; be ready to open and allow them in!" she said hurriedly, darting off to fetch her quarter staff and recruit the help of Gaulfredo, Ariana and Rocco. When a lantern was offered, Taalia rescinded and let someone else have it who needed it more. She didn't need it. She could see perfectly fine at day, dusk or night time.

----------


## MrAbdiel

Together, you scour the countryside to the limits of Gaulfredo's acreage, and then further into the fallowing fields of his neighbours and the lightly wooded, undeveloped land along the north-running road. Twenty minutes of searching first reveals nothing to the light of your torch; but then you catch a glimpse of a shed white feather.  Following your instincts, you are rewarded: one of your hens, scratching away at the base of an old tree stump, trying to carve out a place to rest in this wilderness.  With no torch to burden you, you sneak up on it; and before it can _bawk_ and run, you press your hands flat on its back rendering its struggles futile, and scoop it up.

One down; the hen offering protesting flaps of its wings and nervous _braaawking_ as you tuck it under your arm and spring back toward the farm house.  On the way, a swaying beacon of smooth yellow light shows you Ariana is heading back, too; and with one of your stray ewes placidly slung over her shoulders._  "Here, give her to me; Gaulfredo followed Rocco up to the north road!"_  Rocco's nose was your group's best compass, in this scenario; so he was best trusted.  Handing off the bird to Ariana isn't easy; she ends up holding all of the ewe's ankles beneath her chin with one hand, and the chicken under one arm with the lantern in the grip on that same side; but she's a hard working lady, and she makes it work.  That's two of the six fugitive animals recovered - four to go, and perhaps Gaulfredo and Rocco have found some already.

You find Gauldredo's torchlight bobbing along in a hilly patch of undeveloped land that strictly belongs to one of the merchant families of Verezzo.  It's a short hustle north along the road north to Bella Collina, and Rocco darts back and forth sniffing listening, darting around as he tracks and leads.  He's on the right track - but it's your keen nose that first catches the _stench._
Thick.  Mucky.  Piscean.  A smell you smelled once before; and as you surge over the next rise, your instinct is validated: the troll you met once before, sleeping in its cave, has wandered south far enough to be your problem again.  As you see it, it is dragging behind it the mostly masticated corpse of a dear; a hunter's trap wrapped around one of its remaining legs suggesting this crippling injury is why the troll was able to catch it at all.  But gorged and drooling deer blood as it is, the troll has discover its fortunes to have radically changed; just thirty yards away, three of your wayward animals.  Hermes found his way out here, somehow; perhaps seeking the cover of the loose trees by instinct.  The ewe with him has cloven to his side the whole time; and incredibly, your remaining missing hen has fallen into their orbit, perhaps in a craving for the protection of fellow travellers.  What an adventure they might have, in a less dangerous world - a ram, his ewe, and their little chicken friend along for the ride, exploring the roads and countryside.  But that is not this world; indeed, the world has conspired to put your animal charges, and your present financial interest, in the immediate zone of one of the most awful threats you have brushed with.

*Spoiler: OOC:*
Show

Roll Initiative.

(1d10+2)[*11*] for Team Sheep.
(1d10+4)[*12*] for Team Chicken.
(1d10+2)[*9*] for Gaulfredo.
(1d10+3)[*5*] for Rocco.
(1d10+2)[*11*] for The River Troll of Bella Collina.

Also, you can give me a straight Int roll.  Severity of success or failure may yield some additional information.

Edit:

So...

Chicken - 12
Sheep - 11
Troll - 11
Taalia - 10
Gaulfredo - 9
Rocco - 5

If you hit or beat a 12, you can act first!

----------


## MrAbdiel

Hermes bleats quietly; a communicative gesture to the troll, for a zero sum - the troll is a beast to intelligent to possess animal instinct, and too dumb to figure it out the hard way. The imperilled hen clucks tentatively; bothered by the smell, but betting her chances are best staying near to the larger beasts right now.

The troll notices, of course, Gaulfredo's torch; turns his attention away from the beasts, and begins lumbering toward the light with bizarrely innocent, idiot malice.

*Spoiler: OOC:*
Show

Sheep and chooks do nothing this turn.  The troll fails his Stoopid-check, and must turn to engage the new distraction - Gaulfredo.  He's within charge distance of the Tilean, now; with Gaulfredo still to act.  You're up!

----------


## BananaPhone

Taalia

Taalia's throat tightened as she spotted that thing, and for a moment all the good luck of her life seemed to immediately drain away. _Of course_ that thing had wandered up here. When she had set a trail of fish heads for it - nothing. But on the night her sheep escape, there it was, Johnny on the spot and menacing both her, Gaulfredo and her animals. She _knew_ it. These past few weeks had been nothing but a sick lure-trap joke by some deity sadistically watching her, and here came the punchline!

Then, things turned worse...or better? The troll turned its attention to them and started lumbering in their direction. 

Eyes wide, seeing Gaulfredo pausing up, Taalia reached over and grabbed his lantern, then hurled it *in front* of the troll. Praying for a split second that that would create a small fire to draw the trolls senses in, or at least frighten it off, she spoke hurriedly to Gaulfredo. 

"Run home! You'll only get killed here!" she beckoned Gaulfredo, giving him a gentle shove to prompt him to turn and run off, using the starlight.

Ensuring he'd turn and leave, Taalia then moved also. She moved around in a vast circle while the troll was, hopefully, distracted, towards her sheep to grab them by the horns and lead them away, her accord built up with them over the past three weeks praying to be enough.

----------


## MrAbdiel

Gaulfredo isn't keen to die, but neither is he one to leave those under his protection - friends, or beasts - to perish either.  When the trolls eyes are on him, he turns to bolt; but at the end of his run, peers back to see if the troll is following him, or changing targets.  It might as easilly turn and attack the beasts, or you, and that would require his personal sense of man's honor to turn and fight...

But your plan has worked perfectly, it seems.  The torch flips through the air and skids to a halt at the troll's feet; and dumbfounded, it stares down and tries to figure out its bright mysteries.  Rocco, picking up on his master's stress, has his hackles up; but restrains his barking with a hiss from Gaulfredo; so man and dog watch from a safe distance as you lead Hermes away with one hand, chicken under the other, with the ewe instinctively following her man.

You hurry away; and the smell gets lesser and lesser, and then the wind changes and blows it north away from you entirely.  You arrive back at the farm to put away your wayward animals; Ariana and Vittorio waiting for you.  Both are serious as stones; the boy because of the weight of his puppy-warden responsibilities, the woman because of a hard-learned toughness demanded of country women, who could not afford to be soft and feminine at all times.  She has Gaulfredo's staff in one hand, and her lantern in the other; and relieved as she is to see you, the unspoken question, _where is Gaulfredo_, is visible on her face.

But the answer comes before the question.  Rocco bounds up to start bothering Vittorio and the pups in his care; and Gaulfredo wanders towards the light of the lantern.

He cradles a bloody bundle of brown and red feathers to his body; poor Hurcio being borne gently back to his home.

You, Ariana and Gaulfredo huddle around the fallen rooster.  Two great gouges - certainly the claws of the troll - run from his breastbone to his hip, where the left leg is entirely torn away below the knee.  He must have been at the very extreme of the troll's reach, or else he would have burst apart or been smashed to death.  As it is, he lives, though just barely; lying in Gaulfredo's arms, puffing, blank eyed with shock like a soldier on the battlefield, unsure if his sacrifice has won the day or not.

_"Ah, poor Hurcio.  The roosters always charge headlong when they see the hens in danger - he must have heard that last hen in distress, and come racing in only to be struck aside.  He lay not far from where we saw them all - I scooped him, as I ran."_

He offers the stricken bird to your arms, and pulls another yellow handkerchief from his pocket, as he did once for you, to wrap the bleeding stump.  Ariana frowns. _ "Oh, Gaulfredo.  You mustn't.  We can buy another rooster next week.  I am sorry, Taalia - this one has run his race."_

Gaulfredo, friend of the animals, is appalled.  "We mustn't let him die when we could help him live!  Many chickens have lived with one leg; even some with none.  Here, we must rush him to Madre Angeletta.  She has the best medicines."

Ariana tries once more to talk sense into him.  _"Gaulfredo, Taalia will owe more in medicines than she paid for the bird himself!"_  But the man will not have it; he deflects, sheathing his plainly emotional desire to see the animal saved in a less-than-serious claim of chivalry.  _"Nonsense, my love; I will not dishonor this fallen soldier.  Myrmidia abandon our house, if I should become a man who repays bravery with accounting."_

*Spoiler: OOC:*
Show

Trolls are dumb, without handlers.  You have avoided the creature!  In the meantime, you have a decision to make.  Gaulfredo wants to rush Hurcio to the Madre for healing, but Ariana thinks this is economically foolhardy, even if it is kind to the animal.  You don't have the liquidity to pay for chicken medicines right now - you'd be throwing yourself on the Madre's mercy, and perhaps incurring some level of debt to her, depending on how she chose to hold it over you.  Whose advice would you follow?

Less urgently, did Taalia have a name she wanted to give to the ox?

----------


## BananaPhone

Taalia


Taalia was still a little shaken when she arrived back at the farm. Hardly new to the sights of fearsome beasts, she had fought off rat-ogres before, the experience had been worse knowing that Gaulfredo, Rocco and her new animals could have been torn asunder by that stupid, disgusting beast. 

But, all conflicts had sacrifices, and though he had been the one to initiate all of this mess - though it ultimately was her fault - the rooster had paid the ultimate price. Or might seem to. 

When Gaulfredo cradled the injured bird, Taalia felt sympathy with his position, as she reached out to gently press her index and middle finger to it affectionately. In her mind she agreed with Adriana. He was just a rooster, and he could be replaced easy enough. 

But that did not settle well with Taalia, even if she agreed with it. When she was buried in that tunnel, her life tossed aside by the Skaven who shrugged their shoulders and took the economical route, she had wished that someone would have shown her the spirit of mercy instead and made an uneconomical decision. How could she cast aside Hurcio in a similar way?

Pursing her lips, swallowing, "I'll take him," she announced. 

Standing, leaning over and putting a hand gently on Ariana's shoulder, she spoke.

"I agree with you in numbers. But...I will explain later. I have to try."

She hoped that would suffice, as she reached down genlty to receive the injured bird into her hands. 

Helping with any last minute preparations, and trying her best to protect Vitorio from any of the nightmare-inducing details children didn't need to hear, Taalia gathered her slipsack, her staff, put on new shoes and gathered any other items she thought she might need and made ready to travel to Madre's house. 

The only thing she needed were directions. 


ooc:
And Taalia is off to bring her injured pet to the local Wise Woman, hoping she is feeling as merciful as the time she was when she healed her.

----------


## MrAbdiel

Gaulfredo doesn't like it.  His instinct is to go with you; but Ariana pulls him aside, and they confer quietly.  You know what she must be saying - the troll is still out there; who will protect us if it comes this way?  Your own drive to survive is as plain as the scars on your face. It's easy to imagine you out-guiling a beast like that if it happens to find you, on the road.  But what if it comes to the farmhouse, and only Ariana and Vittorio are there with the animals?  Gaulfredo hangs his head, and nods a little, and returns to you.  He presses a gold coin into your palm, just in case.

_"Alright.  Alright.  Well.  Madre Angeletta is three quarters the way to Bella Collina.  Very small farm; one horse, one ox, one goat, one chicken.  There is a post on the roadside, by it; with a wooden box and clay figures in it. You will know it, when you pass it.  Take Rocco with you - less lonely, that way.  If you see the troll, you tell Rocco 'skitti, skitti', and he will run a circle around him then run way.  Beasts with legs so big can move fast, but Rocco is very fast indeed."_

Ariana has rushed to pack you a cloth bundle of bread and cheese for the road; it's quite a few hours walk, through the night.  And with the weakly cooing Hurcio in the puppy-sling around your neck, a staff in hand, and the indefatigable Rocco at your heel, you make for Madre Angeletta's house in the dark of night.

The troll does not manifest again, on your journey; that much you can be thankful for.  But as you walk, you think back on the beast.  Yes, it _was_ strange that it should now be ranging so far from its cave for food.  Surely it should have been discovered doing this, and the locals alerted already, if it did not have a sustainable hunting ground within those woods where you found it first?  When you tried to lure it to the chest as your wreckingball solution to the lock (which would likely have cost you the value of all the battered and shredded items within, now that you think on it), it had apparently slept through the smell of food which surely a beast to disgusting should have roused to eat.  Something about the troll, its behaviours and its place in the region, does not fit.

It's a cool night, but walking keeps your blood warm.  You haven't slept since last night and now it's almost a new morning, but you are adapted to not having enough sleep, and your body finds its familiar reserves waiting.  The sandals you found in that chest had been barely worn by their previous occupant, and they are now comfortable to your feet for distances long and short.  Hurcio is uncomplaining as you carry him to some new place; a human valkyrie, taking him to chicken Valhalla.  This Valhalla is a cottage that is large on the scale of cottages; with a sheltered animal pen out the back, and a ring of fruit trees that are now mostly out of season, but happy to offer you their muted spring fragrance as you approach.  A rough knock on the door brings the sleepy Madre Angeletta to the door.  Warmth, the faint remnants of pipe smoke, and the smell of long melted beeswax candles wash into your senses, from beyond her.

_"Eh?  Taalia?  What are you doing, at such an hour?"
_

----------


## BananaPhone

Taalia

Time on the road was peaceful to the soul, even if the situation was less than ideal. As the ex-slave walked along, the chirping of crickets about her, the placid gentle gaze of the moon blanketing the surrounding area in silvery light while the exhausted, barely conscious mewling of the rooster within her sack was a constant reminder of her purpose, Taalia had time to contemplate her situation and how close she had come to losing all of it. 

That Troll, that...disgusting, ugly, stupid creature, had bumbled into her life once again and had almost destroyed all of it to satiate its animalistic gluttony. It was a cruel little spite of life how such a lumbering, dimwitted creature could destroy the lives of those gifted with reason and reflection, but if Taalia's experience had taught her anything so far, it was that life wasn't fair. 

But, though she was ultimately responsible for the actions of the roosters, hens and sheep under her charge, she had to ultimately admire Hurio's courage. Sure, he had taken flight when beset upon by a flight of his hens, overwhelmed by their numbers and seeking to retreat in order to redeploy his wits and direction. Sure, this action of his had been the first domino in the sequence of disasters. But, when witnessing the enormous, beastly troll threatening one of his hens in the wild, what had this diminutive bird who wouldn't even have weighed 1/1000th of what the troll did, perform out of reflex? He charged the troll. he heeded his genetically-derived instincts, understood that the equation demanded the risk of his life in order to save a hen, and he threw himself into the fire regardless. Though a part of Taalia's mind thought it was stupid to take such a risk, the more romantic element of her soul admired the fearless and self-sacrificing bravery of the animal. Surely he deserved at least the effort of an hour-long walk to gamble on the chance of saving his life?

Exhaling gently in relief that she had arrived at Madre's house. The cottage was almost exactly what she expected: frugal, warm and self-sustaining. 

When the elder woman opened the door and spotted her, asking her question, Talia held open the sling about her body to reveal the injured rooster. Indeed, it was a relief to see the older woman, to hear her voice once more. Though Taalia knew she would be helpless before such a beast as the troll - or would she? - there was something reassuring to the young human about the presence of older, wiser and more knowledgeable minds around her that she could trust. 

"Dear Madre, I sincerely apologize for waking you at this hour, please believe me that if the occasion were not this dire then I would not have disturbed you so" Talia spoke, perhaps surprising the elder woman with how far her command of Tilean had come since last they spoke. She wasn't the dumb-sounding though sweet and earnest girl from the market, she spoke smoothly and well. 

"Gaulfredo and I barely survived an encounter with a troll, but Hurcio here received gashes from its claws. You were the only one who we thought of to bring him to..."

----------


## MrAbdiel

The elder woman's eyes flare with surprise.  _"A troll?  In Bella Collina's hills?  The bloody creatures are a kind of vermin; they crop up even in places they ought never to be found.  Did you manage to drive it off?"_

With her body language and gestures, she leads you inside, closes the door behind you and Rocco, and clears space on a humble dining room table to lay Hurcio, who remains placid in his acceptance of death.  With her words, she asks about the encounter with the troll, and she listens along as you sketch the details for her.

_"Well, I am glad no one was hurt - no one but this little soldier.  The troll, we will have to deal with very soon; for now, let us see if we can save your little friend."_

*Spoiler: OOC:*
Show

I felt it would be cheap not to roll the heal check, after all this; but she rolled a 38, needing a 68 or less; so that's a good success.


What proceeds is an hour of quite intense medical service rendered to this stricken chicken.    The bloody handkercheif over the stump has done good work; the bird has lost blood, but not so much it has no chance to live.  She makes a tourniquet out of string, and with surprising efficiency, crushes some saltlike crystals with water into a smoking paste that, wafted under the chicken's beak, renders it delerious, and barely concious; insensible to pain.  And just as well; because the Madre goes as far as to stitch shut Hurcio's slashes, and to clean the stump back to the knee by paring away the remnants of the ruined lower leg.  She instructs you to hold this, to press on that, to thread this needle, to wash this off in the basin, to put these leaves in the bowl and grind it with this until it produces a milky fluid then strain that off... And at the end of the procedure, Hurcio is still less than concious... but the Madre seems confident he will persist.  She offers a little prayer to the gods represented in the box outside her house, and on her pendant, and in Gaulfredo and Ariana's kitchen: Ishea and Karnos; the mother of farms, and hearths, and villages, and the father of wild places, her husband.

_"The solution you mixed should guard against infection.  I will keep him here in the house for a few days, so that I can respond to infection if it occurs; but I think you might have saved his life.  With his wings, he'll learn to balance on the one leg, fine enough; and he'll scoot around your yard with only a little loss of speed.  But they are not particularly cheap ingredients.  I wonder..."_

You help her clean up after the surgery; and she asks: _"You've worked as an assistant before, I think. Most people can't help but fail to help, when they try; but you're not underfoot at all.  I know you've just taken up responsibilities of your own, on that farm.  Mother Ishea would forbid be to demand payment for a plea like yours coming to my door - but if you were interested in paying an old woman back for a kindness, after receiving the first for free, then you might learn a thing or two."_

How wild your luck, that what began as a tragedy has turned into a job offer.  Do the gods hate you, or love you?  It's unclear.  But spending time assisting Madre Angeletta will take up some of your time; atleast a couple of days, in the week.  You'll need to rely on Gaulfredo's family to care for your animals, while you are attending such a responsibility away from the farm.  But the chance to learn is there - and a chance to pay back a kindness paid to you.

----------


## BananaPhone

Taalia


Taalia smiled prettily when she was let in, her towering form and younger visage contrasting with the shorter, older Madre and the skills she quickly demonstrated. The ensuing 'surgery', such as it was, was fascinating to Taalia, as she observed the various combinations of liquids, water, herbs and plants that were used to create balms, draughts and solutions that were employed to both docile the injured animal and restore his injured flesh. 

Though an outside observer might think it absurd that such effort be taken for a creature that could be so easily replaced, Taalia could acknowledge the cold calculus of inefficiency while siding with the sentimentality that this animal had earned this service. 

And so, when Madre went about her craft, Taalia watched. She helped as best she could which, ultimately, proved more than capable of what one might expect. She did not get in the way, she did not clumsily spill this solution or incorrectly stir this or that. Instead, the years of toiling within the Skavens workshop and the fierce drilling they demanded had paid off in the teenager proving to be a suitable, if amateur, assistant to Madres work.

_""You've worked as an assistant before, I think. Most people can't help but fail to help, when they try; but you're not underfoot at all."_

Taalia pursed her lips and nodded. Were it anyone else, she would have smiled and deflected. But with Madre, she was someone Taalia looked up to. Alone with her at this hour in her cottage, the rooster recuperating and the crackling of the fire in the cosy dwelling, Taalia nodded, her voice soft.

"I served my former...owners, as best I could. Not out of loyalty, but necessity. Those who failed to pay attention or adhere to protocol, lost fingers, limbs, or worse. I am only here in whole because I learned from others mistakes."

It was a confession she had not provided to anyone, not even Gaulfredo and Ariana since having learned the ability to fluently speak in the local language. Madre was the only one she trusted with an insight into her bleak past.

_"I know you've just taken up responsibilities of your own, on that farm. Mother Ishea would forbid be to demand payment for a plea like yours coming to my door - but if you were interested in paying an old woman back for a kindness, after receiving the first for free, then you might learn a thing or two.""_

Taalia considered what the older woman was offering, her eyes widening slightly. She recalled back to her wonder at how she had treated the wound of her arm, and how it had come along nicely, clean of infection and almost finished in recuperation. She also had witnessed and assisted in her work for treating the injured rooster. But even more than that, Taalia recalled how Madre was _respected_ in the community. Mentally she rembered the market: when Madre spoke, she did so quietly and yet people _listened_. 

She remembered Rashabang, a rat of a _very_ different inclination and mind and how he had shown her favour. That patronage, though not official and only minor compared to genuine apprenticeships, had been enough to preserve Taalia's life. 

This was the calculus and sentimentality that went into the girls mind as she stood before the older woman, the warm quiet of the cottage lingering in that pregnant pause as Madre waited patiently for a response from the towering girl before her.

"I have duties, yes, on Gaulfredo's farm. I owe everything to him and Ariana," she smiled, her voice tempered and gentle, "I dread to think where I would be in the world today had I not encountered Gauldredo's bravery in weeks past in the forest. I hope to build something here, so I think I can agree, yes..."

She nodded, looking Madre in her face, "I will, yes," she smiled.

----------


## MrAbdiel

Hurcio remains in the Madre's care for now; and charged with new trust and purpose, you hoof your way home with Rocco; flinging a stick ahead of you for him to chase, and bring back; pausing to make a night snack of the meal Ariana scrambled together for you.  It's not unlike the last time you travelled this road late at night; though that time you were dragging the cart with Gaulfredo, appreciating the engineering of the road that curved along the gentle hillsides rather than insisting on going over them, retaining its relative flatness.  You are wary for the troll as you pass where you know its lair to be; but no sign comes of it; and you come home to find that Vittorio and Gaulfredo have long gone to bed, but Ariana reclines on one of the low and lazy chairs at the front of the house, with a blanket over herself and a candle burning on an upturned wooden bucket beside her.  She gets the update on Hurcio, and is surprised that he'll make it; but not upset at the fruition of your instinct.  _"Well.  Good on you, Taalia, for having faith in him then.  Gaulfredo knows a joke about a one-legged chicken; you should ask him about it, sometime."_  She gives you a hug spontaneously, the most natural, mothering gesture in the world, and tells you to get some rest.  The troll hasn't come around; all the animals are now accounted for; and the gods know you need it.  Corvo sleeps with his brother in Vittorio's room for the night; but Rocco is well accustomed to boarding with you in the barn, and sleep claims you as soon as your head hits the folded blanket that serves as a pillow.

* * * * *
It's close to midday the next day when you are roused by Corvo licking at your face, demanding attention.  Vittorio, very pleased with this deployment, squirms in place with delight at his mischief at the door to the barn, before scuttling off as though his haste could make you un-see him.

More importantly, it turns out as you rise that he had been send to wake you; Corvo was merely a means to an end.  Bertuccio is here; his white charger nuzzling with the faintest remnants of interest at the leaves of an unfruitful orange tree at the front of the farmhouse.  Ariana, Gaulfredo, and Bertuccio are inside, apparently waiting for you; though Ariana rises to fix you some eggs to eat, while you talk with the gentlemen.

_"Taalia. _ Buongiorno.  _The Madre Angeletta told me about your brush with the troll; Gaulfredo has told me that some weeks ago, when you first met him, you fought off some goblins on the road to Bella Collina."_  With that report, you catch his eyes flicking over you briefly.  Assessing the likelihood of such a fight taking place in the way it was described, and your physical capacity to take part in it.  Perhaps he's seeing you for the first time as something other than a foreign curio; but his countenance remains calm, and professional; defying his youth.  _"I had hoped you could tell me everything you remember about those goblins.  Nine times out of ten, trolls and greenskins find each other for mischeif.  And this troll, I've come to beleive, is responsible for the loss of a handful of sheep and cattle, on other farms closer to town.  Up until now, folk were blaming the elf that passed through.  But a troll... well.  What do you remember?"_

----------


## BananaPhone

Taalia

When Arianna hugged her, Taalia at first froze from the gesture, as it was not a physical connection she was used to. No one, ever, in the past ten years had _hugged_her. The encirclement of the other womans arms, her tone, the warm affection she displayed...it was all alien to the ex-slave, even as ingratiated to surface life as she had become. 

But, that instinctual longing within her responded. Taalia looked to Madre like an elderly mother figure, whether maternal or grandmotherly...the lines were blurred. But Ariana was a figure she drew inspiration and warmth from, and so when those arms came around her and her initial apprehensive wore off, Taalia put her surprisingly strong, long arms around the Tilean woman and hugged her back.

oOo

The next morning, or afternoon, Taalia awoke to about the best sensation one could hope for: an adorable puppy licking their face. Her mind drawn out of deep slumber with giggles and smiles, she drew open her heterochromia eyes to see the little dog lapping at her, at which point she brought up one hand to scoop the little dog up and affectionately nuzzle her mouth/face against its belly and elicit the little playful yelps she so adored.

When she was brought to the kitchen, Taalia didn't seem to care that Bertuccio  was there. The teenager looked like one might imagine a teenager to appear after having just been woken up after an adventurous night: dishevelled, still getting a grip on the world around her and sometimes closing one or both eyes as the grains within her lids pressured her eyeballs. 

If Bertuccio's handsome, rugged youthful visage had once won sway within Taalia's heart, it was now a distant memory. The ditching of that hussy and amends would need to be paid to rekindle any of that potential. 

"The troll was one of the first living things I encountered after departing the cave, and my former owner," she stated plainly, using language and brusque revelations about her past that she had not yet shown to Gaulfredo and Ariana. 

"It was...several weeks ago..." she thought to herself, lips and eyelids pursed, "the gutter runners had attacked Rashabang and I in the depths of the Under Empire. My owner, he had thought himself gaining prominence and a higher station within Skaven society. His ambition was met with the knives of the assassins sent to slay us. Ironically, he...saved my life. Though I don't think he did it out of any sense of devotion, rather just preserving a valued pet..." she shrugged, speaking matter of factly, her emotions well hidden. 

"Like with _Hermes_ and the troll," she stated, gesturing in the direction of the sheep-pen. 

"I distracted the Troll and rushed to lead him away from it. Not because I value his companionship, or think highly of him as a fellow soul or love him or anything...but because he's valuable to me, to us, and what he can do for us. It was the same with Rashabang and I: he didn't love or value me, I was just very useful to him. He only had to show me the work to be done once, I didn't cause problems, I could talk to and keep the other slaves in line...."

Taalia trailed off, pursing her lips, her eyes staring into the distance as if remembering things she'd rather not  before suppressing it all and continuing.

"We fled up a tunnel. Up, that is a specific word. One of the assassins tried throwing their knife at me, but their range was too far. That's how I gained the weapon Gaulfredo spotted..." she gestured to the man, reminding him of that small knife she was equiped with when she had charged the goblins in a hunger-starved furor. To emphasise the point, she tilted her head to the side, reached up to push down her collar and reveal the light scar across her trapezium muscle to validate her words.

"When we emerged onto the surface, into the daylight..." she swallowed, her eyes a little wide as her vision drifted back and forth, not focused on anyone in particular. 

"I think it had been a decade...I was taken by the Norscans when I was....I don't even remember..." she said, pursing her lips, swallowing, holding back a tear now that she recognised just how long a time that had been and how much of her formative years had been stolen. 

"A decade since I had seen the sun. The assassins were no longer a threat, but my owner, or rather...not _owner_, more like _temporary_ holder, Rashabang...he was getting old. He was brilliant. I worked in his workshop, but I knew he wouldn't make it. But before I had the chance to...put him out of his misery..." she uttered, revealing perhaps a murderous streak to her past, "...he keeled over. An assassins knife had caught him after all"

The ex-slave paused. It was clear this was an...emotionally charged topic for her, her mind and memories separated from the world by the most passive visage she could muster that was betrayed only by the 1,000 yard stare worn by her eyes. 

"Anyway..." she redrew herself, "I buried him. But later I coudln't find him. That's another story..." she shook her head, still wondering whether he had been reclaimed by the gutterrunners - who were unbelievably mercifully enough to let her live - or if he himself had recovered and ventured off on his own.

"But I travelled down along the stream. In the Under Empire their cities and towns are always near streams. The Skaven have to drink too. So I speculated that if I was going to encounter other surface dwellers, they'd be by a river. 

I came across a cave-entrance in a river embankment. I hoped to find shelter for the night but it _stank_! The scent of putrid, rotting flesh..." she hissed, eyes half closed as she shook her head. 

"I went inside anyway, thinking maybe an animal died. That's where I saw _it_. That troll..."

She allowed a pause to linger in the air before continuing. 

"It was asleep. Thank whatever Gods are looking over me right now, it was asleep. I'd have come out of its arse weeks ago if it wasn't..." she said, her crude words contrasting with how casually she said it. 

"It had all these bones littered around its den, and a few things that glittered. There was a risky part of my brain that prompted me to try and pick a few things up, but I knew better. I backed out and ran as fast as I could. 

Heading into the forest, but sticking to the river, I came across a clearing. It was a campsite, as much as one could be. I rummaged through it, careful not to put anything out of place. That's where I got all of the..." she gestured generally to the slipbag, among other things. 

"And the chest," she said. "Gaulfredo knows that part. Originally, the goblins had all these fish heads strewn about the camp site. I knew they were goblins, as I climbed up a tree where I could watch, wanting to see who came back. When I saw it was them - and I knew what type of creatures they were, I had had to share space with them in the slave pits of the Skaven - I knew what nasty little things they were. I waited for them to leave once again, at which point I shifted some coins on them to fake a robbery, and I used some of their fish heads to try and create a lure for the troll to come and kill them, and hopefully smash open the chest. But nothing came of it. Hours passed, day turned to night, and eventually the four goblins returned, this time with a horse in tow..."

She trailed off again, knowing Gaulfredo knew what was coming next. Mercifully, Taalia spared him the details. 

"One of the goblins seem to act...out of order. He ended the horses life, but the other goblins were clearly not happy about it. They berated him, they abused him, but they put the..." she wanted to be sensitive, but she coulnd't, "they made the best of the carcass as they could."

It had been the first thing she'd eaten on the surface. 

"As time went on, I was watching from a tree, knowing the troll had not taken the bait. The next thing I know, Gaulfredo," she gestured to the man, "emerges out of the darkness with the bravery of ten men and whacks one of them over the head. I clambered down and joined in. I didn't know if he was ultimately friend or foe, I just saw a fellow human, and I was so hungry I was willing to take the risk. The rest, as they say, is history."

----------


## MrAbdiel

Bertuccio and Gaulfredo listen; Ariana joins to listen about halfway through, setting a bowl of scrambled egg, with halves of cherry tomatos and pepper scattered through it.  She does not, however, insist you stop speaking to eat it, as she might have under another circumstance; the gravity of it all is not lost on her.

The roadwarden listens, glances at the farmers, and back to you, and thinks for a long moment.

_"...Well.  Trolls aren't expecially native to the area; river trolls like that usually hide by larger rivers than the little stream running parallel to the village road.  They wouldn't bring a river troll over the mountains; the beast would eat its handlers out of desperation.  It probably walked in with the last greenskin raiding force to hit Monte Castello, and fled without much direction after the attack force was broken four months ago.  My guess is that those goblins were keeping it as a pet, or weapon.  That's why it hasn't wandered out looking for food sooner."_

The guess makes sense, even out of details you hadn't shared.  The set-aside horse's legs; one for each goblin to carry the next day, to the cave.  Likely, why the three reacted badly to the one's slaying of the horse.  It's easier to walk an animal to slaughter and carry off the choice cuts than to butcher it in the field and then haul the dead carcass to the meat market.  And perhaps that's why the troll hadn't reacted to your clever fish-head bait trap, but _had_ apparently stalked almost all the way to your farm; back then, the goblins were regularly feeding it, so it wasn't hungry enough to bother.  Now, the goblins dead and gone by your and Gaulfredo's efforts, the troll must be forced to hunt and roam again.  Have you set this monster upon the region, by killing its handlers?  No, not likely. The goblins didn't strike you as responsible wardens of such a thing - perhaps, if you hadn't killed them, they'd have been driving it into Bella Collina as their wrecking ball, and carrying off their spoils.

_"We're going to have to kill it.  I'll put together a_ banda di caccia._  We'll have to set a trap to lure it out of the cave, probably to the road, so we can put archers on it.  I've been part of a troll hunt once; I know how it's done.  But I don't want to lose anyone; so I'd like to plan with some precision. 
 Can I trouble you to show me where the cave is?  If you're due to retreive your, er... injured chicken from the village, I'll be back this way tomorrow morning heading back to Bella Collina."_

_"I'll get in some practice with my bow, then."_  Gaulfredo remarks, with phlegmatic resignation.

*Spoiler: OOC:*
Show

Bertuccio could use your help locating the troll cave.  Additionally, if you had a specific pitch about how to manage your farm projects while you're doing your part-time medicine woman learning, you could pitch that to Gaulfredo and Ariana.  Right now, while it's just collecting eggs, and walking sheep to grass and back again, the farming routine is simple enough that a child could do it.  You're many months off full dairy/textile/poultry operations!

----------


## BananaPhone

Taalia

Perhaps it was her deeply buried, scornful hormones within her that felt slightly tilted that Bertuccio didn't show her any sympathy after hearing her story...but the pragmatist she was quickly staved off any such distractions. 

Though again, this 'pragmatist' had to be replaced by another as she battled the excitement of the idea of asking for, and receiving, the chance to use a gun. 

Instead, Taalia simply nodded in response to his request to lead him and his troupe to the beasts lair.

"I stumbled across it once, and deliberately visited it a second time. I know where it is. I cannot guarantee it will be there when I show you, but I can at least lead you to its dwelling," she said, her command of Tilean improving out of sight since last she spoke to the Roadwarden.

Thinking again to her most recent encounter, Taalia spoke once more.

"I managed to distract it last time with the lantern," she said, "I threw it at the monsters feet and the fire spilled forth. It was so consumed with attention towards the flames that I managed to retrieve my flock without harassment."

Just further advice that could be helpful.

----------


## MrAbdiel

An easy day and night tick by with no disasters on the farm.  Gaulfredo pauses his work plowing for the planting of the corn to spend the afternoon stringing and practicing with a plain looking yew bow; dragging a dusty archer butte out from under the farmhouse and sinking arrows into it from range with reasonably, if unimpressive accuracy.  Vittorio is keen to graduate from dog-minding to sheep and chook minding. Your suggestion, that you might teach him to read while you are learning, is amazing to him.  He has never read anything, or recognized a visual word; the notion of being able to hear someone's words long after they have spoken them is a fantastical idea, but one he's willing to take part in.

The day after, Gaulfredo rigs up Tomas and the cart, so you needn't walk; and so that you can pick up a few things from the village.  A small sack of flour, and whatever vegetables are at the trading post that you can pick up with the rest of the money Ariana gives you; plus Gaulfredo gives you a quiver of arrows he would like you to take to old Signore Cestié's workshop, to have their heads sharpened.  Since you're heading into town, it seems like a simple enough matter to accomplish.  And Corvo now reliable toddles back to you when you call him, so it's a good adventure for the pup too.  True to his word, Bertuccio shows up that morning and rides along side your cart, as you obey the limited driving instinct that you have picked up so far.

He's not remarkably conversational; but as the light scatter of trees turns into the loose forest that runs the length of the road to the village, it occurs to the road warden to ask you, in departure from the bland small-talk that had been the heartbeat of the journey.  _"...Taalia.  The name.  Imperial?  Are you from Sigmar's Lands?"_

The familiar set of trees that leads to the former camp of the goblins, and therefore the way to the troll lair, is coming up on your right.

----------


## BananaPhone

Taalia

Taalia watched as Gaulfredo retrieved his weapon and started to practice, his accuracy on point but...against a stationary target, it didn't particularly inspire confidence in her. Though Taalia was not some veteran of war, she had been in plenty of fights and seen even more in the pits and slave pens, and she knew the unexpected speed at which monsters could move when they were truly motivated. A part of her wanted to pull him aside, ask him to set his bow aside with reassurances that he had more than proven his valor and that all it would take it was one mistake and Ariana would be a widow and his son would grow up without a father. Unless he had a horse upon which to ride and use to keep a good distance from the trolls wicked claws, she did not like the idea of him entering the fray at all.

She decided she would try to bring it up later. She knew he was not an insecure, boastful nor arrogant man, but he was a proud one, compelled by duty to protect family and hearth. She admired it, but she worried that he might end up paying the price.

oOo

Walking alongside the ox, with Bertuccio on his horse beside them and Corvo in his sling - a source of great enjoyment for Taalia - the day seemed a fine one to simply walk along the road to town. The sun was out, the breeze gentle, it was as picturesque as she had ever known, and a sight of which she'd never grow tired. 

_"...Taalia. The name. Imperial? Are you from Sigmar's Lands?"_

Taalia turned her head to look up at the roadwarden, her face impassive as he tried to make conversation. 

_Had he not lsitened to a word I'd said yesterday?_ She asked herself, having explained quite clearly she had been living underground for almost ten years, taken at an early age. She didn't know where she was from! Mentally she filed it away, ticking a little box in her head. Externally, she just offered a small smile. 

"I don't know where I am from," she answered. Now that she was relatively fluent and able to speak with the musical flow of the Tilean language, instead of the jilted, bumbling clumsiness of before, she had a smooth, sonorous and smoky voice. 

"The Norscans raided my town when I was very little. We lived on a coast, with apple trees. My house collapsed in on me. That's how I got this," she turned and ran a finger down the scar on her face.

"Taalia is what Gaulfredo and Ariana called me. I rather like it, I have much to be thankful for."

When she noticed the on-coming familiar landmarks, Taalia would point to them.

"The goblin camp was down in that direction. Which means that the trolls lair was..." she draws her finger along the tree lines, mentally pivoting the georgraphy to recall the route she took 3 times to go from the camp to the vile abode of that dreadful thing, "...that way, in a large embankment underneath a tree. But I would not venture there close, not now, with Tommaso and the little one," she gestures to the sling around her shoulders with Corvo inside.

----------


## MrAbdiel

Bertuccio's eyebrows lift a little at her answer; and he offers a minimal nod as she answers both his question, and the next three or four questions he might have intended to ask; plundering his vault of polite interest and leaving him quiet and thoughtful instead of forcedly chatty.  He takes special note of the stretch of treeline when you point it out.  "Right.  Well, I'll double back to look it over after we see you safe to town; and compose a plan.  You're, ah.  Very brave, to have come through all that."

It's a lame compliment; awkwardly given.  Perhaps that's just the ceiling of his social cunning, however handsome and mysterious he might first have appeared?  And with no natural opportunity arising in which he could offer her the recreational use of his long gun, his virtues seem to be diminishing by the moment.

He bids you farewell, at the  edge of Bella Collina; wheeling back around the way you came to do some investigations.  You check on Hurcio; he is alert, laying on his side in a basket, chirping is slow processing distress from his amputation; but healthy enough in the Madre's care.  Madre Angeletta releases him, basket and all, back into your care; and recommends keeping him seperated from the other chickens until he has figured out how to hop around under his own power in his new condition.

Shopping for the flour and vegetables is a quick, anodyne experience with a pair of middle aged spinsters who run the town's trading post, where sundries like this are sold by locals and bought by locals with the post's owners taking a cut. You're likely to rely on this place to move your quickly spoiling goods; though wool, and lambs for slaughter, can be marketed more leisurely with no fear of turning.

*Spoiler: OOC:*
Show

_Now_ you can make me a gossip check!  Both to make a positive impression on this gossipy new pair, and to harvest scuttlebutt.


Delivering the arrows to Signore Cestié's workshop is much more rewarding.  You know it as the place he pointed out to you during the rumpus of the Flicker-Tide celebration; well sized, with a tradesman's shingle hanging from its front.  Inside, the smells and sights strike you at once with purified nostalgia; the grease and shaved metal and smoke smells of Rashabang's workshop without the all penetrating rat musks and the nose-searing ozone tang of warpstone.  He has many interesting benches and tools; some which seem loosely familiar to you.  This one clamps something for rotating while it is carved with a pointed tool; this one revolves a rough and porous tone for grinding tools to shape and blades to edge; and so on.  Most of those in Rashabang's lair ran on labor one steppe removed - rat slaves, or sometimes straight up rats, running in wheels or pushing or pumping.  These seem to be almost entirely arranged with a set of stirrups for the feet next to an operator's chair; and perhaps kicking one's feet in the stirrups does the work of whatever rotating or spinning force is needed for the great tool.  A couple of wooden cabinets on the walls display unusual brass and steel tools, doodads, and _stuff_ - though no guns, you notice.

You haven't see Signore Cestié since Flicker-Tide, so he is both pleased to see you and amazed at how rapidly you have grappled with the language; though he still speaks slowly, and about 10% louder than he needs to, as an affectation of character common to older gentlemen. _"Taalia, Taalia, you are so smart!  You have learned so much, ah?  Eh?  Gaulfredo wants his bodkins sharpened?  Little good it will do him - if it's a troll hunt, Bertuccio will no doubt have a heap of arrows of his own supple, and a channel of burning pitch to dip them in.  Nasty creatures, trolls; they heal in moments, and if you get to close, they -throw up their acid guts- all over you!  Terrible, terrible.  Though I should like to get my hands on a troll's stomach, some time; just to see what I might make of it."_

----------


## BananaPhone

Taalia

It was a bit revelatory walking to town with Bertuccio this way, as he was one of the few outside of Gaulfredo and Ariana she had spent any length of time with. She admittedly felt a bit silly for her earlier school girl crush, taken in by the handsome, rugged authority figure who was both brave and protective, and she could still see it. But talking to him tempered her opinion somewhat, as he was clearly not a man of many words. Which was fine, in his own right. That didn't make him _bad_ or anything, he did a noble job for the community after all. But it did suggest to her that perhaps she wasn't interesting to him, or nights with him were not particularly conversive affairs. 

_"Right. Well, I'll double back to look it over after we see you safe to town; and compose a plan. You're, ah. Very brave, to have come through all that."_

She smiled plainly. "Thank you Signore Beruccio, I would like to assist with the troll's demise in whatever way I can, if weapons are spare," she returned as she looked up at him, "and if you were willing and after the threat of the troll has passed, I would sincerely appreciate it if you could teach me how to use a firearm!" she brightened up, her smile genuine and a spark of excitement in her eyes, as she gestured to the stock of the weapon that poked out of its holster on the horses side. 

oOo

In town at the trading post, Taalia made small-talk where she could. She had pleasant smiles and listened more than she spoke. After all, this was the first time she could actually understand the flow of information and conversation being spoken about her. The last time it was all just melody to her, but now she knew what it all meant. People talking had a certain rhythm, a way of speaking and giving information via what they did say and what they didn't say. Gaulfredo, Ariana and Madre were quite open and honest with her, but the people about town? They had no reason not to employ the usual little social ritual of chitter chatter with her. 

However, something Taalia did find particularly interesting were the notices of trade and sources of material goods. The Skaven had their trade networks in their Under Empire, and humans had them on the surface. That tax collector who had bought her mirror was going to sell the item for a larger profit in the 'big city', where ever that was. Food, goods, material, it all went into the big city and gold crowns came out. 

Of particular interest to Taalia and her current expertise, such as it was, were the prices for the different type of animals, how much people were wanting, how much they were willing to pay or negotiate, and where such husbandry was to be directed. This was of considerable interest as numbers started to crunch inside her mind, raising her hand to stroke her chin delicately as she considered her own future here and what she could make of herself if she could master her own niche in this network. Wouldn't that be a dream come true? In a decades time to own her own rural house, acres, flocks and herds, and raising her own children while directing her hired labourers. Why not? She could be the maser of her own destiny here - she wasn't a slave anymore.

oOo

Taalia smiled brightly at seeing Signore Cestié' again. He had not played a particularly big role in her surface life so far, but she appreciated his trade work and his grandfatherly mien had the same elderly appeal to her as Madre's did - though if she understood it correctly, Madre was several decades younger. It also helped that the scent and sounds of the workshop were homely in how familiar she found them. 

"Signore Cestié'!" the girl beamed, receiving his astonished compliments as she held her skirt and pivoted on the spot before facing him again, almost like a girl visiting their grandfather before heading off to their debut ball. It was amazing how wonderful an 'atta girl! compliment felt coming from a learned elder of a town.

"They are!" she concurred with hits words on the troll, her expression darkening. 

"It almost ate me twice!" she exclaimed, "my ram and sheep!" she exclaimed, "it clawed off my roosters leg! Pah!" she hissed softly, shaking her head. 

"I would very much like to be part of its demise," she nodded, before Signore Cestié' made his curiosity known. 

"Would you?" she asked, a coy smile crossing her pretty, scarred face, her eyelids narrowing slightly as she sensed opportunity. 

"What would you offer if I could provide it?" she asked, her tone on that edge of 'serious if you mean it but just joking if you don't'.

----------


## MrAbdiel

Bertuccio keeps a reserved and cautious look, when you indicate your interest in the longarm.  It's either a precious instrument to him, or he holds some quiet reservation about teaching you (or anyone) to use it.  But he doesn't flatly shoot down the idea (haha); just puts a perquisite in front of his consideration.  _"Well. We'll see how you fare with a crossbow, first."_  Come to think of it, it's the only firearm you've seen since you last saw Rashabang's weapons.  Perhaps they are rarer for men, than they are for rats.  Perhaps it's the most expensive thing in the village surrounds...

* * * * *
You chat amiably with the two spinsters at the trading post; Amalia and Amadea.  Or you try; they're impressed at how quickly you have adopted the local tongue, but apparently they think that means you have become a superhuman linguist; because when they start nattering to each other, glancing to you periodically with smiles as they do, they chatter at such a clip you feel like the conversational equivalent of a toddler, one hand held by grown siblings either side; dangling in the air as you are rushed on without your feet more than brushing the ground.  The pair of them seem friendly clever, and good humoured; though how quickly they resort to talking about other villagers or farmers, you expect they are not to be trusted with secrets.
_
"...And this troll business; that's no good at all.  I hope the boys give it a hiding; I really do.  What mischeif.  It's been eating whole cows, and all."
"Oh, I hope they just chase it offer.  I shouldn't like to see killing, when we don't need it; even if it is an ugly old troll."
"Speaking of trolls - the young Rampollo Damio rolled in, this morning."
"Did he now?  Good for him.  And did he bring his would-be-bride from the Blues?"
"No, the marriage has fallen through, as you said."
"Didn't I say?"
"Say, you did."
"I did say.  Can't hardly trust the Blue families to follow through on an honest contract.  That's why they've been pecked to the bottom of the pile."
"I'm sure it won't take long before young Damio has a new fancy; though an honest Yellow family, this time if you please."
"If you please, yes."_

Damio must be the ruler of the village, or the region, for whom Polo works; Rampollo some kind of minor title.  But what kind of ruler spends so much time away from their land, pursuing what sounds like flimsy marriage proposals?

* * * * *
"Pah!"  Signore Cestié agrees, flaring his hands in the air sympathetically when you exclaim, delightedly.  _Exclaiming_, and hand-talking, seems to be a big part of the Tilean language. The rats had something distantly similar - a style of cypher language they used to lie to each other, where furtive hand gestures performed while talking suggested the listener should invert the meaning of certain parts of a queekish claim.  That rattish cryptograph you never were able to pierce; but the Tilean version seems less like telling two stories, one of which is a lie; and more like telling one story, but needing to express about a hundred and fifty percent of its real emotional impact for anyone to take it seriously.

_"Part of its demise, ah?  You might just be.  We'd be fools to muster only the minimum for the_ banda di caccia, _when dealing with monsters. They take quite some killing!  But I'm afraid there won't be much stomach left.  They'll put it all to the torch right away - as well they should.  Really, you need specialist hunters to claim parts of creatures like that.  Called in from the major cities; dwarves and such.  But I think I could make a leather sheath for a shield, our of a troll stomach; if I can figure out to tan it.  Those would sell nicely - a troll's gut is about the only thing a troll's vomit won't burn through.  It would be big! Big enough that they can eat a calf in one hungry sitting, and house it all.  And it would need to be slit open to let the gore and acid out, and so forth.  Even if you could get it out, the whole_ banda _would want a cut of whatever I'd pay you, since they'd all have fought to take it down.  But here - if you can bring me just a scrap of its stomach wall, enough I can toy with different tanning solutions on it..."_  He makes a gesture with his hands; maybe a dinner-plate sized 'scrap'.  _"Why, I'd pay you ten gold for it, and no one need gripe."_

----------


## BananaPhone

Taalia


Though Taalia felt like she was barely able to keep her head above the waves of the spinsters words, she also knew that this was _invaluable_ to her. Where else could she learn to be completely, 100% fluent, than by talking regularly with these two? If talking with her foster family and others was learning how to swim, this was testing oneself against the currents, without the threat of drowning of course. 

And so, though much of it went over her head, she smiled and learned what she could, sometimes mimicking the hand-purse gestures the women made. Sometimes she could follow along just by seeing how their hands moved, as they told a story all on their own!

"This Rampollo Damio," Taalia asked when a break in the conversation was present. 

"Forgive me, but who is he?" she asked with adorable innocence.


oOo

Taalia listened to Signore Cestié's explanation, her eyes widening a little at how much he'd be willing to give for what. By now, Taalia was gaining a sense of scale for money, pennies, silver and gold, and she knew that ten gold crowns was _a lot_ of money.

Nodding, but her eyes glittering with opportunity, "I'll see if it can be done, Signore Cestié," she said with her smoky voice. 

"Of course, the death of the creature and preservation of our lives takes priority. I don't want a house-hold losing a member for the sake of some currency," she confided.

oOo
Taalia moved along in the town, her quarter staff in one hand, pack over her back with items, sling around her front with her puppy. She looked around as she went, people talking in their days around her no longer feeling so foreign to her, as the barrier of language had largely been removed. A month ago she had felt out of place, a clear interloper who had no idea what was going on around her. Now? A big difference just a month made. 

However, she spotted something she had _not_ observed in her prior trip: the tavern. 

It was a fascinating place, not one that would have normally been on her radar. She had dwellings, food and her own duties, but there was something that Gaulfredo and Ariana enjoyed with their dinner, wine, that piqued Taalia's interest: alcohol. 

She had her own money now. She had already decided she was going to give 5 silver to Madre when she went over to her house tomorrow, to get ahead by a couple of weeks on her first month of agreed payment for items she had given her. Another coin she had set aside as well, never to be spent, for it held a...sentimental value to her that could not be financially evaluated. That left two silver and 8 pennies, until next weekend. All her other needs for the week were met. She should save half of that, and the other half?

Within several minutes, Taalia had entered the tavern, her eyes peering around the insides and taking in the sights and sounds, even of this small-town tavern during the middle of the day. 

Approaching the front desk, the bartender eyeing her curiously, Taalia would flash the man with a bright smile, reaching into her sling to pat her puppy as she did so. 

"Good afternoon Signore," she said politely, her eyes at the bottles arranged across the back wall. 

Moments later, she was departing the tavern, 1 silver poorer, but grasping a bottle of beautiful, amber-copper liquid in her hands that she stared at with the fascinated love a mother might have for their newborn. It was called Whiskey - she couldn't wait to show Gaulfredo and Ariana!

----------


## MrAbdiel

Amalia and Amadea are more than happy to inform you.  What begins as an immediate answer to your question becomes, rapidly, a double commentary on the politics of the region.  You catch most of it, because of the way they seem to enjoy repeating themselves to each other, which gives you a chance to catch up.

You are in a region called the Republic of Verezzo.  Republic, you grasp, means that it does not have a king, like the Norscan tribes did; but a series of representatives who jockey and bicker to make decisions collectively.  Most of Tilea is ruled by one merchant Prince or another, as a family dynasty they try to pass down; but the doughty citizens of Verezzo threw down their Prince many years ago after he attempted to sell the great city's grain stores in famine back to the farmers who filled them in times of plenty, at extortionate rates.  Tileans do not like kings and rulers, and Verezzans perhaps least of all; a square of land to raise one's family and agreeable neighbours for times of crisis is the dream (or so these rural gossips tell you).

Verezzo is governed by a senate of forty-nine merchants.  To be eligable to be a _senatore_, a merchant must have a personal worth ten thousand _duro_ with a yearly income of one tenth of that figure.  To cast a vote to elect such a cantidate to the senate, a merchant (or otherwise wealthy citizen) must have a personal worth of one thousand _duro_, and a yearly income of one tenth of that.  Thus, golden chains bind Verezzans together; the senators must court wealthy trading partners, but must also seek the votes of lesser merchants and so will fan our their interests across the countryside to find such men and women to wring a vote out of.  The lesser merchants are only eligible for this courtship with considerable wealth themselves, so they are strongly driven to marry inheriting children to those of other similarly middle-wealthy families, and also to strive to maximize their business with small operators in villages and farms.  Independant farmers and land owners may dream of becoming a _elettore_ merchant one day; but in the meantime, someone closer to that dream or having attained it already will earnestly seek their business both for profit and to prevent someone else from using it to elevate themselves.  All these numerical facts - the incomes, the net worths, the trade values - are scrupulously audited by the _corporazione degli impiegati_: the guild of clerks.  They take on themselves the duties of bean-counting with the gravity of a religious order.  It is certainly not irreligious - they take vows before gods named _Scripsisti_ and _Mercopio_ to engage in this duty in the spirit it is given to them; and sometimes, they even follow through. One who has become a member of the Clerk's guild can never vote for a senator or become one themselves, nor can their children.

Thus, the lawmakers and the voters are merchants of varying levels, but everyone who seeks power is incentivised to create their own _elettore_; and it is assumed that the major churches, mercenary paymasters, artisan guildsmen and presumably even the clerks themselves cultivate and promote the fortunes of promising landowners and entrepreneurs.

This is all to prepare you for the understanding that the senate of Verezzo is divided into four factions, which are coalitions of _senatore_ and the noble families to which they are attached.  Allegiances are waxy; firm most of the time, but fluid when heat is applied.  The sitting _senatori_ denote their allegiance with color themes: red, blue, green, yellow.  City events tend to be colorful swirls where _senatori_, their prospective _elettori_ and connected attendants, servants, guests, courtesans and even animals are marked in some way with their faction colors.  Further from the city, where towns and villages are more dominated by the interests of individual _senatori_ and _elettori_, the color themes become more singular.  The yellow you've seen around - the yellow dress on the girl, the sash on Bertuccio, even Gaulfredo's handkercheifs - are visual identifiers that they are, at their various places in the chain, connected or devoted to the yellow faction.

And finally, after explaining all this, the ladies are able to answer your question.  A _rampollo_ is an individual who is openly seeking to become an _elettore_, and has received a kind of tacit sponsorship from a faction to do so.  Damio, they explain, acts then both as a representative for the village's interest with wider Verezzo, and also personally seeks to promote the growth and financial wellbeing of Bella Collina and her sattelite farms.  Perhaps, over time when the village's power to produce has grown, he will make enough money as a merchant connecting village to city; or close enough, making up the difference by marrying well.  That seems not to be happening yet, though; a hope to poach a bride from a stalwart Blue family has not been successful.

_"Politici!"_ they exclaim together in theatrical disgust, throwing their hands in the air.

* * * * *
Signore Cestié seems really to enjoy your youthful company, now that he can understand you; and is excited by your prospective acquisition of some troll matter, as much as he is pleased you're taking the threat seriously.  Before you go, he insists on giving you a gift - it's a fist sized brass bell on a woven hemp collar, to put on Hermes' neck.  That way, if he takes off again, he'll be a little easier to find before he ends up facing off against such dangers!

*Spoiler: OOC:*
Show

Make me a +20 Perception test.


After that, the tavern draws your eye - a quaint little watering hole with a few rooms upstairs for travellers to board if they have nowhere in town to be.  In the small village, it serves multiple functions - drinking venue, dining hall, caterering and libations, meeting place, and recovery ward.  In the heart of the day when you are there, a few villagers taking early breaks from their labors partake in a morning drink and a small bowl of soup.  The tavernkeeper, a thin if handsome middle aged man with with ash blond hair and a moustage in the curled imperial style not common in Tilea, is named Gheradino.  He's happy to serve you your bottle - and, perhaps seeking repeat custom, knocks a silver off the price for you.  His two children are some of those you played with, during Flicker-Tide.  The girl, Perusia, is about Vittorio's age; the boy, Rubeus, is a little younger, and is the one who first discerned the value of your height.  He spots you from  the common room balcony which leads from the boarding rooms, and zooms down the stairs to meet you; and lifts his arms high in hopes you'll hoist him up so he can touch the bottom of the balcony.

But with that sidestop done, you are clear to make your way home.  You give Tomasso a little more time to drink from the trough outside the tavern, and then you're on the road back to the farm - though the Madre is sitting on her porch waiting for you to pass, and flags you down as you go by.  She lifts a sack up to you where you sit on the cart.  _"Here - keep these with you, Taalia.  I will show you more about them, as you learn - but it's best to have them on you.  They'll do you no good, if you need them, and they're here with me!"_

*Spoiler: OOC:*
Show

You make add 5 bandages, 1 vial of healing poultice, 1 antitoxin kit, and 1 healing draught to your trappings, as per your loan-and-repayment arrangement with the Madre. The bandages are free; she makes them herself, and they're just boiled rags!

----------


## BananaPhone

Taalia


Taalia found her mind racing at the explanation of the political system on the surface, it's complexity both interesting but also a little staggering. The Ratmen had been pretty straight forward and simple: the strongest killed and ate his successor to achieve power over a clan, and everyone heeded the words of the Council of Thirteen.

Still, the amount of money required to stand for office was _enormous_. Here Taalia was dreaming of a hundred gold crowns one day, when such a thing was a yearly generation at _minimum_. To have such wealth in one life-time! Could she create such a fortune?

oOo
Taalia smiled at the presentation of a gift, her mouth smiling wide and her eyes glittering in both excitement and appreciation. It was a cute little bell, and it certainly would have come in handy during Hermes' mad dash for freedom that almost saw him devoured by a troll.

However, it was also the fact that Signore Cestié had thought of her trouble and made her something to help prevent further chaos, that touched her so. Holding that bell in her hands, she looked over to the elder, smiled genuinely and gave him a light hug. No kiss on the cheek this time! Just a hands on shoulders hug, before she drew back. It was becoming clear to those around her, that as Taalia came out of her shell and ingratiated into the local life, she was quite a physically affectionate person. 

"Thank you Signore Cestié! I'll affix it around his neck as soon as I get back!"

However, as she was departing the shop, she spotted that brass oddity. Halting her advance, pausing and double-taking, she perked an eyebrow as she pivoted on the spot and went back into the shop. 

"Signore Cestié?" she asked, looking for him. 

"May I trouble you a minute longer? Something caught my eye," she asked, drawing him over to the spot in this area where those other oddities were. 

"But what are they?" she pointed.

oOo
In the tavern, Taalia smirked down at the youngster who had hurriedly approached her, arms out-stretched with his request. 

Tiling her head back and forth, mouth slightly bent downwards as she pretended to be on the fence about it, she smiled and reached down, hands under his arms and hoisting him up with curious ease.

"Here you are you little devil!" she grinned, smiling along with him as she held him up assuredly, arms stretched out, easily bringing the youngster in range of the bottom of the balcony he so desperately wanted to touch.

When the innkeeper gave her a discount - essentially giving her the bottle for free - Taalia's eyes widened a little, her mouth agape. 

"No, no, let me give you something in exchange, surely Signore!" she requested, having already adopted into the give-refuse ceremony of gift-giving. 

Perhaps it was because she had made his boy laugh and seemed a sweet soul, or maybe he saw value in making a good first impression by hooking his establishment into her feelings of genoristy. Whatever the case, he wouldn't take it, participating in the little ritual with her until she was nodding with a bright smile and many thanks. 

Taking note of the name of the whiskey bottle and then of the others arrayed on the shelves, Taalia mentioned that she would like to try a new one every couple of months. With that, the Innkeepers cunning ploy had worked.

oOo
Having departed the town, quarter staff in hand and goods about her, Taalia had stopped momentarily to let Corvo have a run around on the side of the road and in the grass, both for enjoyment and to relieve himself at some point. Feeling good about how the day went and scooping her baby dog back up into her sling, she continued on, until being flagged down by Madre. 

Approaching with a wave and usual courtesies of small talk, greetings and warm sentiments, Taalia's eyes curiously watched the procession of items that Madre handed over to her. Immediately, the girl recognised what each one was and what it did, having been instructed in their properties and use over the past couple of weeks. She also knew what she could accomplish with such items, and how the ability to dispense pain relief and healing to stricken bodies might draw neighbors and such close to Gaulfredo's farm to approach her and request such assistance. 

"Thank you Madre, you have taught me so much!" the towering girl exclaimed, before a 'oh!' look shot across her face. 

"Before I forget, as promised!" and her hands went straight to her purse - producing the five silver monthly payment, two weeks ahead of schedule, and handing it over to the older woman. Though this could be interpreted in a negative way...paying money to a greedy woman, Taalia certainly felt no such sentiment. Madre was teaching her _invaluable_ skills. To read and write? To heal the sick? Taalia did not know what she had done to deserve such an educator, but her regular repayments was a sign of discipline and devotion to the older woman's education, as the girl smiled as she handed the coinage over. 

"I have learned so much from you Signora Madre," she said, that smoky voice quite distinct, "it is a privilege," she smiled and nodded.

----------


## MrAbdiel

The old tinker looks where you are pointing, reaches to pluck one of the brass cylinders off the shelf, and lifts it in the air before you.  It most resembles to you some kind of battery the skaven might use for their horrible machines; perhaps a vessel full of corrosive fluid, or a plain, simple bomb.

Signore Cestié turns the cylinder so is curved face is vertical, and its flat faces are up and down.  With a simple enough turn of the wrist, he disengages whatever locking mechanism the device has on its top; and the brass cap comes away.  He repeats the process from the bottom - but nothing falls out.  Then he turns it upside down - and three smaller brass cylinders smoothly slide out from within the tube, each a little smaller than the one before, settling into place with a _click_ until what the tinker is holding is not a brass cylinder, but four interlocked brass cylinders tapering downward in size.  It flares slightlyat the narrow end, and as he turns it to hand it to you, you see at once that it has glass lenses in the narrow and wide ends.  Wordless, preparing to soak up your wonderment, he offers it to you to hold again, and mimics the act of holding it up to your eye, and points then our his door to the village square of Bella Collina, and the snatches of green countryside far beyond.

*Spoiler: OOC:*
Show

The Brass Oddity is, infact, a Telescope.


With this done, all your business in town concludes smoothly.  Nothing remains but the now familiar trip back home, with your chicken and your pup and your ox.

*Spoiler: OOC:*
Show

Roll a d100, unmodified, to see if you have an encounter on the road.  Roll less than an 80, and it's an uneventful trip.

----------


## BananaPhone

Taalia

If Signore Cestié was hoping for a youthful, amazed reaction, he got it. Taalia's eyes widened as she gasped with a soft "amazing...".

It was a useful device that wasn't for maiming, burning or destruction! 

"May I, Signore?" she asked, holding her hands out, as she received the telescope and brought it to her eye to peer around with its magnification. Seeing the world so up-close made her laugh gently, as she spun herself around and stared up at Cestie himself, his enormous, blurred face filling up her fish-eye view as she giggled happily.

Compacting the device once again and returning it to Cestie, Taalia looked quite happy. 

She also remembered the one she had back at home. 

"Signore Cestie, how much do you sell these for, may I ask?" 

oOo
Her meeting with Madre completed, the one woman zoo headed home across the well-travelled road. Staff in hand, puppy in her sling, rooster resting in a saddlebag, and spare hand holding Tomaso's collar, and humming a little tune to herself.

----------


## MrAbdiel

One hundred gold crowns.

That's the sum he settled on, after some hemming and hawing; and the absurdity of that value rattles in your head all the way home.  They are neat devices, but uses importantly on ships to spot enemy vessels and distant shores; and by generals in the field to witness troop movements with some detail.  But the price came not in the brass, but the glass; fine, clear, high quality lenses that produced a clear, magnified image.  Of the two the old tinker has, one has a cracked lens; but he keeps it in case the other cracks a lens, and then he'll atleast be able to make one functional unit out of two broken ones.

_"The lenscrafting masters in Miragliano are very skilled, Taalia.  I was born there; lived there for many years.  There are skilled artisans of many, many kinds who will command very high prices for their work; and I am lucky to have these two here, even with one damaged.  My family has a long history of craftsmanship; and I would like to think, in another life, I might have been skilled enough to make something as fantastical as this.  If I'd taken the time.  Something they'd see, in Miragliano, and be amazed; something they would want to replicate... in Nuln."_

He became a little emotional, as he spoke of it; talking of this far _Nuln_ like a fantasy.  He clearly wishes to have seen that place; but he is an old man, now; perhaps more than seventy years old.  But he does have his spyglasses, and as he recaps them and places them back on the shelf, you see in him a man who is content with managing a long life with moderate success, even if all his desires had not manifested.

You check your own brass cylinder when you got home - and just as you hoped, the ends which you had instinctively thought were caps to contain and shape a blast can be screwed off and a slender, finely made spyglass slides out from within.  You play around with it and figure out the focusing of the lenses; it seems unbroken, and perfectly functional.  How did the goblins get it?  Certainly their small band did not kill a general or a ship's captain.  But it's better in your hands, than theirs; that much, you _can_ know.

Your hosts are glad to see you back, and to know all went well enough; and after the appropriate amount of feigned refusal, they concede the kindness you have displayed in buying your first bottle of spirits.  _"It looks very good, Taalia!"_  This, Gaulfredo announces based on his examination of the whisky's color.  Ariana seems unimpressed with this method of discernment, but chooses not to cut his legs out as he projects expertise.  _"Very fine, I think.  We will open it together after the troll is slain, ah?  Vengeance for Hurcio's leg!"_

* * * * *
A day later, many of Bella Collina's villagers attend a meeting called by Bertuccio.  It's mostly men, from young to old; with a number of village women and farmer's wives crammed into the common room of the village tavern.  Gheradino has run out of chairs for the occasion; folk sit on the hardwood floor on blankets, and on the tables, as Bertuccio explains the situation, and the plan.

_"The beast is a troll - they call it a river roll, though this one seems not to have waters deep enough for its liking.  It's foul, big, dangerous and dumb - but if we are cunning, we can destroy it without any more harm being done."_

_"We could burn off the trees near its lair - that'd get it moving.  My uncle in Pavona did so once, and it drove the creature clear out of the county when it had less of a place to hide!"_  Amadea chimes in, with her brand of 'help'.  Bertuccio shakes his head quickly.

_"No no, lady; if we drive it away, it just becomes the problem of another village.  It may only be up here because it's because everyone in Luccini was too lazy or afraid to kill it directly, and chased it up to us."
_
This produces an assenting grumble from the crowd.  If there's one thing they knew, it's that other Tileans from other states were probably to blame.  It had the ring of truth.

You sit beside Gaulfredo on a blanket on the wood floor, as the road warden lays out his plan.

The troll was too dangerous to fight in melee, for obvious reasons.  That was a task for a company of knights with lances to pierce its heart.  Without spending a fortune to incentivise the action of a company of mercenaries (and waiting, hoping it doesn't kill and eat anyone in the meantime), the options to fight and kill the troll were more limited.  Fire is important - trolls hate fire, and wounds not inflicted with flaming weapons rapidly close and heal on their bodies.  But they are easily confused and distracted.  So the plan is determined thus:

Bertuccio would lure the troll out of the cover of the trees, over the road, and into the empty paddock on the other side of the road.  Once a cattle pen, the farmer (whose name is Alberto and who listens intently with worry, since his home is so close to the lair) had vacated it after the fence broke and two of his cows went missing... now presumed eaten.  On the far side of that paddock, the villagers will be waiting with their bows, arrows with pitch-cloth heads, and a trench of lit pitch infront of them. They would light an arrow, aim, and fire in volleys as called by the dwarf Nogrom.  If the troll survived long enough to start to close with the archers, they were to fall back behind a second line of pitch while the Troll was delayed with a distration - two of Adolpho's war dog, if Bertuccio and Gheradino on horseback were not distraction enough for it.

Once they were successful dragging it back toward the road, another few volleys would resume from the arrows and, with Mymidia's blessing, it would go down.  Then it would be on Bertuccio or Gherardino to close in, draw the heavy axes they'd be carrying, and take off its head before it could possibly recover.  Then the body could covered in a pyre and immolated once and for all.

_"If the worst happens, don't fight it close.  It'll kill you dead with its claws and teeth, if you're lucky.  If you're not, he'll heave up a gutful of burning poison that will make you wish you got the teeth.  But just the same, you can't outrun a beast with legs that long.  Sad as it is, if it gets close, we have to put the dogs on it and run.  But we shouldn't need to do that."_  He gives Adolpho a mildly apologetic look.  The dog-breeder gives a little nod back - well accustomed to this kind of sacrifice as part of the dogs' duty.

_"We'll meet at Alberto's farmhouse, where all the supply will be waiting, shortly after dawn tomorrow. Bring your bows.  We'll take care of this, and we'll be ready for Spring Planting the day after.  The Rampollo says, the closest arrow to the beast's heart wins a pig."_

This feels like a hollow offer for such a dangerous task, and everyone knows it.  But still...

Free pig is free pig.

The mood is tense, optimistic, concerned.  Bertuccio waits, to see if there are any questions.

----------


## BananaPhone

Taalia

Taalia had an affection for Cestie, that much was clear. He was a knowledgeable, grandfatherly figure in her life. Much like Madre, this was a presence for which she was deprived during her apprehension within the slave pens of the ratmen. 

With that being said, she felt...unusual about the mention of how much the telescope was valued. On one hand a part of her wanted to celebrate. 100 gold crowns! What a fortune! That was twice the value of the mirror - and look what she had put that currency towards? From what she understood of the local economy, she could rent a couple of acres and start her own pig farm with that kind of money. Assuming she managed to sell it, that is. 

But that was also what bothered her: if she managed to sell it to a passer-through.

Because you see, if _she_ did that, then Cestié could not. That was a sale of his that was lost to a _rival_, which is what she would become if she entered this business, if even for a single item. The idea of depriving the older man, who had been so kind to her, in his twilight years did not sit well with the girl. Was there some sort of compromise to be reached? It was no secret among her circle that Taalia was an ambitious girl. Having been given a taste of the financial rewards one could accrue in an open market of trade, her labour had so far yielded silver from her chickens but would yield larger sums of gold from her sheep. What could she do with a further 100 gold crowns? Establish a family farming dynasty that would became prominent members of the local community, she'd wager, if fate brought a good husband and children into her life. If she could even dream so far, perhaps even hope a son of hers would become eligible to one day cast a vote in the Senatore elections? Or, Myrmidia willing, maybe even far enough down the line _run_ in such processes.

But she was daydreaming. She would dwell upon it and see what she could come up with.

But then she could also see how keen he was to see this 'Nuln', wherever that was. 

It was interesting, in it's own way. Her becoming excited over what _could_ be, and Cestié reminiscing on what had _not_ been. They were almost at opposite ends of their lives.

"If I can help you to see this Nuln, if even for a day, I will try!" she beamed. It was likely that Cestié, with his wisdom of years, could tell this was just the overly optimistic and affectionate boasting of youth. How could this girl actually help him see that famed city anyway?

"If someone had of told me four months ago that today I would be where I am now, I would have laughed at them. But had I not been where I was in the forest, at that specific time, Gaulfredo would have thrown himself into the spears of goblins and would have perished, Ariana now a widow and Vorotio without a father. Yet, had I _not_ assisted him and gone on some other path after my escape, where would I be now?" she said sincerely, her voice low. 

"I thought that it was my fate to die in labour to the vile and evil. Yet today, here I am, blessed and lucky and happy. I have received help from Gaulfredo and Ariana, Madre and yourself - your actions setting me on courses for the better, and through my help to others, your kindness plants trees whose shade in which you will not sit - but others will. We're all connected in some way, I think," she smiled.

From the mouth of babes?

oOo

Taalia sat next to Gaulfredo as she listened to the plan set forth by Bertuccio. She was no grand strategist or tactical genius, so to her the plan seemed sound. Lure the troll out, distract it, burn it, kill it, and do so while keeping a maximum distance. 

At first, Taalia thought of suggesting a plan that revolved around trapping it within its lair. Collapsing its entrance somehow, or filling it with pitch and setting it alight to either smoke it out or suffocate it? However, Bertuccio had the experience here, and she did not. All she had was her own imaginative speculations, while Bertuccio had actual experience. Both were valuable in their own way, but experience here would hopefully preserve all the lives of those involved. 

When Bertuccio went quiet awaiting questions or suggestions, Taalia looked around the crowd. Seeing no one speaking up, she raised her hand to speak.

"Gaulfredo and I encountered the Troll in the forest, where we prevented it from eating my sheep," she spoke, her smoky voice projecting well enough that all could hear from the 'newcomer'. 

"I threw a lantern at its feet which drew in its mind. I wonder if those sparkle bags during the festival could have the same effect if used sparingly?"

----------


## MrAbdiel

Bertuccio listens, and lifts his eyebrows, and nods.  _"I wish we had kept some.  I have been told they are afraid of fire, but I do not think that's quite it.  Fire kills them; but they are just distractable.  And the spark-bags are very distracting.  Would that we kept some, instead of burning them all - but if you have some, keep them on hand.  Lighting them off a fire trench and throwing them might make the difference."_

Signore Cestié smiles a little, at your ingenuity; he attends, even if he won't be part of the warparty.  Too old, too slow, too likely to cause a complication.  When you look back at him, he lifts his skinny hand and gives you a thumbs-up; a gesture you have never seen before but which is self evidently approving.

You can only hope that little bag won't be the difference between life, and death.  You've lived your life close enough to death as is; dealing with this at a bowshot distance would be just fine.

* * * * *
After spending the evening practising with Gaulfredo's bow, you have the hang of it; you're not that great of a shot with just one night of practise, but Gaulfredo reassures you.  "None of us will be good shots.  We'd all like to win the pig, but we are not sharpshooters.  But this is why we fire in volley; a wall of arrows is more accurate than any sharpshooter might be on his own."

A 'wall' is a generous descriptor.  With a bow loaned to you from Gerardhino the innkeeper (he has a shortbow of his own he prefers to use from horseback, which he will employ), you stand with the little Bella Collina militia.  *Gaulfredo* the farmer, *Polo* the clerk, the dwarf *Nogrom*; these, you know.  There's also the violist from Flicker-Tide, whose name turns out to be Emio; the red haired brothers who sold you your ox, too - *Ernesto* and *Istuccio* - and the owner of the land you're going to fight on, *Alberto*.  *Adolpho*, with two large, black hounds politely waiting for the command to bite and kill, stands on one end of the line; on the other end stands the only other woman in the group.  The yellow dressed girl, _Bella_.  She is still annoyingly pretty today, without the lighting and her fine dress; a linen skirt knotted at one side to reveal her calves, so she won't risk tripping on it if she has to run; and to get a little distance of the fabric from the now crackling trench of burning pitch in front of you.  Why is _she_ here?  Clearly there is no expectation for women to fight as men do, here.  The answer does not come forth naturally, as you wait in the tension of the cool morning air; waiting, and waiting.  You glance over to  the farmhouse of Alberto's property; a small shape from here, but you can see the Madre Angeletta and Alberto's wife over there, with a basket of bandages and medical unguents; preparing, waiting.  Waiting.

A gunshot rings out, in the woods across the road.

Waiting.

And finally, two horses burst from the treeline; Bertuccio on his charger, and Gheradino riding high in the saddle of a chestnut mare.  After them, crashing through the trees, comes the Troll of Bella Collina; as big, and ugly as it was when you saw it last.  A ripple of  dismay goes through your little line of archers, from those seeing in the first time.  It makes the horses and riders look small, by comparison.

_"Light up!  Light up!"_  The militia sergeant, Nogrom, calls the group back to attention, and the milita light up the arrows they are holding from the trench.  The troll chases Bertuccio, whose horse, heroic in its own courage, rounds and runs parallel to your archery line, at a distance of about forty five yards.

_"Aim! Take aim!"_  Trembling hands try to steady their bows, and draw their strings.  Ahead, Gherardino takes a shot from the saddle with his shortbow; it plugs into the back of the troll's shoulder, doing no damage you can see - but it wheels to this new sensation, and runs back sideways across the field towards him.  The chestnut mare takes off, building the speed to keep away from the troll, vaulting a spar of broken fence as it goes.

*"Loose!"*

*Spoiler: OOC:*
Show

Combat begins.  Roll initiative.  Also, technically a troll has Fear.  But at this range, while it's not immediately charging at you, I'm going to treat it as Unsettling; so make a Willpower check, or take a -10% to WS and BS until you 'save it off' at the end of a subsequent turn.  And then, having taken a full aim action 'off screen', you can make a shot with a bow!  It's -20% at this range, +10% for aiming, and another -10% if you are Unsettled.

Your co-combatants are: 

1. Gaulfredo *Nerve* - (1d100)[*20*]
2. Polo *Nerve* - (1d100)[*91*] (Unnerved!)
3. Nogrom *Nerve* - (1d100)[*18*]
4. Emio *Nerve* - (1d100)[*28*]
5. Istuccio *Nerve* - (1d100)[*38*] (Unnerved!)
6. Alberto *Nerve* - (1d100)[*97*] (Unnerved!)
7. Adolpho *Nerve* - (1d100)[*55*] (Unnerved!)
8. Bella *Nerve* - (1d100)[*36*] (Unnerved!)

also,

9. Bertuccio, riding Fiammo *Nerve* - (1d100)[*92*] (Unnerved!)
10. Gherardino, riding Diletto *Nerve* - (1d100)[*7*]

and finally

11. Oscar (Wardog) *Nerve* - (1d100)[*91*] (Unnerved!)
12. Pierre (Wardog) *Nerve* - (1d100)[*81*] (Unnerved!)

----------


## BananaPhone

Taalia

Having seen psychotic and frenzied rat-ogres before in their cages, and having to feed them at risk to her personal safety, the trolls size and menacing demeanour was nothing for the ex-slave. 

Steely eyed, she drew the string back on her short-bow and....nothing.

The arrow sailed high, but fell short, Taalia's judgement off by several yards. 

Hissing under her breath, she got down onto one knee, notched another arrow and drew the string back to take aim once more.

----------


## MrAbdiel

Of the archers, only Gaulfredo, Nogrom and Emio seem to hold their cool well, like you have; the others' hands tremble and as they watch the troll snatch up a huge post from the broken fence and swing it mid stride such that it bats Gheradino's horse's tail, just shy of its legs.

The volley flies, and scatters around the troll; a single arrow from the lot sticking into its hide and holding, with its little circle of burning pitch persisting and smoking away.

It's not a strong volley; but the weakness of it seems, atleast, not to have taken the beast's attention toward the vulnerable archers.  Bertuccio hastilly finishes packing powder into his longgun, while Gheradino tears across the stretch of low-grazed field.

_"Light up!"_  Nogrom calls again, as more of the archers get their bearings.  _"Aim... Loose!"_

*Spoiler: OOC!*
Show

Troll, shockingly, did not beat your maximum initiative; so it hasn't gotten any kind of incremental approach benefit.  All the good guys will go immediately after you; then troll, then you again.  So...

You - 14
Good boys and girls - 13
Troll - 9

You spend one turn picking up an arrow from the piles on the ground and lighting it, and a second turn aiming and fire it; that's a full volley. 
 So all the scardies get two more chances each to recover from Unnerving; one before, and one after the volley to come.  If it ends up charging down on you all, it'll trigger an actual fear test - but we'll see if that comes up!

So far it has taken... smol damage.  But the volley was always, literally, a long shot at this range!  Time to go again and hope it remains horse-hungry.

----------


## BananaPhone

Taalia

On one knee, keeping her cool with practiced steeliness, Taalia knocked another arrow, drew the string back and took aim. Narrowing one eye, she kept her nerves to aim where she thought the Troll was going, not where it _was_. 

Releasing the flaming arrow, she watched as it scythed through the air and struck the hideous creature right in its ugly head.

----------


## MrAbdiel

Only Istuccio and Alberto haven't regained their nerve by the second volley; and this round of arrows is much better.  Three of them stick into the warty, blue-brown hide of the monster; burning pitch sizzling around the wounds they do.  Now two hang from its chest, one from its left thigh, and one pokes out of the top of its brow - you're pretty sure that one was yours - and the unlit one from Gheradino's shortbow from its back.  Now, your militia volley is doing more damage than the riders, and the troll turns its huge, bloodshot and yellow eyes in your direction.  And it yells.

"Bahz ho nu kAAAAHHHhhh?  Nu kaaaAAAH?"

Its voice is as ugly and rough as its exterior; its language thankfully lost on you, though it sounds like the same jabbering argot the goblins conversed in while you watched them from your perch that night.  But it sounds angry - angry as hell.

Suddenly disinterested in the horses and riders, it breaks into a loping run toward you and your fellow archers.  The steps become longer with each bound, and the speed with which it closes the distance - from forty yards, to twenty, and barrelling on - is shocking.  An intrusive memory leaps to mind - you remember the little bones, in its cave - the ones too small for it to chew.

Bertuccio and Gheradino give chase at once, and Nogrom gives his shout - though the quaver of alarm in his voice is hard not to hear.

_"Fall back!  Back to the second line!  Back and reform for close fire!"_

*Spoiler: OOC:*
Show

You've done some damage, now!  Damage enough to be noticed.  And the troll is closing the gap.  While the action in world is happening simultaneously, he's technically run from 46 yards away to 10 yards away from you, this turn.

The plan, the _order,_ is to run back to the second line of pitch and prepare to fire again.  That'll put you and the others within 20 yards - short range for the bows, dramatically increasing your accuracy.  They are hoping the dogs, and riders, can turn it back to linger within this range so it can be put down in another volley or two.

But that IS going to mean it's within charge range the whole time, so the time has come for Fear tests!  We'll see who is running to the line, and who is gripped by panic.

So make a Willpower Test.  You can have +10, because of the reassuring presence of the (apparently competent?) Nogrom, who is giving commands. 

Strictly, failing a fear test means one freezes in place.  I'm going to modify it in this case and say failing this fear test means one _does not stop running_ at the line 12 yards behind, but keeps running their full run distance!

So the fear test, and then your turn (either running to the line or defying that command in some way); and we'll see if the dogs and riders can hold the troll on their turn after yours.

----------


## BananaPhone

Taalia

It was a small hint of satisfaction as her arrow _Thwacked!_ into the beasts ugly head, but as it turned to face them and roar its fury, Taalia knew things were going to get dicey. 

Hearing that command, her resolve still unshaken, the girl turned and fled to the designated lines, her long legs carrying her at a swifter pace than those around them as she moved with the quickness of an elf or a skaven.

Taalia stuck to the plan. She didn't pull any cowboy manure and try to be a hero, she knew that if anyone went off script it could be disastrous.

----------


## MrAbdiel

_"Geet'em!  Geet'em!"_

Adolpho commands his dogs as the group falls back to the second line.  The larger of the wardogs, Oscar, responds with fearless fury; barking and snarling and tearing forward, snapping out at the troll's ankles in such a display of aggression that the hulking beast arrests his charge against the archers.  The other dog, Pierre, does not move.  It stands in place as Oscar charges forward and his handler Adolpho dashes back; vexed with confusion and trepidation at the sight of the huge enemy, and lets out a pitiful whine while shrinking to a low, submissive crouch.

At the next line most of the group halts; but not all.  Adolpho, and the lanky clerk Polo, overshoot the line two fold; both pause at the this and falter, seeming to want to return to the bowline but hesitant to approach the creature at all.  The riders circle wide to the flanks of the monster, waiting for Adolpho's call to pull the dogs back and open the beast to another unobstructed round of attack.

It is admirable, and frightening, to see Oscar facing the troll toe to toe; the dog is outmatched by orders of magnitude, but bounds and hops around, darting in to threaten an ankle and out again.  The Troll's fence post slams down, but the slippery black hound shunts to one side and barks his defiant warning.

*Spoiler: OOC: End of the Retreat Round*
Show

Amazingly, most of the NPC's passed with an average WP of 30.  No less than three because of Nogrom's dwarfliness.

At the end of this round, 6 archers and yourself are at the firing line; two have fled beyond it in fear.


With the troll halted at twenty yards, the militia take up new arrows, and light them from the pitch.

_"Get back up here, ye bloody cowards!  You can't shoot him with yer tears!"_, Nogrom implores with exasperation.  But Polo and Adolpho are frozen with the dueling interests of survival and duty.  Pierre, less valorous than his counterpart Oscar, lets loose a sudden, involuntary stream of canine urine beneath himself; visibly quaking as the troll's blows crack against the ground where the other dog was, moments before.  Adolpho retains the semblance of mind to command his animal, atleast.  _"Geer'round!  Geer'round!"_

And with the command, Oscar changes from snarling direct engagement to sprinting little circles around the troll; his speed and canine agility making him a considerably hard target.  The speed might have saved his life; but not completely.  With a wide sweeping swing of the fence post, the troll catches Oscar under the legs; knocking him up and in the air with a bloodfreezing yelp of animal pain before he hits the ground and skitters back to his feet - though his left rear leg drags limply behind him, and his threatening barks are all interspersed with spikes of agonized yelping.  Apallingly, the troll's injuries are ceasing to ooze the dark blood they flowed at first - is the fire weakness a myth?  Or not very pronounced?  Is it possible to keep it hurt at this run-and-fire pace?

*Spoiler: OOC: End of Reload Round*
Show

Archers take up an arrow and light them this turn.  Riders take aim.  Oscar uses his trained trick, "Geer'round" (Full Defense), but the Troll still hits him, and he fails to dodge. 11 Wounds puts him at a -1 Critical to the leg, rolled up as "Leg Incapacitated until medical attention received".


_"Skiddim!  Oscar!  Skiddim!"_  The peril of his animal seeming to unfreeze Adolpho's blood, his resolve finally hardens and he abandons Polo frozen at the rear, rushing back to the arrow line.  Oscar, at the command, turns and runs from the combat at a bobbling limp, toward Bertuccio  to the left of the bowline.  The troll looks ready to give chase - but not before the archers have had their say, point blank!

*Spoiler: Start of the next round!*
Show

The troll has regenerated some - its vulnerability is to _damage dealt by fire_, not quite to _arrows with a fire chaser.  I've chosen to say that 2 of each arrow's damage is 'fire' and the rest is arrow damage, so with four hits, but sustained regeneration, it's taken 8 wounds it's unable to heal.

Now, atleast, you can take a good shot, though.  At this range, it's your ballistic skill, +10% for aiming; no negative penalties.  Same for the other shooters!_

After the shots, it's the troll's turn.  With any luck, it won't be much able to act.

----------


## BananaPhone

Taalia

Taalia watched with wide-eyed amazement at the value the war dog brought to the fight. She knew that Skaven _hated_ dogs, and witnessing the trained skill, valor and cunning of the war-hound before her, Taalia could now see why. And when Oscar yelped in pain from the blow it received from the Troll, her whole body flinched up as maternal instincts drew her mind to Corvo. 

But she had to push those grim portents aside. The girl knew they had to down the savage beast before more paid with their limbs or lives. 

Drawing her bow up again, pushing the riser forward with her left arm and pulling the string back with her right, Taalia took aim once more and let a burning arrow loose.

----------


## MrAbdiel

Another good volley - your arrow, and three others (one you're quite sure is Gaulfredo's) pepper the troll, and now it's close enough that the rank smell of its skin and flesh is mixed with the fragrance of burning hair and oil.  Bertuccio's longgun cracks and the bullet strikes the troll's head so hard you think for a moment that it's done the job; but no, like your arrow, it's simply gotten wedged in the creature's skull.  But it's clearly wounded now, laboring and grunting, even though the perverse healing of its body squirts free the bullet from its head with an audible 'pop'.  With Oscar disengaged, and the horses having crept close enough to take point blank shots, the troll's big, awful eyes swivel quickly to the maker of the loudest noise - Bertuccio, and his smoking gun.  Another charge so fast it makes your stomach ache to see, closing the distance and leaping to slash with clawed hands so close they shear Bertuccio's cloak off his shoulders, and cause the horse Fiamma to scream in panic.

_"Load and light!"_  Nogrom calls again, taking up another pitch arrow and lighting it while Bertuccio takes the aggression load of the monster.  _"We've almost got it!  Boy, get yer backside clear!  NOW!"_

*Spoiler: OOC: End of firing round!*
Show

Wham bam!  The troll goes up to 14 Fire Damage and 12 Physical damage, putting it within 1 wound of crits... then regenerates 10 wounds like an absolute savage.  He charges Bertuccio, but rolls poorly; lucky for the road warden.

Nogrom's giving the order to prepare another volley, but considering the peril of the moment and Taalia's earlier question during the meeting, I figure I'll give you the chance to decide if you to load and light, or load and fire (into melee with a -20% penalty), or do something else.

But the archers (minus Polo, still afeard) are loading and lighting, counting on Bertuccio getting clear so they can fire.

----------


## BananaPhone

Taalia

That mix of anger and despair rushed through Taalia's body as she watched the Troll stagger, lumber back and forth...but the wounds slowly close up and the bullets and arrow ejected from its tough hide. 

Myrmidia's tits! These things were tough to bring down! A rat-ogre would have succumbed to its wounds by now, curling over and passing into whatever black hell awaited its putrid soul. But these Trolls just recuperated swiftly and continued fighting.

One part of her wanted to rush over to Oscar and comfort the dog, rewarding his bravery with kisses, pats and medical attention. Another part of her, still brewing from her initial entrance into the community, saw Bertuccio's close brush with death and wanted to scream and cover her mouth in a loud begging pray for his safe preservation. 

But the survivor within her knew the truth: the danger would only pass if the troll was dead. 

And how would it die?

More arrows.

Pursing her lips, exhaling, Taalia touched her arrow to the flame, took aim and loosed once more...

----------


## MrAbdiel

The archer line lights, and fires; seven strong now, with Polo struck lame by the sight of the creature hoving chunks of ground out of the field with each claw swing and improvised club blow.  Bertuccio has little choice but to withdraw - he won't last long in melee with the creature - but neither can he tear off at full pace, for fear of then giving the troll no good choice but to charge the defenseless archers.  So he steers Fiamma into a short dash away from the troll, just enough to open distance to force it to charge again; hoping to survive that charge and pull back again so the archers can fire.

But he need not endure it.  Pierre, quickened at last by either Adolpho's encouragement or Oscar's persistant, suffering yips, finds his courage and rushes the beast, snapping at the ankles and barking with the same furious gusto as Oscar before; if a little more tentative, and nervous.

The punishment for heroism is swift in coming.  The troll does not charge after the horse, but wheels around with a downward slap of the open hand.  Pierre is not quick enough to escape; and when he comes up from under the palm, he is teetering drunkenly, whining, pained; blood coming from the dog's mouth, and nose, and ears.

*Spoiler: OOC: End of Loading Round.*
Show

Bertuccio and Fiamma withdraw.  Pierre recovers from fear, finally, and charges the Troll.  He misses, but engages the troll all the same, so it does not charge Bertuccio.  Instead, it attacks Pierre three times, hits once, and does 13 wounds, soaking 3 for dawg toughness and reducing Pierre to exactly 0 - just shy of a crit.  Polo, true to form, does not recover from fear.  Everyone else loads and lights.

The troll recovers another damn 10 wounds - but only 2 of them are physical, the rest are fire based, so he recovers 2 net.


_"Pierre!  Skiddi!  Skiddi, Pierre!"_  Adolpho's voice is pitched and frantic.  Raising dogs to fight requires a certain emotional distance from the beasts that normal pet owners and farmers with working dogs do not have; but to see such noble and obedient creatures executing their commands only to be brutalized by a monster like this would be compelling for all but the most jaded individuals.  Pierre scuttles away from the combat toward Oscar, who now lingers back behind the lines near Polo, whose feet remain frozen to the ground.

You draw and loose.  It should have been a killing volley; but the troll takes a leaping, instinctive step after the fleeing hound, and most of the arrows go wide.  You arrow thunks into the creature's chest - closest to the heart, and therefor the pig, not that you would think of it at that moment; Emio's into the meat of the monster's thigh again; and  Adolpho redeems his earlier hesitation with  shot that bites deep into the troll's arm and causes a huge jet of dark blood to ooze forcefully from the curling bicep as it crunches the arrow's shaft between its fibres.

It lets out a whimper.  It totters a step.  Everyone holds their breath.

*Spoiler: Suspense Spoiler...*
Show

...And then it lets loose a furious, agonized roar that washes you with warm stinking breath, and stinging spittle even ten yards away.  Wild, bleeding, hurting, its great ears flap in idiot desperation for some special sound or sign to direct it; but Bertuccio is reloading, and cannot fire another shot that might draw the monster's attention.  So it surges forth on instinct, rushing towards the girl on the end of the bow line - Bella.

What was she doing here, anyway? Had she come to impress Bertuccio with her courage?  Did she fancy herself a robust adventurer, and not just an effortless dancer?  There is no grace in her steps as the huge club, a fencepost like the ones you dug for hours to sink to make your sheep pen, comes crashing down, barely missing her in her fumbling withdrawal; her scream of mortal peril piercing the morning air almost as starkly as the troll's roar.

The arrows had failed to stop it, and now it was upon you.  Even on the brink of death, the miasma of its foulness and the heavy metal taste of its blood in the air choke up your senses.

_"All in!  All in!"_, Nogrom calls.

_All In_ wasn't part of the plan you discussed; it's a desperate adaptation as things go bad.  Bertuccio is white as a sheet, hands fumbling to find his sword; Gheradino steers his horse toward the combat and tosses down his bow, going for his handaxe.  Nogrom looks ready to charge in, too.  Everyone else is startled and bewildered, unprepared for combat with the undying wrecking machine; looking for a chance to withdraw without losing their lives.

*Spoiler: OOC:*
Show

What a cliffhanger.  I want to go to bed, but I'm not going anywhere until this is resolved!

Pierre withdraws.  Everyone except Bertuccio (reloading) and Polo (frightened) fires at the troll eight yards away. 
 Three arrows hit.  The troll is at 20 Fire wounds, and 9 Physical wounds... from a total of 29 wounds; one shy of a crit, just like the dog a moment before!  It only regenerates 2 of them on its turn, but it's still trucking.

I randomized the charge between you, the seven archers, and the two riders in range - and Bella was the target.  Poetic, in a certain way.  But she's lucky - he missed his charge attack.  If he was in melee already, he could attack three times (like he has at the dogs) or just puke acid all over her.  Who's gonna be prettiest then?

The plan is coming apart and the troll isn't dying.  You have your club, I assume; Gaulfredo beside you has a knife, and Nogrom has a small axe, but most of these guys are utterly unprepared for close quarters with this thing.

----------


## BananaPhone

Taalia

Human communal feelings were a weird and unusual thing. Just a month or so ago during that festival, and Taalia would have laughed and cheered if that troll had hoisted Bella up and stuffed the hussy into its ugly mouth to chew and swallow her down. But now, today, a surge of protectiveness blasted through the teenagers body as her muscles reacted to rush forward and help the stupid girl, to save her from the grisly fate her silly actions had put her before. Is that what grown men felt when throwing themselves into the fire to protect a pretty girl or a child? Perhaps.

Lurching forward, her mind blank and her body acting on instinct, Taalia had dropped her bow and simply charging forward "AHHHHH!!!!!" her banshee-scream accompanying the surprisingly strong fist-swings across the ugly thing.

----------


## MrAbdiel

With the fire of human survival burning in your blood, you hurl yourself at the monstrosity.  You have allies, in this moment.  But most of them aren't prepared to strike in melee.  Nogrom hustles forward as fast as his short legs can take him, wriggling his handaxe free of its leather loop; Gaulfredo sucks in a fortifying breath and pulls his knife, moving in too.  Gheradino slings back his shortbow and pulls a shortspear from a leather caddy against his saddlebag.  But all this is too slow; the troll will have killed someone by the time they strike.  Even your own hand, straining against the straps securing your quarterstaff to your sling over your shoulder, is forced to give up as your feet carry you to the fray faster than you can arm yourself. Only Bertuccio draws fast enough as he charges in, and the sweep of his sword clangs jarringly off the monster's club, raises up incidentally in the path of his advance, robbing him of the chance to land a telling blow.

In the memory of the moment, all things moving like they are suspended in molten glass, there are only two close enough to the troll, when you arrive - yourself, and Bella.  With only her bow in hand, retreating with her steps, she raises it up defensively only to have it swatted from her hands by a clipping blow from the monster.  Then you are on it; trying to shut your senses to the stench of it, which competes horrifically with your worst remembered smells from the empire below; your lungs burning with your scream, your hands searching for some weak point on the monster to gouge, or twist, or pull.  Your hand wraps around  the first arrow sticking from the side of its head, and you pull it free only to stab it over and over again into the rubbery skin of the troll's chest, and neck.  Bewildered by your hurricane assault, it topples backward; reaching a huge arm to palm you back forcing you to settle for stabbing that limb with the now broken arrow shaft.  And then the final combatants return to the frey; Oscar and Pierre, both injured, but both instinctively aware that a prey creature on the ground is presenting the moment of the kill.  Oscar bites onto the wrist flailing at you, but Pierre sinks his big, crushing jaws into the troll's neck and writhes, tears, and spills  more blood on the ground and back into its throat.  You, and the dogs, wild animals all, savage the monster until it begins to slacken under you, and Nogrom has to shove Pierre aside to chop his axe once, twice, three times into the monster's neck before the head rolls off, snared only by a ribbon of skin.

The monster is dead.  With a little help from the battered beasts, you have killed it, and Nogrom has done the courtesy of making double sure.

For a moment you think you're under attack once more as the world shifts around you - but no; this is a friendlier grapple than you've ever had.  Gaulfredo's hand is on your arm, and someone else on the other, helping you to your feet and then _whoop_, up into the air, on your back suspended on a hammock of hoisting hands.

A moment ago, everyone thought they might die; now, they are alive; and your reckless, gobsmacking willingness to launch yourself weaponless in a moment of opportunity has not gone unnoticed, or unappreciated.

*"Taal-ia!  Taal-ia!"
"It's dead!  It's dead!"
"Taalia Troll-Slayer!"*

The adjuration is lasting, and almost delirious.  No one has died but the monster; a better outcome could scarcely be hoped for.  The Madre Angeletta would have you, along with a worried Adolpho, help her look at the dogs after the battle; Oscar's leg is badly hurt and perhaps dislocated, which may require the Madre to medicate him with an herb to fight inflammation of the joint before it can be put right; and Pierre is just plain battered and pummelled, but not critically injured.  Nogrom is unable to join in lifting you on shoulders and parading you around the empty paddock, with everyone else; for obvious dwarfly reasons. But he makes up for it by marching at the head of the procession, announcing you and your deed to the grass, and the sky, and the blackbirds in the trees at the edge of the field.  Even Bella and Bertuccio, after a moment where the latter holds the former while the former grips the knowledge of how close she came to death, join in.  Everyone except Polo.

Polo, who is a _good_ man by many accounts; but who has been cursed now with a terrible doubt that he is not a good _man._  All men secretly wonder and worry that, if the orcs came over the hill, or the dark elves from the shore, or a troll from its cave, that they might not have the stuff within them to stand, and fight, and perhaps die.  Polo knows, now, he does not have the stuff.  He volunteered for the archery unit for today's hunt, and fired one arrow; and elsewise was locked in paroxysms of fear and doubt for the whole combat - a combat that, who knows, might not have been so touch-and-go if he had contributed to the firing more.  He sits in the grass alone, temples in his hands, fingers in his hair; perhaps searching his soul, and his memories of the last three desperate minutes.

The pig, needless to say, is _in the bag._ 

*Spoiler: Victory!*
Show

So here's what happened.  You actually almost missed.  River trolls give a -10WS to anyone in melee with them because of their prodigious funk, so you actually rolled worse than you thought; but the critical +10% bonus from charging, or the +10% bonus from Bella in melee, pushed you up and over.

You did a 5 point crit to the arm; your roll coming up with a 20% chance to bleed out which would have been immediately obviated by the regeneration.  But the dogs were in range to charge, and one of them hit, even if Bertuccio missed his big chance to be a hero and missed; and that was enough to do the deed. Nogrom just made sure of it. 
 Congratulations!  You are an hero!  Rewards, fiscal and porcine, to come tomorrow, but feel free to post and bask in the aftermath!

----------


## BananaPhone

Taalia

There was a human saying for near-death experiences: my life flashed before my eyes.

It was not intended as a literal expression, but rather as an analogy that when one is in mortal peril time seems to slow down if only for a brief second, and one is given a moment to think on the actions that led them to this precious situation. 

The same could be said for Taalia. She yanked at her quarterstaff, trying desperately to free the weapon before reaching the troll and rescuing her fellow human sister from its acid-belching clutches. But as her manufactured weapon was apprehended by some leather strap and the hulking, vile beast before her drew a clawed-hand back to deliver the fatal, grisly blow to the beautiful dancer, Taalia allowed her reason to check out of her mind and permitted instinct to take over. 

Where the troll, in its shorted-sighted and dimwitted view of the world, might have viewed Bella as its prey, instead it received the towering _other_ girl slamming into its chest and knocking its injured body to the ground. 

Taalia didn't say anything, nor did she think. She clamoured around for the nearest thing and latched her fingers around the shaft of the arrow that she had sunk into its forehead only minutes ago. With a wet, bloodied _squelch!_ as she pulled it free from that leathery hide, Taalia screamed like the famed wild women of the Lustrian jungles as she slammed that impromptu knife in and out of the trolls chest. Perhaps she actually did have a Norscan ancestor ages back in her family tree, some wild-eyed berserker who had lain dormant within her make-up until the perfect time to re-emerge, seize the memories of her enslavement and visit them upon the troll through the sharpened steel of an arrow-head. Or, alternatively, she channelled abduction from her homelands, separation from her family, brutalisation by the rat-men, the blasphemous promises of the Horned Rat and beatings after beatings by vile filth below human kind into the primal rage that screamed from her lungs and swung her fists down to plunge the steel into the beasts chest and withdraw it in bloody arcs. 

In either case, the towering girl lived up to her physical presence and howled savagely as she stabbed the beast to death as dogs gnawed at its body. Finally, to end the bloody spectacle, the dwarf swung his hatchet several times to sever the ugly things head from its shoulders and secure peace and safety for the community for that much longer.

And just like that, it was over. 

Taalia slowly calmed down, her mind descending from that disturbingly brutal and simple plane of awareness to which situation and internal angst had propelled her. Her vision unblurred, her brain unfreezing and slowly drawing in realisations of the world around her, as her heterochromia eyes dragged back and forth between decapitated carcass and her gathering fellow citizens around her. 

*"Taal-ia! Taal-ia!"*

The words built up slowly in her awareness. Savagely brutalised Troll. Her blood-soaked hands. Arrow head. Injured dogs. Communal neighbours. 

*"It's dead! It's dead! Taalia Troll-Slayer!"*

Taalia snort-laughed, her shoulders compressing for just a second as the realisation of the situation washed over her. 

The dead troll. Her bloodied hands grasping the weapon...she had done it!

That snort-laugh again, her stunned, mindless look of disbelief slowly morphing into one of recognition, semi-humble eschewment of praise and the absolute desire for recognition.

The tall girl was hoisted up onto the little sea of hands, her yelping laughter audible as she was held aloft by those who had taken her in and whom had been rewarded for their trust. Six weeks ago she was an illiterate, skinny foreigner whom had clambered out of a hole in the ground. Today, she was Taalia Trollslayer.

It didn't matter just how ridiculously close to death she had come. Though unusually tall, strong and tough for a human woman, she was mortal all the same, and a swipe of the Trolls massive, clawed hands could have split her belly open and spilled forth the grisly insides as much as any other. Or grabbed her at both ends and torn her in twain, or dissolved her entirely with the disgusting contents of its stomach. All manner of awful ways in which the troll could have removed Taalia from the surface just as fast as she had emerged... 

...but it didn't. 

Fate had favoured her and her community today over the that of the troll and felt fit to preserve her instead. That was good enough for now. 


ooc:
*Spoiler*
Show

Free drinks at the local tavern and a great piss-up shindig?

Some things Taalia will do while being as humble/thankful as she can, but kinda-wanting to bask in the attention and praise foisted upon her by her adoptive community:

- See to the dogs health. She'll do as best a healing job on them both as she can, along with her mentor, Madre.

- Recover as much of the Trolls stomach as possible. (for Cestie's tinkering and reward)

- Naturally thank and cheer and share praises with all the other men present - yes, even Pollo. The dice were cruel to him, probably explained that he's just a nerd, but she'll try to make him feel good as best she can.

- She'll travel to the Trolls lair and take time searching through it for any interesting things.

- She'll thank the dwarf for his tactical leadership and hug him.

- She'll ask Bella if she's okay...begrudgingly. She'll also consult with Bertuccio and ask him if he regrets choosing Bella over her instead and no I'm totally kidding lol. She'll 'debrief' with him, or whatever the militia version is.

- If possible, she'll secure some trophy of the trolls demise, like a tooth or something, with the others.

----------


## MrAbdiel

Hugging Nogrom is an _operation._  He's on the taller side for a dwarf - over four and a half feet.  But in the jubilation of the after-kill, both of you speckled in trollblood, you crash into him with your arms around his shoulders, and he responds in kind.  It's not the most perfect hug you can imagine, but what is life except a series of struggles and imperfect triumphs? _ "Ye're a good shot and a wildcat in close, Taalia.  Gods bless ye!  Gods bless ye!"_  Nogrom, it seems, doesn't play the game of polite deflections of compliments well; when you thank him for his leadership in the combat preceding, he takes it as an opportunity to recite to you his thoughts and decisionmaking from the moment the first shot was fired to the end of the conflict; most of which is obvious enough, and almost none of which seems to be important right this moment.  New as you are to the civilized world, even you can see the dwarf's inability to read moments and people.  Perhaps they are the reason he seems to be somewhat isolated even within the community of Bella Collina.  You entertain his rambles, until the Madre pulls you away for help.

She needs your assistance holding the poor hound Oscar's hindquarters, while she splints what she thinks is a fracture in the dog's leg.  Dogs don't respect medical devices, particularly; the the likelihood is that he'll knock it off within the day; but, the Madre tells you, _"Every now and then you get one that seems to just trust that you know what you're doing, and they're the real gems."_  Adolpho holds Oscar's forequarters in one arm and rubs the dog's head and neck soothingly with the other hand, through the ordeal.  The same hysterically angry man you saw when you got Corvo now showing such gentleness, with this wounded warrior.  Clear enough, his life is defined by his dogs; and he takes threats and trespasses against them seriously.  But he asks about Corvo; and offers some hints about routines to better prepare him for the life of a working dog; and finally, invites you to come to his home and bring Corvo to visit his sisters, when you should like to.

Belle comes to you before you can work up the will to grudgingly check on her.  She is so grateful for your bravery, in the combat; inspired by you, even.  She doesn't even have the decency to be rude, or belittling in your time of triumph; she competes with Nogrom for your most vocal advocate in the ad hoc celebration.  Not only presumptuously pretty, but unimpeachably _friendly_ and unfortunately _sweet_, now that you've actually met her.

Perhaps you _should_ have let her die?

Bertuccio is also appreciative; though his praise is not as vocal and strident as the others.  It's not because he's less impressed - though he might well be - but it's definitely in keeping with his normal, restrained personality.  He does, however, let you shoot his longgun once; setting up the troll's head on a rock, he shows you how it's loaded, and the powder packed; the pan primed; and you aim it at the head, and let it rip.  The gun lets off a satisfying crack, and the head topples back off the post, in a satisfying testament to your aim.  _"There.  Now you know, just in case.  In most cases, you're better off with a bow, I should say; mostly because that one shot just cost me three silver in powder."_

Your shot loosened one of the monster's big, yellowing fangs from the lower jaw; five inches from root to point.  A nice souvenir, you think, as you put it away; and go to secure the next where the others are setting up a huge pyre over the body.  When you ask for a scrap of its stomach, as per Signore Cestié's request, no one can think to object; though getting it is revolting.  It requires piercing the stomach, which Gaulfredo does with his knife; and immediately everyone is send dryretching away as the most powerful, pungent miasma of acidic smell washes out on a tide of porridge-thick acid and decaying fish matter.  It sizzles angrilly on the ground, burning away all the grass and bleaching the earth; but once given enough time to breath, you duck in to extract a sample flap of gut-skin and barely avoid throwing up in the troll's throw-up.  You feel you will have earned this reward; every coin of it.

This awful smell is soon covered with the smell of smoke as they light up the pyre and begin the slow immolation of the rest of the carcass.  Adolpho, Emio and Istucchio stay behind with Alberto to keep the fire fed as long as they need to, and the hunting party slowly breaks apart to go their separate ways.  You catch Polo for a moment before the group has fully dissolved; no one has hounded him for his cowardice, but if someone had gotten seriously hurt, that likely wouldn't have been the case.  You reassure him as best you can.  Sometimes, the horror of a moment is too much.  It took you time to harden to dangers, as you have; and even you can recall that revolting pit of profanities, the Skaven ritual, and the repulsive summoning that made your heart wilt like wax.  You don't tell him that, obviously - but your ability to sympathize with his malfunction in the moment comes through, and he appreciates it. _ "I'll, ah... I'll just have to do better on the next troll, hmm?" _ He gives a self-deprecating smile; but between your kindness, and Gaulfredo's distracting rambles, he begins to rise above his self reproach.

There's no great celebration that night, in Bella Collina - for the next evening, it's the Spring Planting festival; and all the partying will be done then.  You do share a precious moment with Gaulfredo and Ariana; each with a small cup of the whisky you bought, clinking vessels and toasting to victory, and your valor; and vengeance, for Hurcio.  The rooster, still recovering from his injury, is unable to understand the news; but you tell him anyway.

Gods help the creature that takes the other leg.

*Spoiler: OOC:*
Show

We'll do some zooming ahead in the timeline soon; but there's a few things to get to first.  The most immediate of which is for you to give me a Consume Alcohol test, for Taalia's first night on the hooch.  Just to see how she washes up the next morning.

Also, you may enjoy 400XP for your grand victory over the Troll of Bella Collina.  You have gained a trinket (troll's tooth), and a scrap of troll-gut.

Next stop: Spring Harvest festival, Signore Cestié's for reward, pig presentation, searching the troll cave.

----------


## BananaPhone

Taalia


Though Taalia felt herself wanting to move to other people while the dwarf just kept talking, she had to admit a part of her liked it. There was something about some one with the social skills of a goldish giving her the time of day to just talk. After years as a slave under the Skaven, just basic conversation or discussion was almost forbidden among the slaves. So though she did eventually feel the need to turn her attention elsewhere, she'd be lying if she said she didn't just enjoy letting the dwarf ramble.

Taalia happily helped with the dog, learning from Madre and watching her work. It was testimony to her own developing skills where she _recognised_ what Madre was doing and _why_. She also happily spoke about Corvo, what a little devil he was yet how wonderful he was coming along with Ariana's help. Hearing the dog trainers offer, Taalia grinned and nodded happily - she'd definitely enjoy visiting his kennels!

Belle's appreciation and talk...gets to Taalia. Yes, she had been the centre of her high school jealousy, and she had written her off as just a pretty hussy with an unmarred face....but it was hard to cling to jealous prejudices when talking with the individual and learning they're as sweet on the inside as they are on the outside. In honesty, Taalia almost found herself falling under her spell - a seemingly genuine spell though - allowing a natural smile and talking back. Taalia had always had Ariana and Madre to talk to, but they were older women. Admittedly, Bella was near her own age, and what a source of information, gossip and behaviour she was!

Though for Taalia...firing that gun was _fantastic_. The kick against her shoulder, the loud boom and the _impact_ of the shot against the target in the distance - that she hit! - sent a rush down her body like she had never felt. 

She wanted one. 

One day, she promised herself, she would buy a gun. 

If only Rat Papa had _not_ been playing dead...his two pistols could have been hers! If only...

"Could I learn to use the bow regularly?" she asked as she turned to look up at Bertuccio hopefully, noticeably reluctant to hand the firearm back - but of course, doing so.

When it came time to console Polo, Taalia tried a new tactic she had been developing: playing the man, rather than the argument. She had seen how Gaulfredo had haggled so well by appealing to the individual, and so that is what Taalia tried.

"Out of the hundreds of men in the region, how many volunteered? How many were willing to put themselves within arms-reach of a troll and risk their life for their fellows?"

She pursed her lips and shrugged, "only the ones you see here. And you. You live comfortable, you could have easily let someone else deal with it, but you put yourself in danger and even loosed an arrow at it. Sure, you felt fear, everyone does, there's no shame in it. But you were here ready to die for for others against that horrible beast. How many other men in the region could claim the same? How many others could claim they fought a troll and lived to tell the tale?" she smiled and encouraged.

Later on back at the farmstead, Taalia grinned as she clinked the cups against those of her foster parents. Flushed with victory and addrenaline, the teenager brought that cup to her mouth and took in a swill. 

Her eyes widening, spluttering and coughing as the spirits _burned_ her mouth and her whole body shuddered and quaked. Her head hung forward and she slammed her open palm on the table, as Ariana and Gaulfredo laughed gently as their joined prediction came true. 

Drawing her head back up, her normally sunkissed features were flushed red as she panted, swallowing, shaking her head and blinking her eyes. 

"By...Myrmidia...wha..." she gasped, Gaulfredo snickering and pouring her another glass. 

"Sip or take it all down at once. You'll come to appreciate the flavours and kick."


ooc:
Yes, indeed, off to market and festival! And the cave!

----------


## MrAbdiel

Polo is somewhat reassured, Bella is somewhat well received, and Oscar is somewhat put right.

Bertuccio, classically, fails to understand the question entirely.  You ask him if you can learn to use a bow regularly.  His response?

_"I don't see why not. Gaulfredo has one; and a butte to target.  Cheaper than gunpowder, for sure."_

* * * * *
You divert first to town, to drop of Signore Cestié's bounty.  Rather than endure the disgusting smell the entire way, you put it in the wide mouth of your looted clay job.  When he pops the cork, he reels.

_"Ah!  Is this it?  Oh, the smell, the smell!  Ooh, dear; that will need... work!"_

True to his word, he goes to a small locked coffer beneath the main counter of his workshop, opens it with no less than three intricate looking keys - right, left, middle - and produces ten gold coins from within, just for you.  He also replaces your clay jug with one of his own, more or less like for like.  No point fouling two of them!

*Spoiler: OOC:*
Show

You gain 10 Gold Crowns!


While you're there, you broach the question of your telescope with him.  He's amazed that you have one; more so at the story of how you got it. _ "In the company of goblins?  They certainly don't make such things.  They must have killed some poor traveller, with an eye for travel and terrain.  Awful, awful.  But no, no; I wouldn't buy it, Taalia; I think you should keep it.  Oh, but I suppose it's a lot of money, for a young person like yourself.  You're not likely to find a buyer without traipsing all the way to the city.  But before you sell it, perhaps you'll let me show you why the ones on my shelf aren't for sale."_  With that open ended invite for some kind of sight-seeing adventure, you head back to the cart, with Gaulfredo; with one more stop on the way.

* * * * *
"Gods alive, Taalia!  It smells worse than the troll, in here - worse than the outside of it, anyway."

Gaulfredo holds up a lit torch for you, as you pick your way carefully through the troll cave.  It's filthy to the point of redefining the word - heaps of the beast's feces and fermented puke line the walls and corners of the big circular cavern, the scattering of little bones familiar landmarks to you.  There are the remnants of many things here that are now worthless - chewed and half eaten leather gloves, masticated boots, a broken short sword of unimpressive make.  Of the things not unbroken, you find...

A single wooden chip, carved in a circle, with a carved 'B' on it, and a rough carving of a pig's head on the other.

_"That's a bath token, for the Pigly Inn; the coaching inn first from here on the road to Verezzo.  I've been there once,"_ Gaulfredo offers; _"But I cannot vouch for the baths."_

Three copper pennies and two silver pieces, all gross.

_"These.. will all need a good scrub, I fear."_

And finally, a brass... thing.  A bowl, suspended on trio of chains attached to its rim that join at the bottom of a longer, handle chain.  There is some engraving on it; too filthy to be discerned.

_"A censer, I think; a religious tool, for priests blessing a place.  Yech..."_

As you retrieve this last item, you notice something else that isn't an item - in the circle left in the filth you lift it from, you see a scrap of white stone, grooved with the passage of a chisel.  There is more to this cave _itself_ than just being a troll-hole; but excavating it to discover what it hides would be a considerable investment of time shoveling cartloads of troll leavings out.  It might be best to just leave it for a braver archaelogist!

----------


## BananaPhone

Taalia

Taalia looks happy and fascinated by Signore Cestié's explanation, though her exaltation could do with the enormous amount of money the girl now carried in a discreet pouch on her hip.

To his first suggestion of keeping the telescope, Taalia nods sympathetically.

"It is a beautiful item. Were I a woman of means I would most certainly keep it as a prized possession!" she admits, confessing some pain in parting with such a practical but fun piece of human ingenuity.

"But with the currency I could bring in from selling it?" she says, leaning in closer, her voice lowered as if admitting such intrigue or secret.

"I could hire my own acres next to Gaulfredos farm,  build pens, hire a couple of boys and buy half a score of pigs and sell the liters to Verenzo. You heard the talk about possible shortages ahead. If I wait to try and establish, it might not happen." she shrugged, having revealed a hint of both her far-thinking ambition and her growing awareness of local currents.

Then he asked if she would like a demonstration of why these were held out of reach of the masses grasping, grubby paws.

Nodding, "Certainly, Signore Cestié's. I would love to see!"

oOo
Taalia smirked and snickered at Gaulfredo's protests, finding them amusing more than anything. 

"When I was a slave for the Skaven," she spoke matter-of-factly, having become quite open with her years of awful toil to her foster parents "a regular duty was feeding the Rat-ogres and cleaning their cages. Once a week at least, for years. You learn to 'tune it out'" she says over her shoulder as she wades through the cave, inspecting and perusing. 

Mentally cataloguing the items, she found the most interest in the wooden token and the stone. 

Holding that chip and learning about its origins intrigued the girl. She didn't know what a coachinn was, of course. But she knew enough Tilean language now and could speculate on this tokens use, to guess that it was a place where many travellers visited. 

The stone, however, was of particular fascination to the girl. 

Holding it up, her eyes peering at it as if she could discern the hidden mysteries within, she spoke over her shoulder. 

"Sometimes the rat-men would make us toil in their mines. Dangerous places. Prone to cave-ins and collapses. There was a stone, a green stone that glowed with a menacing hue, called warpstone. They used it to power their technology and they even processed it into tokens that were about this size."

She smirked and snickered, "I'm not saying _this_ is such a thing," she makes sure he does not misinterpret her train of thought.

"I think there is even more to this place..." she stated, looking around the cave and suddenly viewing it in a different light. Its cavernous dimensions now seemed a little _too_ perfect, perhaps outside believable coincidence that the troll had crafted its own neatly sized cave within the side of a river bank and under a tree.

"I will hire a few good men to come and help me dig this place up..." she nodded, still staring at that stone. 

Mentally going through the typical wages, she produced a number, "should only take a few silver and a days work," she said. 

'Only' take a 'few' silver, she said, as if she was Ms Moneybags now. But she was right: a day, two at most, herself and three good men working to dig through this place on the action of a hunch. 

Maybe it would be worth it?

If it wasn't then she would satisfy an instinctual itch and the men would be paid fairly, so no one could complain there. 

And if there was? Well...

(Probably don't need a response to this one, as the mental wheels have been set in motion)

----------


## MrAbdiel

You've done a lot of back and forth between the farm and Bella Collina; and the day after is yet another instance.  This time, it's all of you; Gaulfredo, Ariana, Vittorio.  The needier animals - the pups, the recovering Hurcio - are left in Adolpho's care; the exchange being that his daughter, Diletta, rides to the Spring Planting festival with the rest of you.  The girl likes her privacy, and prefers the dogs she tends to people; but her father is driving her into public life.  Without a mother in the house to encourage her in any more subtle way, it is the best he can do; and the embarrassed girl sits crammed to the left side of the cart while Vittorio (who looks very smart in his recently acquired pair of leather shoes) talks her ear off about Elmo and Corvo and the funny things he has seen them trying to do.  She helps her father raise and train dogs for a living; none of it is news to her.  But Vittorio has never required an enthusiastic partner to gabble on; only the semblance of attention.  So he prevents her from needing to speak much, and she might well be grateful for it.

The Spring Planting festival, which you notice being just as often called the Spring _Harvest_ festival depending on whether farmers are trying their luck with wheat (harvest in spring) or corn (plant in spring), is even bigger and more festive than Flicker-Tide.  Squared bails of hay are scattered around the festival area from the town square down the length of the four radial streets, used for chairs and tables and stackable building materials for the children who cannot _not_ be building a cubby.  No gargantuan bonfire this time, but a large central ceremonial fire in the centre of the square, and some mock wicker effigies of the hearth-goddess Ishea and her hunter companion and lover Karnas.  Later in the evening, they will be committed to the fire, too; not in an act of blasphemy but (the Madre tells you later), as the kind of fulfillment, since the cycle of growth and decline, life and death, is captured in the yearly creation and immolation of the effigies themselves.

The Madre does much of the conducting of this festival herself, as before; though the official master of ceremonies is the Rampollo Damio, who you lay eyes on for the first time when he calls the music to a halt, ascents a wobbly stage made of hay bales and wooden planks, and thanks everyone for attending.

He is not a robustly physically impressive man.  If he could manage to grow more than the loose suggestion of a beard, he might even verge toward handsome. But the gods have blessed him with an unusual amount of neck; within the limits of human imagination, and certainly not an unnatural thing... but significant enough that the first impression of everyone he meets, silently of course, is a mental reflection along the lines of _wow, that guy has so much neck._  He mitigates it as best he can with a high ruffled collar, but a pronounced adam's apple is fighting the effort.  But he seems pleasant enough; the people barely regard him as a leader, and he demands barely anything from them in that regard, and the whole system seems to work just fine.  And he is close enough to the people that he doesn't seem disgusted by the rurality of everything.  He even carries the pig, himself.
_
"...And lest it go unnoted - a great thanks and salute to our fair militia volunteers, all of whom eat and drink their fill tonight without reaching into their pockets.  And true to my word, it is my pleasure to aware this healthy pig to our superior markswoman - Taalia, Trollslayer!"_

The speech is a little stilted.  He hasn't met you, and is required to praise you, and so it feels a little inauthentic; and it's plain from the fact that he called you a superior _markswoman_ that he has misunderstood the account of the slaying somewhat.  But pig is pig; and now he knows your name - this, being the man you'll have to convince at some point in the future to permit you to buy or rent land around Bella Collina.  The whole village, and farmers from all around it - perhaps over a hundred people, children considered - cheer and applaud for you as the Rampollo hefts the whole adult pig into your arms.  It gives a sporting wriggle, then resigns to its fate; and Polo takes the porcine prisoner off your hands to store somewhere in his home, until it's time for you to collect it after the festival.

There is dancing this time, too; different than Flicker-Tide.  This dance begins with groups of threes and fours wheeling back and forth in their own circles, and from time to time trading a member to another wheel nearby.  Emio the Violist saws up the tempo as usual; a rapidly drunkening Nogrom hooting and drumming on an upturned bucket to 'help' him.

Last time, you were so overwhelmed and unable to communicate; and your concern for looking like a fool made you balk and shy away from the dancing.  Now, you're a village celebrity.  And it doesn't look so complicated; and ever so fun...

*Spoiler: It's Safe To Dance*
Show

If you want to.  You won't even need to leave your friends behind, on account of the fact they are also dancing.

Make... another Willpower roll to join the dance.  +20 for the general welcome and encouragement, now.  And for that matter, another +10 as Ariana, who turns out to be an excellent dancer, encourages and tries to help you.

After that, an Agility check with the same bonuses if you succeed on the first roll.  It's a very important dance.

----------


## BananaPhone

Taalia


At the last festival Taalia had been a wide-eyed newcomer to the community, and in many ways she still was. But the difference that a couple of months could make were self-evident when the towering girl embraced the ocean of people with the grace of a new ship, rather than the pitiable bumbling of a drowning woman like last time. 

Where-as the prior festival saw her dawdle about aimless, now she recognised faces and activities. She could converse with others and when she waded through the endless chorus of spoken words about her, she _understood_ what was being spoken. Though only gathering fragments, it was that familiarity with the language and decipherment of what was said that made her feel more and more at home and no longer like a visiting outsider making a fool out of herself. 

However, a lesson from the last festival that Taalia had remembered and wanted to improve upon was an education in commerce. Though a graceless new-girl with barely a word of conversation for those she met, she had watched as Gaulfredo had worked his haggling magic and acquired for her what she now knew to be quite an impressive sum that she had used to establish herself. Her chickens and her sheep, coop, pen and half of the ox had sprung from the fruit of that haggle tree...and now Taalia had returned equipped with the final pieces of that chests contents that she wished to sell.

This did, of course, mean that she was wearing an 'ordinary' peasant girls outfit when she attended. *But*, her cosmetics kit and a beautiful yellow sash about her waist did wonders to accentuate her sunny, pleasing face, white-blonde hair and athletic figure. So when it came time to scale that ramp and stand upon stage before all assembled next to the Rompollo, Taalia looked _nice_ - she had done herself up well. Her smile was broad and warm, her friendly waving sincere, and when she giggled and laughed when receiving the squealing pig within her long arms and held the struggling animal firm and fast, she had visibly come quite far since she last stumbled onto the social scene. 

"Thank you Rompolo Damio," she spoke if given the chance, gesturing to the other militiamen who had been present.

"I just got lucky: none of this would have been possible without all involved! Thank you all!" she beamed and waved. 

A bit cliche, but clearly sincere, particularly given her age and 'special' upbringing. 

Handing the pig over to Pollo, Taalia spent several moments lifting children up and spinning them around, speaking to familiar faces such as Madre, Signore Cestié and even Bella if she was present. But soon the crowds parted for the dancing to take place, and this time Taalia _knew_ she wasn't going to let stage fright halt her advance. 

The last time she had lingered around the perimeter like a mopey, tall, shy bear. This time, she held out her hand to receive Ariana's invitation, smile bright across her face as she ventured onto the pebbled floor.

----------


## MrAbdiel

Gratitude, ale, and a seasonal disposition of jubilation are all in your favor; and the assembled village cheers for you and your well-won wriggling pig.  The militia and your friends have already discussed and congratulated you at length (Signore Cestie and the Madre Angeletta both express how impressed they are, before surrendering you to other interested parties); but others from the town flock to you throughout the night to compliment you on your pig, and ask you about the slaying of the troll.  Amalia and Amadea extract your account of the combat, which is likely to spin off through their gossip network into a distorted version of itself.  Perusia and Rubeus, the tavernkeeper Gheradino's children, have heard the story in detail from him; but they still want to know from you how bad it smelled up close, and how big its teeth were.  Strangers from other farms who only come into the village once a month for supply or for big festivals like this are equally impressed, even though this is the first they have heard of a troll in Bella Collina.  But that long tooth, hung on a narrow strip of rawhide that Gaulfredo had lying around, is proof enough!

Your selfless deflection, at that appropriate level that is not risking being mistaken for obstinance, is well received.  Gherardino and Bertuccio probably played the most dangerous parts, in the whole engagement.  They had horses and so were capable of fleeing; but when you launched yourself into the fray, they were ready to leap in too; just slower on the draw than yourself.  And they had taken on themselves the duty of provoking and baiting the creature, relying on their riding skill and wily steeds to keep them out of reach of the foul monster.  It might have been unfair to have rolled around in the praise as if it were a single handed victory; but that could never be your instinct.  And the riders seem pleased with the level of accolades they have received.  Gherardino, who grills cuts of meat from animals slaughtered for the occasion while his children zip about collecting empty mugs and delivering full ones, is wise enough to be more than pleased with any result that gets him back home to his children, of an evening; and Bertuccio seems as dull to the desire for praise as he is to most social signals.

A tradition of the Spring Harvest/Planting reveals itself, in the evening.  The ladies and girls, while aside in their conversations with one another, begin picking choice selections of straw from the bales and begin weaving and braiding them into large rings.  Their purpose is soon revealed.  Ariana appears to be a skilled hand at it, and she (almost without effort) weaves an offering, even working a copper coin into it like a jewel on the face of a crown, and places it on Gaulfredo's head.  He bows to receive it, in a semblance of royalty; but they share their typical air of mutual delight in each other and playfulness in the gesture.  This seems to be the most common purpose for the grass crowns (which they seem to be called, even though they are clearly made of straw); women bestowing the crown on their chosen man, perhaps as Ishea chooses Karnas.  But it doesn't hold firm throughout more examples as you see them.  Girls are making them for their friends; and matching grass bracelets shortly after.  Mothers make them for their small sons, and sisters for their brothers.  The Madre Angeletta seems to be making a cottage industry out of producing a bulk of somewhat haphazardly constructed crowns to give to the smallest girls who are unable to master making their own; and soon they are chasing the boys with them.  The boys flee these bestowments and their nuptial implications, perhaps arrested by the juvenile fear that to be thus crowned is irrevocably binding.

And some women, like all of the men, do not make them at all.  Not just the spinsters and widows, but enough examples of 'normal' women that the practise seems optional, if popular.  The whole thing has the air of a gently collapsed activity of old ritual significance; a sacred thing, now in a loose enough state of the decay that the tradition of it happening in some for or another holds more value than whatever it once was meant to accomplish or recognise.  When you check in with Belle, she is manufacturing a grass crown of her own; neither as intricate as Ariana's, or as swift in coming as the Madre's.  It takes her time, though not much concentration; and she looks up at you from her straw bale seat and smiles with a smile whose warmth reaches her dark eyes.  _"Buona sera, Taalia!  What a lovely sash!"_

She seems to have emotionally recovered from her brush with death, but hasn't forgotten it, or the role you played in saving her life.  But unlike almost everyone else, the troll and that combat does not feature in this conversation after you bring it up, and she assures you she is doing well.  _"How do you like living in Bella Collina?"_, and _"Your hair is almost silver - has it always been that color?  I have never seen its like!"_, and _"Bertuccio says you have begun your own flock, on Gaulfredo's farm - that's so impressive, at your age!"_  She might have not even noticed you, at the last festival where she swooped in and whisked Bertuccio our from under your attentions.  But she's seen you now; and seems unabashedly fascinated with you, and how you have leaped from the pits of oblivion onto the stage of this small village community.

_"Oh!  There is the dancing music!  Quick, here!"_  As the viola kicks up, she is all but springloaded for the event, in her distinct yellow dress; but she delays her enthusiasm to join the dance for a moment.  _"Here you are, Taalia Trollslayer.  We are fortunate indeed, to have you found you."_  She crowns you with the grass crown she has made, the frail circlet charged with nebulous but evident esteem and fascination; and then seeks to drag you (as if you needed dragging) toward the dance. Ariana flags the pair of you over, and along with Gaulfredo, you form the initial circle for the dance.  And now that you're doing it, and that you can understand what people are saying and the cues they are giving you, it's all so easy, and intuitive, and _fun_, that you can only remember your instinctive retreat from the dance at Flicker-Tide with a pang of loss, for the opportunity. But there will be another Flicker-Tide; and long before that, a Fall Harvest/Fall Planting festival, with no doubt its own curious traditions and dances to discover.  But for now, you find it surprisingly east to step in, and now; and around and around, in your wheel of companions; losing Ariana to an adjacent group, and gaining a friendly stranger; losing yourself in the next round to a group of strangers, then another, and then somehow back to Gaulfredo and Ariana, with Diletta in the mix.  She's about a foot and a half shorter than you, so the geometry of this wheel is a little extra work; and she seems to be struggling to intuit it all, as you feared you might.  But persisting, and not mocking her inelegance, you find yourself helping Ariana teach when a moment ago you were learning.

How far you have come, in such a short time!  It's a thought that is never far from your mind, these past weeks; and as you wheel and dance, your eyes track a brief tableaux sketched out in firelight over the crowd: Ishea and Karnas in effigy, glowing orange in the firelight; and the statue of the spearwoman all the way at the other end of the square, where an array of short candles have been placed and lit by her sandaled feet.

_"Men also have gods," Kee-Ruh-Sis had once said, "and they will not permit their children to suffer like this forever."_

*Spoiler: OOC:*
Show

Gain 100 XP, and a milestone victory, for Taalia overcoming her self doubts and suspicions, and joining the dance.  You can also gain a special boon - you can consider yourself to be 'trained' in _Performance: Dance_, though with a typical -10% penalty. 
 This will mean you succeed at performative level dance in situations where the dance is simple enough, and are entitled to roll as if you were trained with a -10% penalty in other situations.  If you become trained in Performance: Dance, this is rendered obsolete; but until then, you have _The Boon of the Dance._

If there's anything else you want to do on the festival night, let me know; otherwise we'll move it on to tomorrow, and purchases and sales.

----------


## MrAbdiel

The following day, after enjoying again the hospitality of Polo and Fenicia (this time, you and Vittorio crash in the living room, while Gaulfredo and Ariana take the spare room with its bed), you get about your secondary business in town.  You catch Polo before he escapes to his clerk work, and he is perfectly interested to look over the book that you've brought him.  He flips it open on his desk; looks physically pained as he runs his thumb along the torn stubs where so many of the pages once were.  _"Bloody greenskin_ animals_..."_

He doesn't speak the language of the text; but he has enough scholarship in him to determine it.  _"It's in classical - the language of old Tylos, you see, before the tongue diverged into Tilean and Estalian, and made its impact on Breton.  It's not much of a spoken language anymore, but priests and scholars often use it as a common language among themselves.  And as a... a kind of barrier to entry to pretenders, you see?  I don't speak it myself, but it's titled something like 'Between Old Gods' or 'From one Old God to another Old God', or something similar.  I think it's a comparative text.  I can make out the proper names, in some places - that's Ishea, and Rhya, mentioned together in the same sentences several times on this page.  Rhya is what most of the Estalians - and anywhere north of the mountains, in fact - call Ishea.  Like how our Karnas is their Taal."_

Gaulfredo, to whom letters are a mystery and who sees an opportunity to chime in so not to come off as dull, pipes up.  "Yes; yes, I knew that one.  When I met you in the wood, Taalia, I thought you might have been Imperial, since I could not tell what you were speaking, and I know Breton and Estalian by sound, if not the words.  That's why Vittorio and I called you Taalia - you came from the woods in a needy moment; a gift from Karnas.  Or Taal, as I thought you might prefer at the time.  We could call you Karnasia, I suppose."  He considers; though the amended name doesn't roll off the tongue quite the same.

_"It might be a bit disappointing..."_ Polo warns you, as he closes the book; its cover sagging inward over the gutted interior. _ "If it were in good condition, a hand-scribed text like this might be worth a great little payday indeed.  But the goblins really went at the guts of it, before you got to it.  If it were a little battered, we could sell it for a little less; but a broken book is about as good as a broken sword.  Unless it's some secret old text for which even scraps are sought - I don't think that's the case - you might get a few gold crowns for it, just as calligraphic samples for young scribes to study for reference.  But nothing like the hundred crowns or so you could get for a scholarly book on theological matters, if it weren't half-gone.  I'd suggest holding onto it until you have a chance to take it to a bookseller in Verezzo; they're most likely to be able to help."_

Some of your smaller sales move easier than others.

The fishing reel, the pouches, the shoes and the sashes, Gaulfredo will buy from you himself.  _"That's a good reel, and you never know when you need more pouches.  The sashes, I'll give to Ariana.  I think she'll like them.  And the shoes... that's a big price, but in a marriage, you make these kinds of investments, and they pay off over time."_

*Spoiler: OOC: Easy Money*
Show


1 fishing reel (Good quality) - 9 silver
2 leather pouches (small) - 10 silver
4 * Sash, Red, Blue, Green, Yellow, - 10 silver
1 * Good Shoes, Red - 30 silver

= 59 Silver from Gaulfredo purchases!


He gives you the bad news, next.  "I don't think you're going to find anyone who will buy that pipe.  Who wants a used pipe?  Anyone who is buying a pipe can afford a tobacco habit, and those people would buy a new one."

But the rest is more challenging.  The best quality clothing, hat, the perfume, the cloak - _"These are all luxury goods.  The ladies of the village are probably close to tapped out for frivolous spends from the last load of interesting garments you brought it a few weeks ago.  And being red doesn't help - the Rampollo's aligned to the Yellow Court, so yellow is the perennial fashion here.  We might be able to squeak out a sale - but in matters of gold, I think it's worth waiting until we can get to Verezzo; or atleast to town."_

*Spoiler: OOC: Hard Money*
Show

Harder here.  Gonna make rolls for all the stuff, adding in a +10 for you assisting, and a +10 for your present reputation boost in the village.  But like Gaulfredo says, it's a small village the it's a little exhausted for luxury clothes right now.  On the items he succeeds on, you'll get a 50% offer.  On those he fails on, you can't really sell here at all; not until a couple of months have passed.

Hat: *Vs59* - (1d100)[*2*]
Perfume: *Vs59* - (1d100)[*15*]
Cloak: *Vs59* - (1d100)[*48*]
Best Clothes: *Vs59* - (1d100)[*32*]

EDIT: Characteristically nailing all the rolls, you can finagle a half-cost sale for all these items if you need cash now; or try again after the market has somewhat replenished.

The sandals are an exception; they're not luxury, so they get a normal 100%/50% roll.  But I remind you if you sell them, you have no footwear- and Taalia might take penalties being a barefoot wanderer!


Later in the day, as you prepare to return, you look for some local layabouts to roust for labor - and you find them.  The gaggle of lads who helped with the construction of the sheep pen, who so crudely gained giggles at your expense while you were just trying to be nice, present themselves when they hear you asking about.  And they do their best effort to pretend like they don't remember meeting you the first time; but you're pretty bloody distinct.  It was easy when you were a gormless foreigner; now you're a local darling, and they'd really like the work.  If you'll take them.

*Spoiler: Shovel Ready Jobs*
Show

It'll take 8 man-days of unskilled labor to clear the cave - that's 2 days with these four lads bringing their own shovels, for a total of 80 pennies.

You may, however, choose to roll a haggle roll at +20 for your local leverage right now to hector them down to something constituting less than that and the implication of an apology for being jerks, previously.

----------


## BananaPhone

Taalia


Taalia found talk of the religious text quite fascinating. As a fellow slave whose fate she'll never know once explained to her: Men have their own Gods. That Gaulfredo and Vitorio had named her after a gift from some divine entity only made her blush and smile, to be thought of in such lofty and affectionate terms made her fee particularly welcome, and that despite all the cruelties and horror she'd witnessed and endured from ratmen and fellow slaves, there were things to live for in this world. 

However, talk of it's value, or lack there-of, was not bothersome to the girl. After all, she didn't know what books were worth. Talk of 'old classical tongues' meant nothing to her, nor did any loss of value in the book's potential sale price due to damages incurred, even if such abrasions might have exasperated some divine being looking on from above (haha!).

"Karnasia..." Taalia said, trying the word out in her mouth.

"Karnasia...Karnasia!" she attempted several inflections, rolling the syllables about as if tasting a new wine. Finally, she pursed her lips and then smiled. 

"I like Taalia better, yes. I think you chose wisely," she laughed.

"Thank you Pollo, I will take it to Verezzo in good time and see if it is any more useful to someone there! Ahh...but!" Taalia paused, thinking, eyes narrowed as she looked off in a different direction while strumming at her chin with her right hand. 

"Verezzo is quite a large city, yes? I have never been...but I am looking forward to it!" she piped up with that broad, bright smile of hers, "but I saw on the trading post the cost of different meats and produce. I bring eggs every week to the market here and I enjoy talking with others while selling them. But within the next few months my sheep will need shearing and little lambs will come along. I won't be able to keep all of the lambs, not without new acerage..."

She paused before continuing, trusting she could confide in Pollo given his familial relationship to Gaulfredo and, through him, essentially her as well as a veritable foster daughter.

"The wool can be expensive, as can lambs and ewes. If I cannot trade them here, I will need to do so in Verezzo. If I wanted to...what is the term...forgive my limit..." she said, rubbing her thumb against the inside of her fingertips, usually the expression for 'money', but in this case trying to think of something.

"Borrow? Rent? Land, near Gaulfredo's?" she asks curiously, exposing a bit of her far-thinking ambition.

"I'm so sorry Pollo, I am rambling," she laughed gently, "but do you know who I could sell animals to in Verezzo, and who I see about borrowing land?"

From illiterate, escaped slave starving in the woods to ambitious livestock farmer in 6 months. She was ambitious and energetic, she had to be given that much.

oOo
Taalia ventured forth into the marketplace once more with Gaulfredo by her side, this time more in-tune with his methods and ability to persuade and convince. Where previously she had been barely able to understand a few words, now she could follow along entirely, even adding her own quips here and there. However, unlike her prior foray into the world of rural commerce, Taalia fully agreed with, heeded and came to the same conclusions as her mentor.

Initially, she felt hesitant to sell to Gaulfredo, particularly after how good he and his wife and son had been to her. In essence, she owed everything to them. She dreaded to think where in this ruthless world she could have ended up had she not come under their protective wing, but yet the exchange of money between them had an underlying trust. They were both honest and up front with each other, neither party trying to 'get the best deal' that they could from the other. She had, after all, spend 12 gold on helping Gaulfredo buy a new ox, while they had accepted 'rent' from her and Ariana had promised to show Taalia how to milk the sheep and turn it into cheese - which they would pay her for. Though the adage that money and blood don't mix was usually true, this seemed to be a case where honesty and generosity had a made a good working relationship.

Unfortunately, the rest of the sales were not as...satisfying? The approximately 9gc was nothing to sneeze at, Taalia could use it. But Gaulfredo was right, and after talk already of soon travelling to Verezzo had entered her mind, the girl started to think longer-term with money-matters and had came to the same conclusion as her friend: it was best to hang onto these. 

Even the Disguise Kit could be worth a couple of sheep if she sold it wisely in the city. 

But then came the matter of excavating the troll cave. And my my how the turntables. 

Taalia worked hard to suppress a smug little grin when the four lads approached her. She had remembered three last time, but it was likely that had just had not been there that day. 

To say that Taalia displayed a toying, coy attitude would have been fair. She was fluent in Tilien now. _And_ her social graces had improved considerably. Sarcasm, toying, coying, innuendo, back-handed compliments...the two spinstr-sisters at the trading stall had been fine educators. 

But, Taalia knew that the work ahead of the boys was better revenge than she could plan herself. And so, with the back and forth, even knocking their promised wages down a little bit, she accepted their offer.

"And fellows," she said, her smoky voice laced with knowing mirth, "the job will be an unpleasant one. But stick with it, and I will need some hands to help during the shearing season, and I can speak well to others of your fortitude."

If Taalia could have gotten away with laughing darkly while rubbing her hands, she would have. Maybe there was some Skaven in her after all...

----------


## MrAbdiel

Polo is impressed at your meteoric rise in capability and fortune.  When you mention a desire to acquire land, he turns to another of his many shelves, and pulls down a ledger, and unrolls a map that takes up all of a large table.  He tracks his finger across its sketched and scribbled surface, coming to a rest over a certain squiggle.

"Well.  There's a little land on the other side of the village, closer to town; but it would put you a fair distance from Gaulfredo and Ariana.  If you are aching for a chance to rent land, that is your most likely vector.  But there's land closer by that will open up, soon enough; do you see? This swathe here is marked for clearing, and turning into grazing land. That transformation will take a while; but you have a small flock, for now; they do not need so much to graze on, and would subsist fine on the active land while this cleared woodland fallows."

Gaulfredo peers over the map.  Aware that you've never had to read one before, he guys your eyes with the point of his finger and some instruction - here is the farm; here is the road that leads to Bella Collina... and all at once, with an almost disorienting burst of geographical catharsis, your mind births the necessary sense of special abstraction to understand the flattened rendition of the land, as seen by the gods above you.  The land to be cleared looks to be a little lower lying that Gaulfredo's; it's the presently wooded patch of road-adjacent land where Hurcio and Hermes mad their stand against the troll.  It's not quite adjacent to Gaulfredo's land; but divided from it only by a patch of scrubby, rocking hillocks that spike all the way inland from the mountains in the far east, tapering off some distance on the other side of the road.  Not unnavigable land; just not particularly useful for growing much, and apparently not useful for much else.  Easilly enough walked through or perhaps ridden once you know the land enough not to risk the horse; a closeness that puts you perhaps 'half an hour down the road' on foot from Gaulfredo.

"The clearing will begin soon, but in a few months, if you can wait that long, perhaps we can work something out.  I expect you can get a favorable rate - something like paying only for the land you're actively using, while remaining a sort of on-site custodian for the fallowing land becoming pasture.  If that suits you, I can put it by the Rampollo, and gage his feeling."

Immediacy in time, or in proximity; it seems you must choose one, or the other.

* * * * *

The forth lad, who hadn't been there during the first encounter, can't for the life of him figure out why his friends are so cowed and easily talked down.  But he backs their play, all the same; and they agree to clear the cave of crud, loose rock and detritus for you for a princely sum of one shilling each, for two days labor; and the implied understanding that this is also penance for being crude earlier.

You check on them on the first day, and _woo_ is it rank.  The shovels removing the gunk are breaking the old crusts on heaps of troll leavings and releasing their foulness to the air; and the boys are taking frequent fresh air breaks; working with their shirts off and tied around their noses, shoveling until their eyes water, then getting out and getting some distance to dry retch and, sometimes, to just plain puke.  It was wise for you not to undertake this task personally.  It looks _bad._

*Spoiler: OOC: Per example*
Show






This time, they are not at all ungrateful when you bring them some skins of fresh water and something to eat.  The Madre has given you a salve of crushed herbs that give of a frosty, minty scent that is sufficiently preferable, with instructions for the lads to smear it beneath their noses while they work.

But you've got a lot on your mind.  If you were to forget that mercy for a day, and only introduce it on the second, who would blame you?  No one, that's who.


How the turntables indeed.


But on the second day, by the time you check in, it's not so bad.  In a fit of inspiration, the boys have dug a pit in the soft creekside earth outside the cave, and put all the fragrant sludge.  They used the displaced earth to shovel into the cave, soaking up some nebulous, awful fluids into a medium-gross mud to extract again; and finally, they have buried the whole mess as a lumpen mound; a grave that one could only wish smelled merely as bad as a corpse.  The covering earth does a good job masking much of the smell; and while the boys take a rest and wash up in the nearby stream with their hard-won silver in hand, you are free to look over the cave's interior, candle in hand, scent-voiding gel on your upper lip.

They've worked hard.  Their efforts have revealed a regular shape to the cave, after the initial winding entrance;  a hexagonal chamber about thirty feet across.  The ceiling of the cave is natural stone, suggesting it is a naturally formed phenomenon; but the walls have clearly been worked to flat surfaces and then treated with some unusual alchemy to whiten the stone.  The stone is stained black, right now; you only know it used to be white on account of the white chunk of rock that fits neatly back into the slot on the similarly worked and smooth floor, where you found it in the filth.  You cannot presently imagine what kind of magical, or chemical treatment would be required to cleanse this place to make it ... completely free of troll stains and smell; but it was certainly once purposed for something much greater than being the filthy lair of such a beast.  The dirty, blackened stone walls are not just smoothed, but carved; there is art there, hard to make out; hidden behind a potential effort of scrubbing and restoration that is more _archeological_ that simply shovel duty, now.  You make out flowing text, in a language you have never seen; and an elegant female figure, with a set of scales held infront of her over her heart; and a spear held high above her head.

You are at once struck with the sense that you are walking on ground once considered holy.  You have delivered it from a depth of desecration; but you are not certain you know the god to which this _shrine_, and you are certain that is what it is now, pays homage; nor can you know for sure if they mean you ill, or well.

----------


## BananaPhone

Taalia


Taalia enjoyed the 'map'. It was not an item she was familiar with, but once the geographic outlay, landmarks and legends became apparent to her, she stared at it with a child-like wide-eyed fascination. This is what birds must feel like! High up there, in the air, held aloft by the unbridled freedom of their wings, casting their gaze down upon the works of man and seeing their involvement with the land as a whole. Fascinating!

"Wow..." she uttered, reaching a hand forward and tracing lines about the map; from Gaulfredo's to the town, from Aldolpho's to Gaulfredos - and how far Rocco, that sly little beast, had had to venture during the night - to the woods and the river where she had first been found. It gave everything a sense of...scale, of locality. 

Hearing the options, Taalia considered and nodded. Land _right now_ was not that useful to her. Her flock was only small, easily grazing upon a quarter of an acre of Gaulfredo's land. But if her plans worked well? If the fleecing season was good? And she sold that telescope? Then she could expand her livestock inventory in time to take advantage of the newly clear land. That seemed the wiser choice. 

"I will be patient," Taalia nodded with a smile, as she gestured to the area Polo had designated as 'soon to be available'.


oOo

The two day excavation had been arduous and testing, and Taalia never strayed far from the action. As a former slave, she was accustomed to such dreary conditions, having plied her labour in vile squalor for years. But for the lads...she was impressed that they toughed it out, for the stench truly was _rank_. She didn't think any less of a fellow who had to take time to vomit, nor cast down his shovel for a breather. Indeed, breaks were more frequent than a normal work day, and Taalia frequently brought buckets of clean water from upstream the river for both cleaning fouled area's of exposed skin, washing clothes and, of course, for drinking. 

When they came upon their discovery however, Taalia was mesmerised by the finding. The boys compacting the waste away into banks helped tremendously, allowing Taalia to marvel at what they had found within the cave. No, not a cave, a _shrine_. This had once been a _shrine_ - but to what?

The former slave noted the similarity between the figurine of the woman holding the scale while holding aloft a spear with the Tileans own image of Myrmidia. Was she looking at some ecclesiastical progenitor? Some former incarnation? But the flowing, graceful writing - that was _not_ Tilean, and the chalk-white...marble? Was this marble? Or just beautifully crafted alabaster stone? The craftsmanship to devise and create such a thing of beauty was testimony to the skill and love its creators once put into this holy place. To think that she was helping to rescue its dignity from the fetid debasement of that trolls presence, was a satisfying sensation indeed.

Yes. It deserved to be restored. Peeling back the black film of time-worn desecration in her imagination, Taalia knew that something this beautiful could not be crafted by evil hands. 

Taalia lived up to her bargain with the lads. After having received an apology, and having privately enjoyed the little revenge of making them work in this pit, she had forgiven their trespasses, while the findings they had uncovered her put her in a particularly grateful mood. She paid each 2 shillings, double what they had originally agreed, and assured them she would remember them when fleecing time arrived and that she would also speak well of them to others who sought labour around the town.

As for Taalia herself, she would spend at least a day each week going through this place: searching, cleaning what she could, uncovering what she could. As long as her amateur archaeological venture did not impede upon her farm-work or duties to Madre, Taalia was determined to at least clean the soul of this once holy site.

----------


## MrAbdiel

Over the coming weeks, you start devoting portions of your time to this new project.  It feels good to be subtracting some little elements of blasphemy from the world, when you were forced to be complicit in adding so much to it as a slave to the monsters below.  Perhaps, when you're done, a priest can come by and tell you which god you have honored.  There are six walls, all relatively well preserved in so far as they are carved with legible if unintelligible text; but as you work your way through with bucket after bucket of soap and the slow disintegration of one brush after another, the progress that is revealed is not perfect.  The text could be read by someone who reads this language, now; the message of the place recaptured for scribing and study.  But if the intention is to restore the shrine to something like its former glory, it will require something more than just elbow grease.  This is a matter for a chemist, who can suggest (you must hope) some more powerful soap that is able to leech the stains of old caked troll scat from the walls.  As the weeks peel by, you put aside a little time to trying new methods, showing the sample stone that you took loose from the shrine floor with its white, beautiful underside and its blackened, stained flat top.  The Madre Angeletta's expertise is for tonics for the body, and for health; she offers a mixture which seems when applied to have, as she uncertainly forecast, no real effect.  Ariana suggests scrubbing with heated soapy water, instead of cold; and you boil a few pots of water and try it before deciding that, incremental success though their may be, you cannot afford to spend a lifetime using such increments.  You need something more effective, and Signore Cestie tells you what you already suspected. _ "I'm afraid something like that might require a real specialist - a chemist, who spends their life studying which substances do which, to what.  I'm sorry, Taalia; that might be another task to add to your list, for when you visit Verezzo."_  Indeed it might be; and that list begins to grow.  For now, there's plenty more surface scrubbing you can do with these hours put aside, before there is nothing left but this mysterious hope of a chemical solution.  Every hour you put into that cave shrine strips out some of the smell, and when you toss out a bucket of your shrubbing water, grey and grimey, you know you have removed atleast _that much_ of the filth.  It'll do, for now.

* * * * *

At about the four month mark, Signore Cestie calls in his claim on your time.  He gives you plenty of warning for what he has planned.  _"Bring a pack, with enough gear to camp for two nights; and your staff, and your telescope.  I know you have spend such terrible years deep underground - but now you will see the world from as far above the surface as you once were, below it!"_

It's a little uncertain, as a plan; your travels since you found a home have been back and forth between the welcome simplicity of Gaulfredo's farm, and the humble but eventually familiar village square of Bella Collina.  That is a road that runs north to south, with the forest to the east, the lowlands to the west.  But your courage has not failed you yet; and if Signore Cestie was so confident about the venture, why shouldn't you be?  Gaulfredo and Ariana are happy enough to mind your animals for a couple of days, even though Vittorio considers himself in charge while you're away.  So you set out as a party of four;  You, Signore Cestie; with Corvo trotting along at your heels and zooming out ahead only to zoom back; and a charming donkey that Signore Cestie brings.  The donkey's name is Lazlo, and he has a likable habit of making sneezy, muttering sounds that audibly register like human scoffs of disapproval, often with amazing comedic timing.  Lazlo carries your bags and Cestie's, and plods along behind you; resisting Corvo's efforts to make friends.  The signore himself has a quarterstaff of his own for the walk, some light travelling clothes, and a belt festooned with pouches.  A crossbow and quiver dangles on Lazlo's side, as he goes; Cestie seems almost disinterested in the idea of danger, more than anything.  He is prepared for one threat, however - the wrath of the sun.  He wears an almost comically wide-brimmed straw hat, and has brought one for you; the edges of it terminate past your shoulders by six inches either side of you.

*Spoiler: OOC:*
Show

You gain 1 * Big Straw Sun-Hat.


You had fears about Cestie travelling.  The Madre is in her fifties, and she is spritely enough; but Signore Cestie must be in his seventies, and you have not seen him _standing_ for long let alone moving about.  Yet here he is, and he doesn't even slow you down much.  If anything, he seems less burdened by his age than he was when you first met him; a little less bent with years, a little more full of life; as though your investment of interest and friendship in the old tinker had activated some hidden reservoir of life in him.

Your path leads you along the forested side of the rocky hills adjacent to Gaulfredo's land, east toward the mountains.  It affords you a look at the land that the Rampollo is clearing that you are hoping to rent; a few acres of light woods, now mostly cleared, with plow teams tearing up the earth and hauling stumps away.  You wave at them as you go, and they wave back; but there is plenty more work to do before it is ready to support the grasses required of a pasture.  As you come toward the end of the first day of travel, the mountains are closer than ever.  They are not the jagged black teeth gnawing on the sky, like the mountains you have foggy memories of seeing in Norsca; they are nobler, somehow.  Lovely, in a way; defending Tilea from the greenskins beyond, and somehow possessing that virtue in their bearing. The largest mountains of the Apuccini range are towering, snow capped affairs; but as you make camp, Signore Cestie points to a less imposing shape; a grassy, scrub-sided mount not a third as tall as the titans behind it.  _"That's the one; Monte Iago.  There's a nice winding track up its side; I'll show you.."_  You have to hope so.  So far, there has been no path to speak of; just faint suggestions of occasional travel, worn guideposts, hewn stumps, old stone clusters where those who preceded you by years had made camp, and fire.  You camp around one such old site.  It's well into summer now, and the nights are no longer cold; but ascending into the high hills, they're not uncomfortably warm either.  Signore Cestie shows you a trick - takes out a bundle of bundles, each a set of four narrow stakes connected by fine string, with tiny brass bells mounted on top of each of the narrow stakes.  He sets them out with the string suspended between them, and breaks out a jar of what he calls "Sniffer-Dust", sprinkling it in each of the little arrangements. _ "It's dried meat flakes, crumbs, and crushed nipper weed.  Animals with sensitive noses love the smell of it.  If they're curious about the camp, they'll veer off and paw at the dust, ringing the bells when they do.  Most of the time that's enough to scare off an animal.  It won't work on goblins or men, but we're far enough out here to not be in fear of bandits, and not close enough to the mountains to worry about goblins.  And any small gesture you can do to eliminate or reduce a threat is a gesture worth taking, I say."_ You eat bread and cheese by the fire, and a couple of your home grown eggs that you scramble up in a small skillet borrowed from Ariana for the trip; and sleep peacefully under the stars.

The next day you pack up camp, and it's up Monte Iago you go.  There is indeed an old trail beaten through the side of the mountain; a little overgrown, but obviously seeing some use; and it's no real trouble to zigzag up the switch backs toward the top of the mountain.  That is to say, it's only as difficult as hiking up a mountain normally is; which is not trivial, but perfectly doable for a strong young woman and a spritely gentleman who apparently knows the way well.  From the top of even this comparably low mountain, the view is exceptional; and you've never seen anything like it.  The lumpy sprawl of hills rolling out at the foot of the mountain surges far into the distance; the trees which you walked through, each an individual thing, seem to possess a collective shape from up here, as if they had been poured out on the land from somewhere, thick at the middle of the woodland, thinning to the edges.  Through the telescope, you can see even more.  You can make out the land being plowed, which you walked by a day ago.  You can make out the distant shape of Gaulfredo's barn; and well north of it, the  crowding of boxy shapes that must be Bella Collina.  You can see the dozens of other farmsteads and fields below, and through the telescope, more beyond the road toward the lowland; and far far away, at the hazy blue edge of the horizon, not the rumpled edges of hills or jagged mountains guarding the horizon, but a perfectly flat line that must be the sea.  Cestie points out some other things.  North, past Bella Collina, far enough away that you cannot tell the shapes apart, is another settlement.  _"This is Paesa di Silo. Four hundred people live there, and near to it - that is 'town' when we talk about going to town.  All the villages around bring their grain crops to be siloed there, and run their animals there to the saleyards.  Beyond that - just a shape on the north horizon - is the city Verezzo.  That is where you will find a chemist; and just about anything else you could want; including someone to buy your telescope.  And if you choose to sell it - well, you can borrow mine anytime you like."_

----------


## BananaPhone

Taalia


In several ways, the work of restoring the shrine reminded Talia of her labour to the ratmen, albeit with several large distinctions. First, this was a labour of love. Or repentance? To draw something that was once beautiful and sanctified out of the muck and to at least clean its forgotten soul would go a long way in helping negate her contribution to the ultimately evil works of the Skaven that her hands had performed. Of course she was a slave and a child, compelled by force and pain of death, or worse, to assist the vile ratmen in their schemes and devices and no one sane would have laid blame at her feet, but that didn't make it feel any better. She knew what poison wind-globes were, she'd used them for their distinct purpose, and doomwheels and bullets, blades and saws. If there were gods other than the horned devil the Skaven worshiped, then the ancient people who created this shrine might thank her in the afterlife for having cleansed one of their few remaining physical memories - and who knew, maybe locals would offer a pray here too. 

But, there was only so far that muscle toil and soapy extracts could take her. To further refurnish this place of worship, it was clear to Taalia, as suggested by Madre and Cestie, she would need the alchemical knowledge of a chemist from Verezzo. 

Add that to the To Do list for the big city!


oOo
To say that Taalia was smitten with the forest would have been an understatement. 

When first she had emerged into the pristine woodland, she had done so at the shoulder of Papa Rat, Rashabang, her life having once more been preserved by providence and the skin-deep nick of an assassins blade on her shoulder. Her first foray into the beautiful timber and umbrage had been one of quasi-mourning, burying the only father figure she knew - however perverse that sounded, particularly in hindsight - before washing in the stream. The discovery of the Troll had come soon after, her fight with the Goblins, her arm wound and meeting Gaulfredo soon after that. It had all started in the forest.

It seemed fitting then that Taalia once more embarked into the wooded landscape with a grandfather-like figure by her side, staff in hand and her growing dog, Corvo, trotting along beside her with youthful exuberance. By now old enough to travel on his own paw-power, Corvo's cheeky, playful personality was shining through, as was the lineage of his Cane Corso mother - his guard instincts exhibited several times when Taalia had tried falling asleep in the barn only for shadows cast by the moonlight to draw a protective growl from the young dog. It was sweet, and as they walked Taalia would periodically cup the dogs powerful head in her hands and kiss his forehead affectionately, while secretly thanking Dilette and Ariana for teaching her how to train and funnel the dogs natural strength and enthusiasm. She could tell that when he was matured, he'd be a big, boofy and friendly dog...to her. To others, he'd be a menacing deterrent to approaching his towering master with ill-intent. 

Throughout the walk, Taalia's youth and vigour combined with her very long legs to navigate and scale any obstacle that they came across. Not that such things were treated as a chore, not by the younger of the adventuring duo anyway! Taalia happily scrambled up little rock-hill surfaces, picked her way over fallen logs and traversed through barely tamed bushlands, often going ahead of the older Cestie so that her figure could clear the way before them. With her staff in hand, she'd often jab at things to test their stability, or prod about in batches of tall grass to ensure that no snakes were lurking inside. 

But, such troubles did not arise, and Taalia was often heard "oooo"ing! and "ahhh"ing! as their hike took them to new heights and elevated positions from which the youth could observe the breadth of the mountainous and hilly woodlands that spread out before them. To behold the vast forests at such a scale was an incomparable sight, and Taalia could fully understand how one might be seized by the majesty and compelled to put brush to canvas or note to sheet in order to craft a homage to the natural beauty to be found in the world. However, lacking the expertise for artistry and song, Taalia contended herself with simply enjoying the moment, her grin wide and sometimes her hand gripping Cestie by the elbow to point his attention in a particular direction where Taalia's younger eyes spotted something of interest. 

And the telescope? Pwah! She could tell why Cestie was so hesitant to part with his own. Money and experience were often interchangeable, their value depending on where one was in life. Though the girl still wanted to eventually sell her own and use it to start her life in his region, she could understand why these hikes and scenes were more valuable to Cestie than more gold in his pocket - which his lifetime trade had probably already amply provided him. But time, experience and the witness of beauty? In his twilight years, that was more important to the tinkerer. 

During their first night camping, Taalia and Cestie talked, as much to pass the time as anything else. Though a much older man taking a fit young lady out hiking to capture her imagination with the beauty of the natural world might seem...suspicious to some, Cestie likely had no sleazy ulterior motives: he was a village elder who derived his happiness seeing the youth looking towards the future with joy, and witnessing the flourishing of that excitement. Around the campfire Taalia did not hide much in regards to her past, particularly now that she was rather articulate, and in many ways her grim and stomach-churning stories would make one appreciate the freedom life on the surface in Tilea offered.

She admitted that the only cities she had been to had not been of human creation, but that she was looking forward to her trip to Verezzo.

----------


## MrAbdiel

You have a bite to eat on the cool and pleasant top of Monte Iago.  Soon you'll need to head back; but after you've packed up, and after Lazlo is loaded once more, the old tinker leads to around the bend on south side of the rounded mountain top. It reveals two interesting things - beside Monte Iago is its larger brother, Monte Ezio.  The character of that mountain is more craggy; its face is not a pleasant climb, but a craggy series of shelves with jutting cliffs and hard working, scraggly cliff-plants clinging to it.  A singular spar of stone projects out from the cliffside on Ezio more than the others; a sorty of igneous plank left behind by some calamitous rockslide that sheared away the rest of that frontage in ancient times.  It must be a very commanding view from up there, too; but a thousand foot drop threatens the incautious with the price of carelessness.

But on Monte Iago's face, pointing out towards the lowlands like Ezio's jutting point, is something else - a formation of the mountain top that slopes down about a hundred feet, then scoops back up and terminates at the cliff's edge at a slight upward tilt, before the mountain drops away blow to its normal scrubby character.  Down the length of the scooping slope are sleepers of wood, installed into the ground edge to edge to form a path that resists the overgrowth of grass, with weeds poking up between them; a downward ramp that leads to an upward slope, then a great plunge.

_"Let me tell you a story, Taalia."_  Signore Cestie begins, settling on the grass looking down at the ramp infront, and glancing to his left to see the fearsome spar of Monte Ezio beyond.  And then, he tells you a story.

_"There was a certain man of Verezzo; a man named Dadallo.  He was like I was, once; young, and inspired, and fascinated by the sciences even at an informal level.  And one day, Dadallo came across a treasure he never expected to see - a pack of sketches that belonged to the grand and famous inventor, Leonardo of Miragliano!  There were several plans among them, for things unrealized.  A sort of sheet on strings one can deploy in a fall to save their life by catching the wind like a ship's sail, for one; but most intriguingly, he found a plan for a machine that might allow a man to fly through the air, as a bird on the wing!"_

While speaking, he produces short, slim scroll case; and reverently takes from within it a yellowed roll of parchment which, unfurled, reveals the faint lines of an old sketch. Its lines are clean and straight,  ruler drawn and annotated in tiny, classical words.  It's not exactly a picture of a thing - more like a _map_ of a thing; but the example of how it is supposed to come together is bizarre, to say the least!  A sort of light cart, with a mechanical chain connecting the rear and front wheels; and series of gears that  run to a central column behind the seat for the driver.  Mounted on that column are great, wide wings that must, you intuit from your limited experience with the skaven workshop machines powered by running wheels, provide drive to pump the wings.

_"So he built the machine to Leonardo's specifications; and then, he built this ramp..."_ He gestures to the planks, and out to the cliff.  _"And full of puff and confidence, he pedalled the machine down the ramp, and off the edge, and into the sky; and then plunged like a stone!"_  He lets out a hoarse little cackle.  Lazlo, nearby, huffs in pseudo-disapproval.  _"He'd have been dead, if the parachute schematic hadn't worked perfectly, atleast.  But he learned that the drawing of the flying machine was a fake - a forgery, you see?  Leonardo lived five hundred years ago, and such parchment should be much more frail."_  He gives the sheet a demonstrative tug, showing its quality.  _"But he had become obsessed with the quest - the quest to fly!  He tried many of his own designs, many alternative flying machines, but none of them yielded success.  His workshop in Verezzo became infamous for his failures -  more so when one day, he crashed through the roof of a villa owned by the powerful Batta family.  The family is very strong, in the senate; and they had Dadallo imprisoned in a tower where he could inflict no more shame on Verezzo.  And yet, fool that he might have been, he was not deterred; and scribed on the walls of his tower one more plan - making a set of light wooden wings from the structure of his prison bed's frame, and lining them with his bed's sheets.  And when he leapt from that tower, he did not plunge to his death - but he soared over the city, out to the countryside, out into exile where he would make his name as a soldier of fortune.  Eventually, he was given shelter in the town of Catrazza, on the far side of Verezzo; and he and his mercenaries are famous throughout the world for their daring exploits, and Dadallo's fearless genius."_  He smiles faintly, rolling up the forgery of the flying machine plans and holding them in his loose grip.  He gives you another smile; ever so slightly melancholy.  _"He let me buy these plans from him, the first time I met him.  Leonardo is my ancestor, you see; or rather, his sister was.  And Dadallo was a good enough man to hear my offer and sell these to me, on that account.  Old Leonardo, pride of Miragliano, made his way all the way up to the Empire of Sigmar, in his day; and invented many things.  Shocked the dwarves; founded the Imperial College of Engineers.  I don't think that's likely to happen, at my age.  But I wanted you to know that to live an inspired life is the best life to lead.  One might succeed, like Dadallo.  One might only have a comfortable life and a few friends to show for it, like me.  But I'm not ashamed of dreaming, now; nor do I waste myself on jealousy for those who succeeded.  It's a hard world; I don't need to tell you that.  But you have a whole life before you - and it won't all be good, like it is right now.  It probably won't ever be as hard as it started for you, granted - but I hope you find inspiration of your own, for whatever way you choose to go."_

To your left, out on Monte Ezio's spar of stone above its dreadful drop, a handful of figures are assembling.  They are men, fortunately; not goblins, or rats, or anything else.  Signore Cestie gives them a wave; they wave back, apparently friendly enough.  You hear the blurred mumble of their conversation from across the mountain side; you hear them chant something celebratory, or encouraging, and watch as one of their number run to the point of the spar, and throw himself off.

Some kind of machine, first seeming to be a clunky backpack strapped to him, bursts open; a T shaped frame on his back, supporting two hinged wood and canvas wings that stretch out to either side, and a large V shaped tail, like the kind on the blackbirds who are native to the area.  He plunges down, and then swoops back up; struggling in the air and then levelling out, cruising along the air and circling back; pumping his legs in some kind of stirrups to cause the wings to fold and flap.  His comrades on the ledge cheer and whoop as he figures it out; and then a second daredevil makes the jump,  to much the same effect.  Eventually, there are half a dozen of them in the air, swooping and diving; gliding in formation; returning to the stone spar to land in exhausted, giddy stumbles.  Later, Signore Cestie would explain to you that he knew they would be there.  Dadallo sends his recruits up to Ezio's Leap as part of their orientation, one batch every three months; their first unassisted flight.  Sometimes they fall to their deaths; but almost all the time, they figure it out, or atleast enter a controlled fall and break an arm and try again in three months time.  But most of them _fly_; not even just gliding, bit honest-to-gods fly, on those fragile looking contraptions.

It would be hard not to be _somewhat_ inspired.

----------


## BananaPhone

Taalia

Taalia listened with interest to Cestie's story, the ups and downs bringing a smile to a face, a laugh to her voice and a playful gasp to her mouth. Though she did not have a single phrase to respond to his words, the message was received loud and clear: live a life that makes you happy and follow the vision you have for it. To that end, Taalia could not have asked for a better start, or at least, 'fresh start', being blessed with a community that took her in and trinkets with which to purchase currency. 

Upon the completion of his story, Taalia offered a genuine, affectionate smile in return and hugged the senior in gratitude. 

"Thank you Signor Cestie," she replied, her smoky voice sincere, "I could not have asked for a better place to have landed than here among yourself and the others of Bella Collina. I will never forget your kindness or guidance. I have no last name to call on, I was told I would get one when I married," she laughed, "but no ancestors to witness as inspiration, no great heroes or thinkers of my past that I know of. What I do have is yourself, Singora Madre and the others, and in that I count myself truly blessed."

And then the spectacle started. 

When the first arrayed himself to begin the flight down that makeshift ramp, Taalia gripped Cestie's elbow with one hand, covering her mouth with the other. 

"No he isn't...no he...ahh!" she yelped as he very much did so, terror seizing her for a few moments until the man swooped back up in the grip of his marvellous contraption that supported him upon the currents of wind that let him soar. 

"By Myrmidia!" Taalia squeal-giggled as she watched as the next nutter hurled himself down that cliff-face and of the edge, only to take to the skies like his fellow before him. Then the third. The fourth. And the fifth. 

Terror gave way to excitement and disbelief as the towering girl laughed and clapped her hands in applause. 

If those mad bastards had enough courage to hurl themselves off the cliff with enough trust in their own creations to both preserve their life and even advance it, why couldn't she?

She watched them with now quiet-amazement as they glided around, wings broad and maniacal laughter audible even from this distance, and her mind returned to those first birds she had encountered upon leaving the cave of the ratmen. 

Looking up to Signor Cestie, Taalia offered a sincere smile, "thank you".

----------


## MrAbdiel

The Power of One
_Part 1 - "In Sterquiliniis Invenitur"


Chapter 4 - Ambizione_

It's been six months since you found a home with Gaulfredo and Ariana.  The learning curve has been sharp.  You grew up in a world devoid of tenderness, and now that was your primary tool; the sheep, and the chickens, and even little Corvo needed to be handled and tended and treated with firm but benevolent hands.  You learned about herding sheep, and training dogs, and tending wounded roosters.  The under the patient tutelage of the Madre Angeletta, you learned the names and functions of a host of common and exotic herbs, their medicinal uses; even some advanced techniques that might one day save a life.  You helped her extract an arrow from the thigh of one of the local lads, Enrico, after an archery session with his friends Tesifonte, Ansaldo and Cremenzio went poorly.  They weren't the brightest boys, and it might be generous to say they had _good hearts_ exactly.  But they weren't so bad; not since you condemned them to shovelling troll poop as penance for spurning your fragile, emerging optimism for life.

You also finished scrubbing the shrine; its text and imagery clean and picked out in their stained black marble surfaces: the woman with the spear and the scales, divine, mysterious.  With the passage of time, the smell has all but abated.  Hopefully, when you have time, you will be able to go to Verezzo, and there, learn a way to cleans the stone more completely.

There are other smaller events, smaller than Flicker-Tide; but you might remember your first _Notte del Mistero_ for some time.  There was plenty of warning to prepare; and it turned out to have no danger at all.  But the _threat_ was there.

_"'Notte del Mistero' is the night of omens, and strange magic, Taalia,"_ the Madre had warned you.  _"The green moon is full in the sky only twice a year, and brightest on that night.  It's the night when spirits can most freely walk the earth; when witches and creatures of evil crawl out of the dark to find mischeif to do.  Usually, little occurs; but every few years..."_  She had shaken her head, and clucked her tongue.

This year, it seems, was one of those non-events.  You gathered the sheep into the barn, and boarded up the door to the chicken coop from the outside.  Gaulfredo, Ariana, and Vittorio, Corvo and Elmo are there, too; all of you together, staves and bows in hand, waiting for something to happen.  Every now and then, through the night, a peal of thunder would sound as if the sky was about to pour down; but peeking out, there were no clouds in the sky.  Just both moons, the grand white _Occiodiveren_ and the treacherous green _Occiodimorr_.  The glow of it brought back awful memories, for you; a familiar viridian light that you would have been happy never to see, again.  But there are no rats, that night; no daemons; no ghosts; not even any opportunistic goblins.  _"May they all be so easy,"_ Ariana laughs as the sun rises, leading Vittorio and Elmo back to the house, for well earned sleep.

They would not be all so easy.  But this first one was, at least.

Of your five ewes, four became pregnant in the first breeding season.  One, the smallest, seemed to consistently shy away from Hermes' advances. Even isolating them together in the pen resulted in only hesitant and incomplete coupling; and after a while, even Hermes seemed to give up trying.  Gaulfredo is as puzzled as you.

_"She's... unusually shy, I suppose.  Normally, they get into heat and they're pretty happy to get into it.  This girl doesn't seem to get much 'heat' to speak of.  But we'll keep trying for her, in the off-season."_

The lambing is one of the most viscerally harrowing experiences of your life.  Or it would be, if you were a normal person with a normal upbringing; in this case, it merely registers as gross, and stressful.  Gaulfredo's advice is to keep Hermes seperate from the sheep, sequestering him to the barn, for now.

_"The last thing we need his him rooting around disrupting the lambs when they come; it's important for them to bond to their mothers, or the feeding'll go awry."_  This is wisdom; but you notice Hermes seems mopey and sad, in the barn with the old horse and ox.  Lonely, even.  This seems to be outside of Gaulfredo's guesswork.  _"Maybe he needs a friend?  But with so few ewes, a second ram would just be fighting with him all the time.  Maybe a gelded ram, for the next lambing?  Just to keep the stud ram company."_

It's best to let the sheep birth unassisted, if possible; and for three of them, that's just what they do.  One even produces two little lambs, and those take to nursing just fine.  Two of the others struggle to feed; their mothers disappointingly not finding their maternal instinct right away, seeming baffled at the small creatures butting up against their undersides and wheeling away from them in distaste.  But in one case, all it takes is to hold the ewe while the lamb takes to suckle, and she begins to bond.  In another, for a full week, Gaulfredo has to hold the ewe's head close enough to the lamb's backside while it suckles so she can get used to its scent, and that does the trick.  Only one birth is real trouble, and it requires your intervention.  Gaulfredo wasn't there, for that one; he was elsewhere on the farm, managing the harvest of his corn and the hanging of it to dry.  The pregnant ewe begins bleating in piteous distress, unable to complete its natural function; and you rush to her side, finding her partially dilated, but not sufficient for the task.  She has not pushed enough of the lamb out for you to seize and pull it, as you have been instructed.  And so, you make an instinct call; having to overpower the ewe to put her on her side, holding one of her kicking legs in the air to shift the arrangement of her hips, and then all of a sudden, with a wet rush, half of a glistening lamb has emerged in all of its amniotic marinade.  This little lamb - the only ewe born in this season - worries you for a moment as she fails to immediately quicken, but you put her idle little body against the warm wool of her mother, and cover them both with a blanket, and within a few minutes the child is rooting about and well enough that you can afford to cease your worry.  Once you had six sheep; now you have eleven.  More rams than you'd like; but there have been no disasters, than Ishea for that.

The four troublemaker boys receive your call to help out, as you told them they would.  With so few sheep to shear, it's a job a couple of them could do; but the woman who sold you the sheep comes out as a courtesy to teach you, and the lads, the proper way of it; trading some odds and ends with Gaulfredo for two pairs of shears.  It's not completely intuitive, and there's plenty of skill to it; but you get the hang of it, and so do they; and they spend the rest of the day assisting Gaulfredo with his crop.

*Spoiler: OOC:*
Show

No cost for the shears right now, Gaulfredo has a set of Trade Tools (Farmer), so it's sort of part of that for now; but you'll be borrowing tools off him for the forseeable future until you can fork over 50GC for a set of your own that will loosely cover just about all farming endevours you need tools for!

Pay 20p for a half-day of labor from the four lads; Gaulfredo will take them for the rest.  And you now have 6 wool fleeces!


* * * * *
Finally, the time has come.  Gaulfredo has had to hire the four troublemaker boys for the journey, as well as some extra horses for the day.  Lined up on the track that leads from the farm to the road are three wagons, piled high with sacks of dried corn; suitable feed for animals, or for milling into cornflour.  This successful harvest marks Gaulfredo pulling out of a tailspin, with his farm; the failure of the wheat crop the season before had forced this unusual crop from him.  But it's paid off; or atleast, it should, once he gets it to Paesa di Silo - Silo Town, which grew up around the great silos built by the first Senate after the famine that caused the fall of the prince and the rise of the republic.  With two of the lads driving a pair of borrowed draught horses on one wagon, two driving another set on the next, and yourself and Gaulfredo on the third, your travelling party constitutes a convoy bound for Bella Collina the first day, Paesa de Silo the next, where the wagons and draught horses will be left with their keepers and the party will return to Bella Collina on foot.  Throwing your fleeces on top of the sacks is no problem at all, as well as a great basket of eggs to offload at the trading post on the way.

_"Bring that hat, Taalia!  The sun is hot this morning already and it will be worse when it's high!  Have you all you need?"_

Rocco, of course, is coming along for the ride; Corvo is welcome too.  Vittorio will be staying home, however.  This is too long on the road for Ariana to be comfortable letting him go; and who will let the sheep out and herd them back in, if not Elmo and his diminutive master?

*Spoiler: Decision!*
Show

Time to make some decisions.  You have 4 ram-lambs, and 1 ewe-lamb.  You're likely to be able to sell the ram lambs for slaughter at this age, since lamb is such a sought after meat so close to Verezzo, at the price of full grown sheep. 
 The alternative, as you suggested, is keeping them and growing them and hoping that some of them prove out as 'good quality' rams like their father; though keeping five rams on one farm is going to become a problem without a seperate sheep pen; a pen you might be able to build if your sales go well.

This is also a chance for you to visit Verezzo, if you want to; though it will be Taalia striking out on her own, since Gaulfredo needs to return to his farm rather than take an additional four day detour to the city.  But if you get to the city, you might sell that telescope, and all the other things; you might find the chemist you need... you might find all kinds of things!

What's the verdict?

----------


## BananaPhone

Taalia

Taalia cleaned the 'sterilised' rag (a clean cloth soaked in boiling hot water) after having applied it to the boys wound, his arrow-induced injury now free of any projectiles, but clearly besetting him with a temporary limp.

"I will do this one time for free," Taalia spoke, her towering image looking over them as she cleaned up, withdrawing a bandage from her collection and leaning down to apply it to his leg.

"But next time it will cost you ten shillings," she stated, to the soft gasp of the assembled boys who had watched her work. 

"Is that incentive enough to think next time before you loose arrows at each other?"

They looked at each other, exchanging glances as the message sunk in. 

The girl pursed her lips and rose a single eyebrow, her expression both coy and playful, boys would be boys after all, but also projecting maternal caution. 

"Stupidity is expensive, isn't it?"

She knew that at their core they were good boys, just doing dumb teenage boy things. If she was going to one day have a large livestock farm in this region, it would be good to curry healthy working relationships and foster desired skills in the young males her age who would one day be Bella Collina's future men. 


oOo

Half a year. It had been half a year since Taalia had emerged from that cave, Papa Rat "dying" by her side, a knife wound on her left trap muscle and eyes blinking and shuttering against the temporary stinging pain of the surface light. It had been a bold new world full of dangers and horrors of its own, but as the towering girl looked around at her flock of pregnant ewes at the rear of the idyllic farming acreage that had taken it in, it was also full of sentiments, concepts and actions that made life worth living. 

Though there was still that silly idea in the back of her mind that she had actually died in those caves and this was her afterlife reward, Taalia knew that such an idea was folly. Nothing had been easy about her post-slavery existence. A goblins pick through her left bicep. Nearly becoming troll-food no less than three times. Her rooster injured. The social awkwardness her bumbling inarticulation had driven her into durnig those formative months. The almost disastrous loss of Hermes and one of her ewes to that disgusting troll, not to mention the dramatic scene of its demise at her nearly berserker hands. Indeed, it had not been _easy_, there had been trials and tribulations that she had had to overcome, several of which almost cost her her life. But were they worth it? Oh yes. The dangerous freedom of the surface was worth every moment. 

She was also slowly coming into her own personality. Though it was fair to say she was a cheerful and friendly person, as she settled into her new life and the community, a noticeably sarcastic and slightly sassy streak was starting to emerge. However, to the benefit of all, this was more a coy and playful streak rather than one springing from bitterness. Despite her imposing physique, with her athletic proportions further defined by her farm-work, Taalia remained a warm and affectionate personality, with bouts of generosity and a dry, sarcastic sense of humor. She had even partially adopted the custom of using her hands to emphasise her communication, with her hand-purse gesture serving as a versatile means through which to accentuate gratitude, exasperation, confusion or anger. However, none could forget the...savagery, with which she had thrown herself at the troll. There was a saying, beware the anger of a patient man, that was encapsulated in her ferocious assault upon the much larger opponent that was...unsettling, for those who normally knew her as a bubbly and cheerful girl. Almost like the way a family would cradle a powerful guard dog that was nothing but goofily affectionate towards them, but revealed a frightening savage streak within when brought in proximity of a threat, as was the purpose for which they had been bred.

Nevertheless, that bright smile, cheery disposition and 'can do' attitude won most people over. Whether it was partially in her nature, or perhaps a residual effect of never being able to say 'no' to her prior owners, Taalia, oddly, had never complained about anything. The most likely explanation was that a decade of enslavement to the Ratmen had beaten any thought of complaint out of her mind and body, ironically forming her into something of a half-full optimist. 

This was the case when Notte del Mistero rolled around. She had found Madre's warnings to be oddly fascinating. With morbid curiosity she had tried to pry further information out of her mentor and local wise woman, for you see, Taalia knew about magic. She knew about the Council of Thirteen: thirteen Grey Seers who held the fate of the Skaven Underempire in their grubby little white-furred claws. Rashabang too, had possessed minor magical talent. All Warplock Engineers needed to, as they melded science and magic into a dark amalgamation of warpstone-powered insanity. But Taalia had once thought that such arcane manipulations were confined to the Under Empire, tethered to the warpstone that she and other slaves had toiled to uncover from the earth in vast quantities. But to learn that sorcery existed here on the surface? Taalia wanted to know more...and so she asked more. 

"I thought that magic was confined to the Under Empire," she would have uttered in hush whispers, "I...saw things, that I should not repeat here. Summonings of grotesque anomalies and otherworldly entities whose mere intrusion into our world is an offence to all decency. But I did not know that the arcane was practiced here, on the surface?"

Such a discussion was in the back of Taalia's mind when she, Gaulfredo, Ariana, Vitorio and their collective animals huddled in the barn during that darkly auspicious night. In truth, Taalia's curiosity got the better of her, and though gripping a quarter staff 'just in case', she would often find her eyes drifting to any cracks to peer out across the night-time landscape of the farm to bear witness to those multiple coloured moons and the various hues their combination produced. 


oOo

Taalia grunted softly as she held the glossy, ichor-saturated lamb by its shoulders and withdrew with restrained strength. Yanking too hard would injure the mother. Not hard enough to constantly impede the lambs movements. But patiently, strategically, Taalia allowed her own sigh of relief to exit her body as the lamb was ejected from that of her ewes, as the helpless creature slithered into a pool of its bodily humours that splashed forth in the celebration of its own birth. 

Panting softly, grinning at the sight, Taalia laughed, her wet hands upon the lambs body immediately and picking away any residual effects that should not be there, before allowing the little creature to wallow and flop about in futility as its mind slowly came online to its new existence. A blanket over the lamb and its mother, its white wool soon clear of the viscous fluids that once coated it, the little creature uttered its first, baby-like *"Ma-a-a-a-a..."* much to Taalia's clapping delight. 

Lambing season had gone as well as the novice Shepard could have hoped. Though one ewe's frigid ways were a disappointment, Taalia took heed of Gaulfredo's suggestion that a possible off-season pregnancy could be induced, while the other ewes were now proven lamb-producing mothers. Though yes...four little rams and only one ewe was disappointing, it could have been worse. A lot worse.


oOo

Taalia bid farewell to Vitoria and Ariana, giving the latter hugs and the former hugs and a kiss on the cheek. Having happily grown into a 'big sister' like figure as the eldest adopted daughter of the house-hold, Taalia had comfortably settled into the established social boundaries that she had noticed and picked up on across the six months, and it made for a happy social environment. Ariana did not need to feel threatened that the attractive, amazonian and younger girl would be eyeing Gaulfredo with a mind to supplant the older woman as lady of the house which, given her so-far-displayed ambition, could have been the cause were Taalia of a more selfish and ruthless bent. Instead, much like with the exchange of money between them, they shared a cordial working relationship based upon trust and foster-family affection for the formerly skinny, shivering and injured girl they'd taken in half a year before - the fruits of her short labour waiting upon the cart in the form of beautifully expensive fleeces and X amount of rams. Besides, Ariana and Taalia had spoken together previously about matters of 'the future', and Taalia had admitted to the older woman that she would one day like to attract a husband of her own and fill a household with little ones while growing her livestock farm. 

Wearing her hat, quarter staff nearby, the items she wanted to sell packed away, the fleeces neatly stacked and the X number of ram-lambs along for the ride, as well as 8gc worth of currency. It was understood that she would travel with them to Paesa de Silo where they would make the fleece and livestock sales. After that, Gaulfredo and the boys would return to the farm with the gold they had acquired, while Taalia and Corvo would continue on to Verezzo and likely return within 3-4 days time.

Embarrassingly, Taalia had to ask Gaulfredo if she could borrow one of his pouches...she...er..._sold_ hers in a moment of short-sightedness.

ooc:
*Spoiler*
Show

As mentioned in OOC, she'll assess the ram-lambs and choose the one that looks like a future 'good' quality ram, while the other 3 will be off to slaughter to sell. 
She'll take the fleece to sell. 

She'll take the items she couldn't sell last time (inc disguise kit, censur and damaged book), her telescope, her quarter staff, sling bag, clothes, sandles, her cosmetics kit for looking nice, her backpack/bag (either her slingbag, or one she borrows from Gaulfredo/Ariana if that's too small), she'll borrow back a pouch from Gaulfredo (red-faced, sheepishly accepting his gentle teasing), about 8gc worth of currency for lodging/food, and she'll take along Corvo with her. Also her healing draught and bandages, because you never know.

Oh she'll take her throwing knife too. Never know when a small blade could come in handy. 

I can't think of anything else at the moment, but if it comes up we'll see.

----------


## MrAbdiel

The trip to Bella Collina goes almost entirely without incident; almost.  The chatty boys in the wagons behind you mostly keep each other company with and endless series of jokes you seem to be missing context for that would make them funny.  As it is, they follow a formula - a build up towards some scatalogical or sexual detail, and then a whispered punchline that leaves them snickering and giggling with each other in their pairs of drivers.  Rocco prefers to ride up on the buckboard with you and Gaulfredo, but Corvo has so much energy he has to run alongside, sometimes; and on those occasions Gaulfredo nudges Rocco down off the wagon.  He's the father, after all; he ought to take some responsibility.  But it's neither of the dogs that brings you distress, just ten minutes out from the Madre's house, the last landmark on the way to Bella Collina.

She comes bumbling out of the treeline, panting and desperate.  A girl not know to you - though you think you've her in Bella Collina before, at the trading post; a hunter's daughter you think, who sometimes brings in dried meat and pelts.  She's got to be about your age; and just shy of six feet, might have been the tallest girl in the village before you showed up.  With sunbronzed skin and fine cornsilk colored hair, she might have been pretty in another cirumstance; but she looks messy and bedraggled, like she's been thrashing through the forest for an hour before emerging here, and can not go much further without collapsing.  Gaulfredo calls a stop to the wagons - not a man to see a stranger in distress and not take the risk - and she makes a bee-line towards you, one arm pinwheeling wildly with her floppy, desperate run; the other clutching a polished wooden box the size of a large book to her chest.  As the only other girl in the area, her light brown eyes track to you, pleading within them, as she almost collapses onto the side of the cart.

_"Hide this!  Please!"_  She rasps; thrusting the box into your lap and then before you can much object, dropping to the ground and scurrying underneath the wagon.  You can hear her pulling herself up beneath the wagon's tray, feet scuffling on the ground.  And then a moment later, another figure emerges from the treeline.

This one you _know_ you have seen before.  A silver colored mare carries her out of the woodline at a trot, neither beast nor rider seeming particularly bothered by their own trip through the woods.  The black-on-black eyes of the elf peer out from beneath the wide brim of her hat, as she takes in the sight of your wagons; the boys in theirs behind you staring dumbfounded at the whole sequence, Gaulfredo tensing up instinctively.  The elf comes close to the roadside, where your wagons are halted; though not quite up onto the road, as if she knows her presence makes you all uneasy.  Then she speaks, her Tilean perfect, though coldly, surgically uninflected with any of the interesting permutations of accent you've gotten from Gaulfredo's Trantian edge, or Signore Cestie's Miragleanan, or any of the many Verezzans.

_"Saluti, travellers.  Did you see a girl come through here, just now?  Perhaps along the treeline, there?"_

Gaulfredo is theoretically the 'leader' of the group; but he has long since come to regard you as a kind of charm and divine token to look to in times of certainty.  He glances to you, to see your immediate instincts.

*Spoiler: OOC:*
Show

Decision time!

A) Rat the girl out to the elf. Don't mention the box.
B) Rat the girl out to the elf.  Mention the box.
C) Lie about the girl; either saying you saw nothing, or that she fled back into the woods.

If you choose the latter option, make me a charm roll, at a -10 penalty.

----------


## BananaPhone

Taalia

Taalia internally felt a slight startle as the girl burst from the woods and fled in their direction, her eyes affixing with hers. Not only was she the only other girl present, but there was something else connecting them. Something that was tested when the beautiful elf soon emerged upon her horse and requested information. 

Taalia's budding sense of right and wrong implored her to tell the truth: the girl was under the wagon, a box by her own side now covered with a cloak. After all, if the girl was a thief, would Taalia not want strangers to be honest with her in apprehending those who stole her hard-earned goods?

But on the other hand, Taalia herself had once been a girl in distress, on the edges of civilisation and counting on the kindness of strangers. 

Perhaps, she thought to herself, cover for her this moment and then demand to know what was in the box. If it was the elf's property, Taalia would ensure it was returned, with an apology and explanation along with it, while the girl could be on her way. That seemed like the best mixture of wisdom and kindness, even though cold wisdom told her it was none of her business and to just hand it over. 

Pursing her lips, shaking her head gently. 

"Saluti, elven friend," Taalia answered, her voice even.

"We did see a girl pass us on the road. Hair the color of corn, skin kissed by the sun?" she asked, confirming her details and reinforcing her future lie. 

"Was carrying something under her arm? She gave one look at us, then kept on her passage, into those woods," she points to the pines on the other side of the road.

----------


## MrAbdiel

The elf watches your face carefully, as you lie to hers.  Her eyes narrow.  They track to Gaulfredo, then the other drivers, scouring them for confirmation.  It's a hard lie - why would you be stopped there, on the road side, if something hadn't disrupted you?  But Gaulfredo, following your lead, backs you up.

_"Pulled over thinking she might need help, but she didn't seem to want much but to keep moving."_

This is a reasonable enough pass-shoot combo, and with the theoretically fugitive getting futher away by the second, the elf makes her own decision, touching the brim of her hat.

_"Grazie.  Addio."_

And off she goes, cantering back into the forest to scour the treeline south.  After a minute, the girl beneath the wagon disentangles herself, catching her breath, and stretches back to her height.

_"Ah...  Hoo.  Grazie.  Grazie.  Gods bless you all.  Here, now; give it back; I have to get going back the other way."_

----------


## BananaPhone

Taalia

Taalia sighed an exhale of relief as the elf seems to have bought her deception and moved on. 

When the other girl dislodged herself and requested her box back, Taalia turned on her seat and glowered down at the girl. 

"What is in the box?" she demanded firmly. 

"We risked our lives to preserve you. If you have stolen items from the Elves I won't jeapordise cordial relations for them, I will return it to them and you can escape with your life. But if they're yours, you can take them and leave. Open the box and show me."

----------


## MrAbdiel

_"What?  Please, I don't have time -"_

She whines, looking elfward, then back to you.  _"I didn't take anything from any elves.  I don't even know where any elves are to steal from!  I don't know what this one's problem is!"_

This is a lie, or at best a half truth; you're sure of it.  You wait it out for a moment, and she buckles given the desperation of her situation.  _"Alright, look; it's a nice pistol, alright?  Open it and see for yourself.  I mean to sell it.  I took it from a merchant who has more than enough money to replace it, because I need it, and he doesn't.  The elf's just a bounty hunter, working for the damerinos in Verezzo.  Please, give it back.  I've never stolen before, and I'll never need to steal again once I sell it on."_

This seems more like the truth.  Her eyes are wide; desperate.  She has gone through considerable distress stealing this box, and is close to evading her dangerous pursuer; she had counted on your solidarity to hide from the elf, but hadn't counted on you putting her to the test before giving her prize back.

*Spoiler: OOC:  If you open the box, you discover...*
Show

_A latched hardwood pistol case, lined with velvet. Set into this box is a pistol engraved with the name 'Blue Berthilda' and a striking-hammer in the shape of a raven. Also there is a cleaning rod, grease, chamois, a fine powder-flask containing 19 shots of gunpowder and an oiled leather bag with 19 bullets._

Conspiring with Gaulfredo, whose eyes go wide, you understand why a merchant would send a bounty hunter to recover such a thing.  Flintlock pistols require very fine craftsmanship to avoid blowing off the user's hand; making the technology in Bertuccio's longarm more compact is difficult, and requires specialized tools and learning, and atleast a rudimentary understanding of the chemical processes involved in gunpowder work.  And this one, to be displayed so, obviously has a superior quality to it.  At a tremulous guess, Gaulfredo whispers, _"It might be sold to a mercenary captain or merchant prince for five... maybe six hundred gold pieces.  Not including the box and the powder and shot, which is garnish but still a few more gold."_

----------


## BananaPhone

Taalias eyes widened at the sight of the beautiful pistol in her possession, her mind racing with the possibilities.

She could just club the girl over the head and take it. But no...that's what the Skaven would do.

"You cannot sell this anywhere but in Verezzo," Taalia spoke, knowing enough of the local economy to understand that much.

"And it has been personalised with a name-stamp enough that if you try and sell it there, if he is as well-connected as you say, he will find out, trace it through the network of sellers and you will be hung for theft...if you're lucky."

Taalia pursed her lips.

"And if you go now, the elf bounty hunter might find you anyway, and you'll lose this all the same."

A pregnant pause lingered as Taalia thought to herself.

"I will return it to him and claim the bounty. I will tell him the truth. In my travels I was accosted for help by some girl, and she fled with an elf in hot pursuit, hut she dropped this," she pointed to the box.

"Then when I get back to Bella Collina in 4 days time, I will give you half the bounty, which will be more than enough to give you a good start wherever you choose."

Another pregnant pause for emphasis.

"Because this is too valuable to be sold anywhere around here, and too unique not to come to his evemtual attention. Without this on your pwrson, he and the bounty hunter have no interest in you. This is the only way you get out of this ahead without having to look over you shoulder the rest of your life. Deal?"

----------


## MrAbdiel

She's visually gutted by your principled stand.  Her shoulders sink, and she tries to muster counter arguments; but you're armed, and many, and apparently savvy about the sale of such things; and she's none of those things; just tired, and out of options.  After five or six false starts, it's all she can do to restrain herself from screaming out to the sky; though that would draw the ears of the elf, as likely as not, far as she might be. _ "Merda!  Merda, Merda, Merda."_

She gives you a pained, anguished look; and then pushes away from the wagon's side, dashing back up the street toward Bella Collina, now that she's caught her breath.  Corvo barks and gives chase, until you call him back; and that's the last you see of her, for now.  With the benefit of time, Gaulfredo tells you the girl is Bellina da Isolome.  Her father was a trapper and hunter, with a shack off from the road north out of town; but he disappeared about a year ago, leaving Bellina, her mother Gianessa, and three younger brothers to fend for themselves. But she keeps bringing in the pelts and meat, from time to time; so she (or Gianessa?) seem to have taken up the family trade in the father's absense.  Gaulfredo shakes his head.  _"My father told me that it was more honorable to turn to begging than to theft.  In both cases, you're taking what you haven't earned; in the former, you present other people, atleast, a chance to act with the virtue of kindness toward you.  Not that I've ever been so hard-up that I've had to choose between begging and stealing; but we got pretty close, this year.  But then we met you, and everything's getting a little better.  I think I'll buy my flail back, on the way home; I'll need it for the wheat, next season."_

You stop in Bella Collina, making use of Polo and Fenicia's hospitality one more time, while the lads are given cots in at Gheradino's tavern.  When the wagons are being hitched up the next day, you have one more visitation; Bella calls out to you from across the village square, and closes the distance to you at an entirely unnecessary jog; her dark tresses tied back in a yellow ribbon, swaying behind her like the excitable wag of a dog's tail.  She holds a bundle to her chest, as she does; a soft parcel wrapped in sack cloth, and twine.  "Taalia!  I'd heard you were coming through, to the market in Paesa di Silo.  Oh!  Your lambs!  They're so cute!"  She reaches out to pet Chops and Rack with one dainty hand.  When you introduce them by name, she gives the kind of strangled, conflicted laugh of someone who is striving to be virtuously distressed by something awful while being overwhelmed by amusement instead.  "Oh!  Oh, now I feel bad for them.  You shouldn't name them at all  If they're going to slaughter!  Oh, poor Rack; poor chops."  She rubs their heads, and they bleat appreciatively at the attention.  Corvo begins to feel left out, and earns a pat as well.  Rocco, rapidly becoming the old man of the animal group and feeling _too old for this merda_, does not line up for extra pats.  Something about his canine affect seems coincidentally exhausted by the display; as if he were thinking _in my day, you earned scritches instead of getting handouts_; but it's probably just that he is squinting lazilly in the morning sunlight.

_"Well, mercies of the road to you. Here! This is for you.  I hope you like it.  People have stopped talking about the troll, now; but I won't forget.  Ciao, Taalia!"_  And then she takes off, waving with one hand as she goes, apparently chasing someone else down in the morning rush to greet, and chat.

*Spoiler: Within the parcel...*
Show

It's a dress - an ensemble, even.  A blouse, with frilled, embroidered neckline and cuffs; a bronzey, satin corset dress with separate sleeves, and burgundy laces; an light outergarment of dark green, with faint leaf-like patterning worked into the weave, and a pewter clasp to cinch it at the waist.  And a yellow ribbon, rolled up and tied in a neat loop with some twine, so it doesn't crease.  And, importantly, it's your size - presumably, made _for_ you.

_This is a good quality set of clothes._

*Spoiler: Something Like This?*
Show





You head out for Paesa di Silo with your wagons, though not only them; Nogrom goes ahead of you in a cart pulled by a hard working mule, with six kegs of ale lashed to the cart's dray.  And in your wake,  Istuccio and Ernesto, the red haired brothers on a pair of matchingly rust-colored horses,  driving a small herd of ten oxen for to the pens in town.  As you head out from Bella Collina up the north road, you peel away from the nearness of the forest and into more developed land, given over to grazing and harvest in many places, with some forested blocks reserved and kept by Verezzo's woodsmen.

Two hours out from Bella Collina, you see your first orchard -

*Spoiler: Intrusive Thoughts*
Show

_You remember an apple tree._


- with rows or orderly apple trees largely without fruit at this point in their growing but redolent with clusters of pink and white flowers, bathing the road in their fragrance, as you pass.  After the orchards comes a long stretch of road with farms on the left, and cultivated forest on the right.  Gaulfredo elaborates.  _"Every year, there is a little less forest on this road.  The farmers want to keep it, because it's good for hunting and gathering wood, without having to go too far.  But then, they already have their farms, eh?  Easy to tell someone without their own land, 'no, you don't need this land; go into the city and bake bricks instead', eh?"_

*Spoiler: OOC:*
Show

Make me... Two perception checks.  The second one is more important than the first.

----------


## MrAbdiel

...But your column of rural travellers comes to a halt when a figure emerges ahead of you from wood beside the road.  It's a man, you think; though he on a ragged robe that shows little of his physique, and a low hood pulled down to just above his chin and wiry beard, with holes cut for the eyes; a crudy mask, for the kind of man whose deeds are better done masked.  He calls to Nogrom, whose cart is at the head of your column.  Though behind you, the lads are fidgeting towards their weapons, and the red-haired brothers stand in their stirrups trying to gain sign of what's causing the delay ahead.

_"Hoy, to you,"_ rumbles the stranger; his voice weirdly deep for his frame, and unsettling because of it.  _"'Tis a day of bad fortune for you, friends; but it needn't be the last of days.  Get off your wagons, take to feet, leave your beasts, and head back the way you came; you may yet make it before nightfall, and with no harm to you.  But strive to fight, or to flee, and I, Insolente Aldo, and the twenty companions training bows on you from the trees here, will leave your bones for the beasts and the ravens.  No sharp moves, now."_

_"Get off the road, ye wee liar!"_ Nogrom barks back immediately, huffing with dismissal.  _"Oldest trick there is; why twenty friends?  Why not a hundred, with blunderbusses all?  Off with ye, fante, before I take yer head to the road wardens and string the rest of ye up by yer ankles right here!"_

Nogrom, certainly, seems unconvinced by the threat, and has offered his own in response.  They start going back and forth a little, buying you a moment to have your staff at hand, and the lambs secure.  You can't _see_ any of his 'friends' at the tree line; which does not mean there are not twenty of them, and that they are not there.  Nogrom will escalate this to a fight, given a few more seconds, if you don't try to back him off; but this bandit, this _Insolente Aldo_, is atleast claiming the capacity to wipe out you, and Gaulfredo, and all your friends on the road here.

Only your gut can tell you the action to take - prepare for battle, try to negotiate, or seek to convince the Bella Collinans to leave their goods and escape with their lives, and their shirts on their backs.

----------


## BananaPhone

Taalia narrowed her eyes at this development.

You didn't survive for as long as she had among the Skaven without developing some degree of BS detection.

The fact that Nogram, a provenly competent sergeant who worked with the Roadwardens, thought thia guy was full of crap was a telling sign to Taalia.

Turning to scan the treelines, her quarter staff in hand, she whispered to Gaulfredo.

"Heard of this guy?" She asked.

She doubted a bandit group twice the size of the local militia would go unnoticed in this region.

----------


## MrAbdiel

_"Heard of-?  No, no.  We don't get bandits with names, out here.  People notice.  We have burglars, and the occasional highway ruffian jumping an individual.  No; never heard of him."
_

You rake your keens eyes over this _Insolente Aldo_.  There's something wrong with him; something about the disposition of the features.  Infact, now that you're squinting for it... his eyes are too small, too high, and too close together.  The mask distracts from it; a little... and hey, that scraggly beard is more like -nose high- on the shape of his skull than head high.  That hood must be concealing some very significant deformity.  Or, as Madre Angeletta would have said...




> _"...Mutation.  You'll come across them, from time to time; touched by darkness.  Sometimes, a fellow comes to you with a little tentacle growing out of his armpit because he doesn't know it's any worse or different than a cleft palate.  And I suppose some might say it's not - it's hard to say if it's the fear of rejection and death that drives them to serve strange powers, or if the mutation comes because they're weak to that calling, anyway.  But I try to respect all the gods, and Shallya has some wise women who say that there's a cure for mutants.  Never seen it myself.  All you can do is help the people you can, and pray you're not making a wrong decision.  I've sawn off a man's arm, before; healthy man a few day before, but when he came to me the whole limb had become a great, awful claw.  I threw a torniquet on it, and we cut it off, and called it a mining accident; and he went on to live.  I made him promise not to have any children, as payment - gods forbid he curse children with such a thing.  But the last I knew, he had moved on to another town, and gotten married.  I suppose he'll have children anyway.  I hope they're healthy.  It's not the same, as a cleft palate."_


This man has some kind of mutation.  That's why he's desperate enough to make this robbery in such a condition.  But looking to the treeline, you're disappointed to see he's not alone.  Your eyes pick out six, no, seven individuals peeking from behind trees. There could be more out there; but given the space available with those trees, and how good your eyes are with shadow, he couldn't have more than a dozen.  If they're like this fellow, they're probably badly equipped, probably desperate... possibly mutants.

Can one strong girl, seven men, two dogs and a dwarf overcome a dozen mutants?  Maybe.  Maybe not.  But your chances are much lower, if they come roaring out of the woods before you're ready to receive them.

----------


## BananaPhone

Taalia

Taalia had seen enough mutation in the pits of the Skaven. From her fellow slaves who strayed too close to the warpstone bare-skinned, to those...creatures that had been warped and shifted into unrecognisable shapes by Clan Maulder, Taalia was all too familiar with the mental and physical rot of mutation. Though limited in her scientific or even religious knowledge of such a condition, she knew enough to know that such people were dangerous, whether willingly so or unwittingly by just their sheer presence. For those who kept to themselves in their own little enclaves outside of non-tainted places, she had no ill will, only pity and the hope they could enjoy somewhat enjoyable lives before either their affliction took them or natural causes pushed them into the next life. But those who turned to highway robbery or thievery, she had no sympathy for. And why would she? They were just as bad as non-mutated bandits and outlaws who preyed upon the hard work of others, like parasites. 

"Nogram!" Taalia yelled out, "They're mutants! I spot seven to twelve in the treeline!" she gestured in the direction of the hidden mutants, drawing her quarter staff up and remaining in a defensive position in the cart. From their elevated position within the cart and being ready to receive whatever desperate attack the mutants would launch, Taalia liked their chances better than simply fleeing.

Perhaps the dwarf could use that information, perhaps to intimidate the mutants away now that their bluff had been exposed. It was evidence enough that the lead mutant was lying, clearly attempting to bluff them out of their goods. It also gave everyone else an idea of how many mutants there were and the direction from which they would charge, if they decided to risk life and limb for a pay day where they no longer had the element of surprise.

"I won't blame you for leaving Gaulfredo, think of your boy and wife. But I didn't claw myself out of the pits of the Skaven to work for half a year to hand it all over to this thieving scum! No one is ever stealing my labour again!" she whispered hurriedly to her companion, reading her quarter staff in one hand and her throwing knife in the other, preparing herself for the violence to come as she ducked into the protective cover offered by the cart walls, eyes on the treeline and those figures that were hopefully spotted by the others now that their direction had been exposed.

----------


## MrAbdiel

_"Mutants?!"_  Nogrom shouts back, disgusted by their nature as much as he is outraged by their intention to rob the convoy.  _"T'arms!  T'arms!"_

Gaulfredo gives you a look; it's all the time he really to communicate, as he fumbles for his staff and to clamber off the wagon, trying to get ahead of it a little so the combat to ensue won't spook the horses.  Some part of you might have preferred he run, to be safe; but no part of you would credibly think he would flee - this man, who  made a suicidal charge at the goblins who killed his horse.  How then would he abandon all these horses, and these folks - much less you, whom he has come to think of as a kind of daughter, as much you think of him as a kind of father?  He stands beside you with his staff out, as all along the line the lads dismount from their steeds and wagons, pulling their cudgels, and knives.  The red haired brothers at the back of the line seem the best armed of the lot of you; one produces a bearded axe in both hands, while his brother keeps infront of him with shield, and knife.  Rocco isn't a combat dog; but he is protective, and his hackles are up as he tries to take in the rapidly escalating tensions.  Corvo, on the back of the cart, just starts barking, and barking, and barking.  He has never been in a real fight; he doesn't understand if this is threat, or play, but he is scared, and letting out the yipping, confused noises that you normally have to cuddle to soothe, in thunderstorms.

The mutants come on, then.  There are eleven of them, including their leader; all uniformly skinny, and desperate looking... if only that were the worst of their looks.  Some are almost human - a man with eggshell white skin and pale, watery eyes seems to be more discolored than anything, though he is badly sunburned up his arms.  Another seems to have no mutation at all, even if his wild and sadistic grin on yellowed teeth suggests a mind twisted and depraved.  But there are plenty of horrors that emerge from the trees.  A man with a jet black eyeball and thick purple veins radiating from it under his skin stands at the back, preferring not to charge, swinging his awful gaze around the combat.  A cretin with a weasel's muzzle pushing out of his face where a normal jaw should be looses a chittering bark as he rushes on with a crude spear.  A man with some deformity worth hiding behind a hood could pass as normal, except for that covering; another with a third ear growing from the middle of his forehead is certainly unsettling, if not horrific.  But another weilds a grain flail in hands whose fingers have been replaced with short purple tentacles.  Another dirty, shirtless man has an array of extra arms sporting  bone shivs - an extra left and right below the main arms, and a third right arm, small and flopping with vestigial impotance just above his hip.  A woman with no head at all charges in with a boat hook lashed to a pole, a grimace on her miserable features mounted now between her free-swinging breasts.  And perhaps worst of all, coming straight at _you_, is a panting, glassy eyed oaf of a man with a second mouth - grinning on his abdoment, with the belly button flaring like a perverse nostril above it.  The mouth wails and chatters, and threatens you as he rushes in, club in hand:

_"AAAAHHhahahah, stronza, cazzo di puttana! Ti ucciderò, ti mangerò gli occhi! Ti mangerò gli occhi! Ahahaha!_

You've played with the throwing knife before; and you think you've gotten alright at handling it, though that was throwing it at a stationary wall.  At this moving, howling monster-man, your fling goes wide into the grass; and it's all you can do to prepare to engage him up close....

*Spoiler: OOC:*
Show

Your turn!  I recommend charging mister belly mouth, or taking a parry stance, or taking a defensive stance.  Or charging to attack, and spending your last fate point for a new half action to take a parry stance; but that's a final fate point for the day, it's a big deal to spend.

----------


## BananaPhone

Taalia

Taalia steeled herself as the mutants poured forth from the treeline like a disgusting wave, the grotesque spectacles of their aberrations and anomalous bodies, once a source of pity, now the impetus behind her revulsion as they sought to steal everything from Taalia that she had sought to build. Had she escaped the Skaven enslavement, braved the goblins, risked death by troll three times and months of rearing and caring for her own flock, just to hand all the proceeds over to this scum? Over her dead body.

Gripping her quarterstaff, observing that clumps were forming, she hurled herself forward at the closest mutant, bringing her weapon about in an arch and smacking the disgusting thing across its right arm.

----------


## MrAbdiel

*The Battle of Silo Road*
Combat is joined.  The mutants come loping down the sloping treeline, and the Bella Collinans move out to meet them; bodies and weapons colliding all down the line.  Belly-Mouth swings at you, but you dart to one side and bring your staff cracking down on his arm with bone jarring force.  The mouth on his face cries out in pain; the mouth on his guy continues gabbling on its vulgarities, unphased.  Along side you, Gaulfredo raises his staff horizontal and catches the downward swing of the Headless woman, the hook on her pole snaring around the staff and fouling his attempt to get any blow of his own to land.  Rocco makes up his mind and throws himself forward, doing what he knows and circling the enemies attacking you both, barking and nipping at heels; Gaulfredo tells him to go to Nogrom's side, but without being free to point and gesture to give the command shape, Rocco cannot yet interpret his master's will.

At the head of the column, Nogrom and Insolente Aldo circle each other, before Nogrom lunges in, defending his beer.  Too hasty; his handaxe misses the mark, and the mutant gang leader scores a trivial, knicking blow to the dwarf's thigh with a gleaming, steel longsword - the only weapon of quality the mutants have brought to bear.

The troublemaker boys, in their first real fight ever, make their best efforts.  Tesifonte, Ansaldo and Cremenzio wrestle back and forth with the grinning man and Tentacle Fingers, between them defending themselves and scoring a light cut to the Tenty-Finger's scalp; but Enrico, the fourth and the best influence on the other three, catches a cudgel to the stomach so fierce from the Hooded One that he throws up on the spot, red faced and agonized, wheezing as his friends try to defend him.

At the far end of the column, Ernesto and Istuccio rush into their many opponents, Ernesto making a nuisance of himself with his shield while Istucchio tries in with his axe.  But they are dangerously outmatched; the man with four arms is almost two opponents in himself, and between him and weaselface bashing on the shield, Extra Ear slips around and drops a vicious, painful looking strike onto his back, eliciting a howl of pain from him and distress from his brother, whose own blow  glances off the Albino's blocking spear!

Meanwhile, the man with the tainted eye fixates his stare on poor battered Ernesto.  A strange obsession with no visible cause to effect; but all the same Ernesto spits up a mouthful of blood...

*Spoiler: Round 1*
Show

Round 1's been pretty rough for the farmers. 
 I've added wounds taken (after toughness) to the initiative track.  One of the boys and one of the brothers have taken serious hits, And of the mutants, only the one you just struck have taken serious damage.  But the mutants had a lot of charge bonuses this round, as most of the farmers elected to be defensive; now the average mutant weapon skill of 25 will kick in a little more.  Round 2, you're up!

With Belly Mouth quite hurt, you have a real decision between just swinging and taking a defensive stance; or All Out Attacking for +20 to hit,trying to really land a blow.  Up to you!

----------


## BananaPhone

Taalia

Taalia hissed under her breath, hearing the shouts of others from the column as she brings her staff around with its prior momentum...

----------


## MrAbdiel

The battle rages on.

With a vicious blow cracking into Bellymoth's side, he spits blood (from the top mouth) and wheezes (also from that mouth), his clumsy reprisal to you going to the side.  Gaulfredo manages to turn aside the Headless woman's boat hook, as Rocco bites onto her ankle and tugs with enough force to distract, at least.  Seeing this opening, and the progress you've made on your foe, Gaulfredo jabs out hard with the butt of his staff and cracks Bellymouth in the temple, and the monstrosity sags to the ground.  The body doesn't move; but the profane second mouth continues to blather its garbage:

_"Oh, stronza! Tu succosa cagna! Vieni qui e metti il tuo piede nella mia bocca, ahahaha!"_

But with the defeat of this foe and Rocco finding his _in_, your duel has gone from two on two to three verse one - much better odds indeed.

Nogrom and Insolente Aldo duel on; the dwarf so far unable to land a blow, but atleast able to turn aside a swing that might have  cloven his head wide open, if he were less attentive to parry it.

The troublemaker boys hold there own.  Enrico manages to muster enough strength to backstep away from the Hooded man's blows, while the boys grow more savage in defense of their wounded friend; Cremenzio howling and scoring such a tremendous strike that the Tentacle-Fingered man's right arm is left dangling and ruined, causing him to drop his weapon and stumble back in pain and fear.

But the combat looks much worse, at the far end of the line.  The red haired brothers can't get any luck at all - the four enemies swarm over them, Ernesto doing his valiant best to hold them off so Istuccio can swing; but his brother is unable to land a blow.  But one of the cretins is: the pale skinned albino man, swinging a wooden mallet into the small of the shield-brother's back hard enough that even from where you are, you can hear something in the poor fellow's back crack and break, and he goes down to the ground, hard.

Grinning manicly, the man with the tainted eye turns his gaze next on battered Enrico, who starts to hack and cough uncontrollably.

*Spoiler: Round 2*
Show

Things tightening up for you and Gaulfredo winning your combat, the troublemaker boys making gains in theirs, but at the far end the red haired brothers are gettin' it. You're up!

You now outnumber your enemy 3:1, which is a +20 bonus to hit, which would do well on its own or stack nicely to +40 with an all out attack.  If you wanted to break from the combat - say, charge either to help the troublemakers up from you, or maybe up to Norgom (who seems to be holding his own), Headless would get a free swing at you as you go.

----------


## BananaPhone

Taalia

Taalia wasted no time. She knew the other boys at the end of their column needed their help, and she had to get there as quickly as possible!

Stepping to the side, she brought her staff about in an arch against the headless woman...

----------


## MrAbdiel

Fighting this headless woman is frustrating, not least because your first blow whiffs right where the head would have been; but your return stroke cracks down on her collar bone as Gaulfredo menaces from the side, and Rocco from behind.  Outnumbered, surrounded, personally doomed and with none of the hearty loyalty to kin that is possessed by her opponents, she lets out a mournful scream and tries to run; and you knock her ankles out as she turns, buying you and Gaulfredo a moment to beat her senseless with big overhead blows from your staves.  Freed from combat, Gaulfredo scans about, spotting the unengaged creeper at the back.  Knowing you will be more value to the combats in progress than he, the farmer and his dog charge up the hill toward the mutant.  "Help the boys!"  He calls to you, as Rocco rounds to threaten the mutant voyeur, and Gaulfredo himself lands a charging blow that batters and numbs the mutant's arm!

The Hooded Man  tries to finish off teetering Enrico, whose defenses are hampered by his hacking cough and suffering; but  his lads are with him, at least; and their threat is enough to prevent the attacker landing his killing strike.  What's more, the man with the mangled arm and tentacle fingers, now denuded of his weapon, ducks defensively away from the brawl and turns to lope back towards the trees; abandoning the grinning degenerate to the vengeful lads and giving him reasons not to grin as he is savagely clubbed and cut, staggering under the assault.

Nogrom and Insolente Aldo continue their protracted duel; Nogrom the superior warrior, but unable to find an opening against the reach of his enemy's weapon; stubby dwarven legs  not made for swift manoeuvring and footwork.

At the far end of the melee, the situation continues to erode.  One of the many-armed man's shivs makes it past Istuccio's guard, poking him in the side and letting blood flow freely down his body as he tries to defend his fallen, groaning brother.  It's all Istuccio can do to defend; he whirls his unbloodied axe around himself defensively, trying to create a field of threat the enemies cannot penetrate, but penetrate it they do - Weasel Face dancing in, feignting with his knife and then boxing him hard over one ear with a clawed hand, raking his cheek with claw marks and leaving him stunned, and reeling.  Disoriented, ournumbered four to one, his situation is grim.

*Spoiler: Round 3*
Show

Nogrom and Aldo continue to spar and circle.  You landed a decent blow on Headless.  She acts before Gaulfredo, and decided to try her luck running; I took the liberty of rolling you and Gaulfredo's attacks on her back, and you both did 9 damage - she's toast, and that freed up Gaulfredo to charge the tainted eye man with Rocco.  He even hit!  But his hope is to free you to roll up the combat elsewhere; he's seen what you can do when you get going.  This turn, you can charge to help Nogrom, or to help the Troublemaker boys.  Those boys are, right now, fighting one badly wounded man and the hooded man; but if that combat resolves quickly, it will free the boys up to move to help the red hair brothers, who are having the worst day at the far end of the line, too far for you to charge this turn. 
 If you wanted, you could just run, which would put you in line to charge those ganging up on the red hair brothers next turn; but if they down Istuccio, there'd be nothing stopping them from charging you, instead.  Your call!

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## BananaPhone

Taalia

Turning and seeing the plight of the red-headed boys, Taalia screamed and hurled herself forward, charging the nearest mutant from behind and swinging madly.

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## MrAbdiel

Seeing the situation get worse at the far end of the fight, you leave Gaulfredo and Nogrom to their duels, and rush to help the mass in the middle.  You collide with the scrum at speed, knocking the battered degenerate out of the group and then follow through with your staff so fiercely the blow  breaks his femer and pushes a shard of bone through the skin so that arterial blood can wash out as he collapses. This is the first man you have killed - the first with no visual deformity, at least.  The mutants you stepped over to get here were monstrous, but as the light fades from this cretin's eyes, he goes still as a bloody, battered, normal looking man; if dishevelled, and worse for wear.  But he was trying to kill you and your people; that does not engender much pity.

Nogrom and Aldo Insolente become more agitated with each other, both striking blows that might kill, but parrying each other so the ring of steel on steel echoes over the battlefield where the muddier clashes take place.

The tainted eye man wards himself with a his knife, trying to keep back Gaulfredo and his barking companion; staring malifically into Gaulfredo's face as he comes on, causing him to stumble and blink as blood begins to ooze from his tear ducts.  But this isn't enough to stop his momentum.  Grasping his staff from its base, he swings it hard and wide, and it catches the mutant in the shoulder with a crack, driving him to the ground where a few more vicious thumps and kicks do the same job on Tainted Eye that the once did on the goblins, in your first fight on the surface.

In the middle brawl, your dispatch of the degenerate frees the rest of the boys to crowd on the hooded man.  Even Enrico seems to find a second wind, and gets a lick in; they surround him, kicking and striking, none landing a telling blow but all getting a touch, and the mutant begins to howl in distress... with a weird, familiar pitch to his voice. It's the last sound that Tentacle Fingers hears, as he bleeds out in retreat.

At the bloody rear of the fight, Istuccio flails in defense of himself.  The many bone shives of the Many-Armed man are forced back by dazed, clumsy swings of his axe; but the man with an extra ear on his forehead gets in a vicious blow with a warped sword that carves into the meat of Istuccio's forarm, and forces him to drop his axe.  He totters, vulnerable, disarmed, trying to guess the angle death with take him from.  But the other two in that gang - Weasel Fae, and Albino - hear the Hooded Man's plaintive cry, and charge away from the redhaired brothers to join the mass combat; confident their two kin behind them have that situation handled.

Confused, not wanting to be left out, Corvo leaps from the wagon where he has waited so patiently, and tears off towards the most interesting part of the combat his canine brain has arbitrarilly chosen - the monstrous mutant with five arms, at whom he begins to bark from close by; bidding for play.  Play does not seem forthcoming.

*Spoiler: OOC: Round 4*
Show

The combat has simplified a little. 
 With more mutants going down (and tentacle fingers bleeding out), the ground is shifting.  I'll put the breakdown more clearly in the OOC thread.  But you're up, when you're next able!

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## BananaPhone

Taalia

Taalia sneers as she draws up her staff to take a good, hard whack at hooded man...

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## MrAbdiel

Crack!  Your staff slams into the side of the hood, and down he goes like a sack of potatoes.  You don't think he's dead - not yet, and you're tempted to make sure right now.  But the hood is partially shifted with your blow, revealing a corner of jaw that is...

Familiar.  The face of someone you know?

But the battle does not pause for you to meditate.  To halt now, either to kill the Hooded Man or to unmask him, would be to give up your focus on the lethal swirl around you.  Fortunately, _Myrmidia Blessing_, your felling of another mutant still seems to correspond with a shift in the tide of the melee back in your favor.  Weasel Face and Albino have crashed into the melee with the troublemaker boys - these chaps, who mocked you when they first met you but then gave an admittedly coerced apology and proved themselves, atleast, hard and honest workers who did not deserve to be killed by mutants on the road, give their all to the fight.  Enrico, the one of the four 'Troublemakers' who was not part of the group when they teased you, leans and spits blood, but two of his friends, Cremenzio and Tesifonte, are at his side with wild swings of their clubs, battering the Albino and then thumping him so hard in the solar plexus he loses his breath and seems to struggle to get it back again.  The fourth boy, Ansaldo, occupies Weasel Face; his own haymaker blow with his mallet cracking into the mutant's rodent muzzle and throwing a loose tooth across the field.  Now it's five verse two, in the midfield; and it's the mutants making tentative jabs and defending themselves while the rallying goodly folk put the wild swings and punishment on them.

At the end of the field, driven to one knee and facing two enemies who have robbed him of the use of his hand and thus the ability to wield his axe, Istuccio looks up protectively, sorrowfully, from his brother's body.  An ally from an unexpected place intervenes, for him - Corvo, having leapt from the cart and zoomed to the far combat, barks and hops behind Many Arms, trying to break into what seems to him to be an exciting, if violent game.  A pup of another breed would warrant no attention; but Many Arms does not dare expose himself to this new enemy, turning and swiping two of his bone knives at the couragious if foolish pup.  Canine agility wins through, and he dances back from the swings; his barking ceasing with a confused whine as the mutant's snarl and aggression impress upon the pup that _oh, this is not a game at all._

But with his most impressive ally against him distracted for a moment, Istuccio takes the window to rally; pulling the shield from his fallen brother's arm and slipping his own blood-slicked, bleeding right arm into its loops, grabbing the dropped dagger with his left, and raising both just in time to catch, and successfully deflect, a life-taking blow from Extra-Ear.  At the sound of Corvo's yapping, Gaulfredo - fresh from his own recent victor - calls out to the pup in alarm, and charges to the dog's side, Rocco in tow to the defence of his reckless son.  Rocco's barks as he charges in are rough, deep, almost feral with paternal fury, snapping at Many Arm's heels and forcing the mutant to shove him away with one foot.  Gaulfredo's own staff blow comes soaring in hard, but the five-armed freak has the free dexterity to strike it aside.  That combat, at the end of the convoy, is still dire; but it is not over, and now, atleast, the red headed brothers are not alone.

*Spoiler: Round 5!*
Show

Woo!  Good guys get some wins!  These troublemaker boys are all out attacking and having some big wins.  Both Weasel Face and Albino are hurt; and you dropped the Hooded Man.  You can spend your turn finishing him off, or unmasking him; but he's out cold, for now; and that my or may not be wise.  Nogrom and Aldo continue to fail at each other.  Corvo distracts Many Arms and is missed by two attacks *One of which would absolutely have hit and killed Istuccio*, but didn't.  With the purchased time, Istuccio used two ready actions for the weapons of his brother (the critical result he is suffering, Arm 6, specifies that he drops anything _except a shield_, so he's able to still wield that in his main hand and the dagger in his off.  That combo gives him a free parry, which he uses to avoid a death blow from Extra Ear.  Woo!  And he even doesn't bleed out this turn, which is a 20% chance each round!

It's Taalia, turn 6!

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## MrAbdiel

Nogrom finally lets out a barking, cathartic laugh as he manages a cut on Insolente Aldo's chest; the mutant hissing and failing to get in a reprisal blow.  His focus on this protracted duel has taken his ability to discern how badly his side is losing, down the line - he is unlikely to realise until it's too late.

In the great middle melee, what's good for one mutant is good for another - you bring your staff around and its very tip catches Weasel Face on the chin, smashing him to the ground where he lies unconcious.  Now there's _five_ of you and one of them, in that mix - bad odds, for the Albino who already seems to be realizing this and panicking.  It's Enrico, who nearly perished to the first blows of the right, who gets some pride back; swinging his club into the face of the pale skinned mutant, mashing his features, leaving him wrecked on the ground with blood pouring out of his warped jaw.

Five versus Zero.

Only Extra Ear, Many-Arms, and Aldo himself persist upright.  Extra Ear hammers on Istuccio's shield, as he defends himself and his fallen brother with his final gasps; blood running down his forearm and over the shield's hardwood rim, flowing from his smashed hand.  Many-Arms finds himself menaced by two dogs, and a staff wielding farmer in a straw hat; insensible with frustration, he strikes out at both Corvo and Rocco, but both dogs are quick enough to weave back from the short bone knives.  Finally, Gaulfredo manages to get a good strike in; cracking his staff down on the crown of Many-Arm's skull and draw his focus exclusively, eliciting a pained yowl and hiss from the emaciated brute.  Then come the boys; Cremenzio, Tesifonte and Ansaldo, freed now from the victorious central melee to charge into this penultimate holdown.  Cremenzio joins Gaulfredo swinging at Many-Arms, catching only air but establishing  his threat; Tesifonte and Ansaldo fall on Extra Ear and begin bullying him away from the suffering Istuccio. Mallet and cudgel in hand, they come in swinging but then drop their shoulders and bodily shove the mutant back, isolating him from the melee.

_"Taalia..!"_

It's Istuccio's croaking voice; diminished with weakness now, far from its basso warmth when he bargained with Gaulfredo about the price for your ox so long ago now.  He calls out to you.  And why shouldn't he? He knows the cold crawling into him as the blood flows out, and that you have been apprenticing under the Madre Angeletta.  And he knows how you threw yourself into melee with the troll, while he was a few feet away and sure he was going to die.  Now he calls to you, glassy eyed and afraid; perhaps thirty years old and kneeling over the body of his still and unmoving brother, as the blood slicks away from him.  The boys, and the dogs, have managed to peel the attackers back to provide a minimum of room to attend him, even as the battle continues.  It may be wiser to commit your considerable strength to the combat, to finish these mutants off and tend to the wounded after - but the difference in time may be the difference between the red haired ox trader bleeding out, or surviving with just his shattered hand.

*Spoiler: Round 6!*
Show

  Woo!  You're a mutant staffin' machine.  Now it's just the two near the redhead brothers, and Aldo, who appears to finally be taking damage from Nogrom.  Istuccio is rolling a 20% chance to die of blood loss every round, so he's close to his number being up.  On your turn, you can either rush over and attack one of the muties, or rush over, drop your staff, and try to staunch the bleeding.  This isn't the full "heal check" you might make after the combat; just an action to stop bleeding, so it'd be a flat heal roll - if you fail, he'll check to bleed out before you can keep trying.

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## MrAbdiel

At the front of the convoy, Aldo gets his chance - with a twist of the wrist, he sends Nogrom's axe spinning from his hands.  _"Och!  Ye wee baggar!" _ Quick as a flash, the dwarf throws himself into a roll to recover it, and the mutant's blade scythes over his head, barely missing him.

Enrico charges into the fray, wobbly as he is; but neither he, nor Tesifonte or Ansaldo can land a blow on Extra Ear, proving to be the stealth-threat of the brawl.  The audibly enhanced mutant swings a reply at Tesifonte and catches him on the cheek, his badly forged and warped sword cutting a bleeding slice in the teen's face and leaving a searing pain and awareness of the disfigurment to come that you're all too familiar with.  By contrast, Extra-Arm's luck seems to have run out; Gaulfredo is able to fend off his  shivving assault by turning his staff longwise and stabbing it like a spear, keeping reach as his advantage and jabbing the many-armed freak in the stomach hard enough to knock the wind from him.  Rocco, furious and instinctively defensive for the threat to Corvo, latches on to the mutant's right ankle, and holds tight; he staggers with the dead-weight of the dog, the hound's teeth wriggling and tearing with the shaking of his head.

As this carries on, you slide to your knee beside Istuccio, help him quickly trade the shield to the other hand, and get to work using the techniques you have learned in your first real, critical test of the Madre's training.  His hand and wrist have been badly hacked.  They might have to come off, later, depending on how bad it is on a more careful examination.  You touch the healing draught at your hip, but remember your training:




> _"I can't imagine how many soldiers have died choking on a draught when they should be applying pressure to a wound or tying it off.  A healing draught is a gift from Shallya, a wonderful thing; it'll see to the rapid restoration of many bruises, and contusions, and even small breaks of bones if they haven't shifted far.  But a body can't derive nourishment from a draught when it's fighting for its life.  It's a sad irony - the more heavilly wounded a body, the less effective a draught will be.  If it's a deep wound to an organ, or an artery, then potions won't save you - and if you don't have a pocket full of miracles, then all you can do is try the old crude ways: holding them together with needle and thread, and bandages, and your own two hands, if you can."_


...And so you snatch one of the braided rawhide straps the Madre has made you carry as part of your training, wrap it around Istucchio's forearm just below the elbow and pull it tight enough that he grunts in pain.  The bloodflow slows to a trickle-  hopefully because of your good work, and not because he's running out; and you make him put his own good hand over the bleed, and apply pressure.  If he doesn't get struck again, he is likely to survive the fight.  As for Ernesto... There's nothing you can do for him, right now.  His brother kept him from the _coup de grace_.  That's all he has going for him, until the combat is over and you can inspect the damage.

*Spoiler: Round 7!*
Show

You have halted Istuccio's bleeding!  Next turn, you are free to pick up your staff and stand guard over him; or, if you don't want to spend a half action picking up your staff, you can perform the Taalia Maneuver and charge bare fisted into melee to get a swing with your _Natural Weapons_ talent.

----------


## MrAbdiel

You hear Nogrom wince in pain, at the other end of the convoy the mutant leader has pulled a reversal and delivered a superficial, but psychologically important cut to the dwarf's arm, while suffering no blow in response.

But you can't afford to think about that, now - if this doesn't end soon, more of these good people are going to suffer and die; all it takes is an unlucky blow and they could be beyond your limited medical skills.  So you throw yourself with another banshee scream into Many-Arms, hammering your fist into his stomach and catching him so off guard he tumbles to the ground, vulnerable to the tender mercies of your companions.  Ansaldo's mallet rocks Extra Ear's forehead, tearing and smearing that extra ear across his countenance.  Soon, they're both on the ground; the combat turned into a mob desolation; Enrico stomping on Extra Ear's head, to finish him; Rocco latching on to Many-Arm's neck when he falls and biting, wriggling, refusing to let go while the many hands are beaten and stomped and prevented from detaching the vengeful canine father.

Once they cease to move, and quiet falls over the scene, the sound that dominates the area is the dwarf and the mutant leader going back and forth at the other end of the field.

"Go."  Istuccio implores, giving you a nod with some confidence that he's alright now.  As one, your mob of righteous rurals surge down the line of mangled mutant bodies to the last of their number.  Nogrom scores another hit, a good one, before you arrive; but any hope _Insolente Aldo_ had of turning this thing around is washed away in a swam of cudgels, and staves, and sandaled heel stomps.

When he lies still, Nogrom tips the hood back form his face and immediately grimaces, as does everyone near by.  The killing effort has dislodged what was apparently a fake beard. The chin beneath is clean shaven, beneath a normal mouth - but there is no eyes, brows, nose, or ears on this man's head.  Instead, growing from the blank flesh slate of the foreskull, a tiny humanoid torso the size of two balled fists had sprouted, with its own awful little arms and neck and face.  This, it seems, is who was doing the talking.

As you work your way through the aftermath, you head to the bodies of the mutants you knew you knocked out, but might not have killed.  The boys are putting them out of their misery pretty actively; but you're standing by  when one of them tips the hood back from the masked mutant you knocked out earlier on.

_"Bertuccio?"_  Gaulfredo breathes, disbeleiving.

A nauseating, headache inducing clash of visual information and what you know otherwise boils behind your eyes.  There, lying unconcious with the concussion you gave him and the bruises and cuts of from the boys ganging up on him, is Bertuccio.  His face cannot be mistaken.  Can it?  Can it be a... lost twin?  A wild coincidence?  You didn't see him this morning, passing through Bella Collina... but he doesn't patrol the larger Silo Road that goes into town.  His territory are the other three smaller roads that connect Bella Collina to its outlying farms and other distant villages.  So is it possible?  Your eyes make it hard to say no.

"It's a trick.  Some dark magic trick, to confuse!"  Nogrom announces with brash certainty, reaching down to tug at the man's hair and nose and ears hoping they come loose to reveal a disguise.  They do not.  "...Dark magic, indeed!"  He repeats, perhaps mostly for himself, and hoists his axe, preparing to cut off the 'road warden''s head.

*Spoiler: OOC Combat Over!*
Show

I rolled the attacks for the mutants, and neither of them scored a hit; but I also rolled the attacks of the boys and yeah, they're both toast this turn whether or not you splat or not; so I assumed you'd just join in the curb party.  I ran two turns of Nogrom and Aldo in case something dramatic happened while the mob surged over there, but Nogrom just got in a pride-saving hit before you guys all descended on him and certainly kicked him to death.

Everything is medically stable; there will be a bunch of medical rolls soon, but before that... check the OOC for next step!

----------


## BananaPhone

Taalia

The battle was over and the day was won! But where the matter with the troll had been resolved without injury, this time blood had been paid to rid the region of 11 mutants. 

Well...10, at least. 

After tending to her dog, Corvo, holding her little man by his huge head and rubbing it, kissing his forehead and tending to the wounded, Taalia moved over to the gathering as the Hooded One's identity was revealed. Along with everyone else, Taalia gasped in disbelief. Her hand up to her mouth, shaking her head, she couldn't believe what she saw. 

Bertuccio?! Impossible!

Taalia could not believe that the Roadwarden, who had been brave and strategically minded, was secretly a _mutant_ preying upon travellers with a band of outlaws, and being a mere _follower_ of such a group rather than its leader. If this had truly been Bertuccio, he would have recognised them all, surely, and knew the danger they posed to a hungry and desperate band of mutants, so much so that he would have wisely hung around the back until the outcome seemed certain, at which point he would either take flight or join in to leave no witnesses. 

And besides - if this band were so desperate and badly equipped, what were they doing with the equivalent of the local highest ranking law man among their number?! Bertuccio would have had access to livestock, weapons, money, clothes, all manner of goods that he could have ensured 'disappeared' along the road and into the coffers of these degenerates. 

The more Taalia thought about it the less sense it made to her that the...creature laying before her was indeed the real Bertuccio. 

But that nagging doubt...what if it was?

It was certainly odd that a group of bandits, and mutant bandits at that, this large could operate in this region without any of them hearing about it, or the group being detected and scourged from the region by the local Roadwardens.

What if the local, highest ranking Roadwarden really did moonlight - or sunlighting in this case - as a mutant bandit? 

"Wait!" Taalia reached up to hold Nograms axe. 

Standing over the downed "Bertuccio", Taalia thought for a second and then continued. 

"The preservation of your life depends on answering four questions," she started. 

"When you first came to visit me, whose farm was I on, and what other two prominent members of Bella Collina were there?"

The answer was Gaulfredo's, and Singora Madre and Singore Cestie. 

"Second: what weapon did you allow me to use after we defeated what creature?"

The answer was his firearm after they defeated the troll. 

"Third: what part of the creature came off as a result of my practice that I took as a trophy?"

The answer was the trolls tooth nestled away from eyesight, strung on a strip of leather and hanging between her concealed cleavage. 

"Fourth: what's your name and profession?"

The last question was known by all present, but only Bertuccio and Taalia knew all the answers to the first three. (except Gaulfredo for the first, of course)

----------


## MrAbdiel

When "Bertuccio" comes to, groggy and alarmed, it tames him a moment to focus on you and your questions.  Even as he listens and stares, you see no recognition of you in his eyes; familiar eyes though they may be.  But after you have finished asking, he puts something together.  He answers none of your questions - only gives more more confusing information.

_"...You... know... me?"_  Bertuccio's voice cracks; chokes with emotion.  "You know who this is?!"  He gestures to his face, now streaming with tears as his face lights up with the ecstatic joy of revelation.  _"Tell me!  Tell me who I AM!  TELL ME WHO I AM! TELL ME WHO I AM!"_

Tearful joy becomes terrified, desperate, screamed repetition.  He moves with serpent speed suddenly, not to attack, but to wrap his arms around your let and grab on to you with desperation; perhaps, with fear you will leave without fulfilling his demand.  Corvo, at this grab, begins flipping out and barking madly.  Right now, it's just you, Nogrom, Gaulfredo and Enrico standing around watching this spectacle; the rest of the boys are rounding up the cattle and the wagons, the beasts having drifted away from the fight in nervous distress; and the red haired brothers being in no condition to round up their own oxen.

Nogrom grows rapidly alarmed.  _"Oath, Taalia; it's mad and cursed!  Get away from it so I can bloody put it down before it infects us all with this howling!"_

----------


## MrAbdiel

Once Bertuccio is secured, gagged - and hooded again, for good measure - you and the less injured boys search the immediate treeline, as well as the bodies of the mutants.

Chipped and broken knives. Warped, irredeemably swords.  Crude clubs.  Rags.  Filthy, blood-sodden foot wraps.  These mutants were hoping desperately for a score to change their fortune; but it's obvious they haven't been at this very long.  How could they?  They've accumulated only very poor weapons and, importantly, you know what happens when there's a threat in rural Verezzo - people get wind and round up a militia and take care of it.  This couldn't be happening very long - especially if Bertuccio is wrapped up in it, unless he really is moonlighting.

None of the crap they are carrying is salable beyond a few leather belts that the group agrees to hock at Paesa di Silo to recoup the costs of your bandages and medical bits and bobs.  There is one item of worth, from the mess - Insolente Aldo's sword.

Nogrom looks it over, with you; gives it a rap with his knuckles; points out the features of it, with his dwarven affinity for such things.  The blade is strong, currently has a dinged and deflected edge (mostly from parrying Nogrom's axe), and has no marks or engravings beyond some scratching on one side, just above the hilt on the ricasso.  Someone has attempted an engraving, probably with a knife, but given up quickly when it seemed too hard, having formed nothing approximating a word or symbol.  It has a practical guard, a curved, leather-bound grip, and a mushroom-shaped pommel; a well balanced sword with two edges, fit for use in either hand.  The scabbard is made of some light local wood with bronze banding over dark grey leather.
_
"It's yer's, Taalia.  I saw ye out here, today; ye're a treasure, and no lie about it." _ Nogrom grumbles.  He has no use for the blade; and he might have liked to have felt like he 'won' it in a fair duel, but in truth the conflict could have gone either way and it would have been foolish delaying the end of it that came.  After a little back and forth refusing the gift, Nogrom flares with agitation and insists it ought to be yours; or he's going to pitch it into the next river he sees.  That's probably the end of that.

Istuccio speaks to you, quietly, as you bandage his hand.  His left scratches Corvo's shin; the pup unaware how he has earned this attention, but revelling in it. _"...We're alive, Taalia; again, because of you, I think.  You and this pup.  Rotten luck that these bastards picked us; but a blessing there were just enough of us, and that you were one of them.  Everyone fought; but you're different.  Everyone knows it."_  He looks down at Ernesto, then back up to his bandaged hand.  His hand is painful; it's deeply cut, and as it heals, he might feel pain in it his whole life. But Istuccio took a blow to the back, and hasn't woken up; hasn't moved.  You're quite sure, based on your ginger examination, that something is broken.  Madre Angeletta says backs are the worst; there's next to nothing you can do about them.  You just wait, and see.  Istuccio, clearly, is seeing in his debilitated brother the possibly reshaping of their whole lives.  Eyes red with sequested emotion, he rubs his face with one hand, and then pushes his shield toward you.  It's a classic round shield, of hard wood with a hammered iron rim; but clearly solid construction and marked with age and use.  The barest remnant of an Ox-head motif is discernible on its face, now chipped and scuffed away to a ghost of its glory.  It has not, however, broken; which is what you want in a shield... even if this one's lower rim is now stained with the previous user's blood.
_
"Will you take this?  It belonged to our father.  I don't know what this means for my brother and I, yet; but we might yet sell our whole herd to cover expenses.  You deserve a proper reward; but I'd be honored if that shield saved your life someday, like you saved ours today."_

A little later, one of the boys discovers something in the treeline, right where you'd told them to search: another paid of bodies.  A slain riding horse, and its rider - in the soft leather regalia with the branded quiver for his crossbow that marks him as a road warden.  He's been dead for only a couple of hours - the mutants must have dragged him off the road and resolved to sort out his loot later, to prevent squabbling; his hand axe, his crossbow, and his various pouches of useful items are still on him.  He's older than Bertuccio; clearly a more senior warden, with short cropped back hair and a stubbly beard, balding on top; but with the glassy eyed sameness that corpses seem to take, after a few hours.

_"Damn."_  Gaulfredo sighs, taking off his hat, rubbing his curling hair.  _"A damn shame.  Karnas take him.  We ought to take him, and the saddle, back to Paesa di Silo.  The town militia will have to patrol this road until they have a new warden."_

With that, you load up the wagons with grim cargo.  The body of the poor warden in one; bound and sobbing Bertuccio in another; and Ernesto, silent and comatose on a bed of corn sacks in the other, with Istuccio sitting with him all the way.  Two of the boys take the brother's horses and keep the oxen in order; and you carry on your way.  Fortunately, there is no repeat calamity; and before nightfall, you are passing by the stockyards of Paesa di Silo.

*Spoiler: OOC:*
Show

You gain 1 * Hand Weapon (Sword!); and 1 * Shield.  Both are normal quality.  The road warden has stuff - but unless you suddenly develop stick fingers, it's to be turned in to the town.

You can also gain 200XP for this wildly close and dangerous combat, and 
 encountering new mysteries!

----------


## BananaPhone

Taalia


It was only Taalia's apprehension at the dopplegangers true identity that stayed Nograms hand. When the madman had clutched at her leg, she swiftly knelt down, bringing a knee between his shoulder blades and pinning him to the ground so that his limbs could be restrained and the hood placed back upon him. 

Soon, Taalia felt vindicated in her actions. The discovery of the dead Roadwarden lent further credence to the idea that Bertuccio was indeed among them, but he had come under some form of wicked spell of mesmerisation. She could still remember the evil-eye of that lone mutant that Rocco and Gaulfredo had attacked, and she mentioned as such during their discussion. It was entirely possible that Bertuccio had come under the sway of such a creature, his senses soon to return to him over time now that he was free from the wretched influence and sanity could slowly return. 

To the injured fellows, Taalia did her best, but she was still a novice. She patched up all who needed it, while those more gravely injured at least had their bleeding stopped. She could 'heal' one, allowing him some re-vitalisation enough that he could move, but Ernesto and Istuccio would unfortunately have to wait. She had ceased the bleeding, which had saved their lives, but they were in critical condition and she knew it. She could try again tomorrow once they were in safer conditions and their own bodies had recuperated some degree of health, but the important thing was that they were alive. The back injury worried the ex-slave though, as she went over in her head all the words of education that Madre had given her on the subject. The boy was older than she, and he was fortunate enough to still have a family to support him if the worst came to physical worst, but...well, they would see. 

To the providing of goods, Taalia at first tried to refuse. She really did. To accept the gifts while the boys had suffered such grevious injuries...she didn't feel right about it. Perhaps sell them both and give the proceeds to the Ox-rearing brothers? But they wouldn't have it. Though Taalia did not feel like any hero, they all apparently thought otherwise: she'd swung her staff around like a madwoman, smacking heads and bodies, but when the time had come to preserve life instead of take it, she had been the only one capable of rescuing those near-death from departing the mortal coil and taking the next journey all souls travelled. Maybe she did deserve it after all? Though all contributed heroically, she had both taken life and saved it, so perhaps her actions warranted the individual reward? After all, the lineage of the Ox brothers, the importance of which was signified by that bulls-head sigil upon her shield, would have been eradicated and ended had she not plied the skills imparted upon her by Madre. A family's line gone, finished, were it not for her. In that way, hundreds of children across dozens of generations owed their future existence to her. 

Maybe. 

Still, after tending to the wounds, gathering the fallen items, and putting a torch to the gathered mutant bodies and their clothes to prevent the spread of their putrid contamination - after gathering proof of death of each one, of course - Taalia was one of the last to clamber back into the cart before the bruised and battered convoy continued on to Paesa di Silo.

Maybe there was a bounty for bandits? Or mutants? Or both? Perhaps, Taalia thought to herself, if there was, she could ease her conscience by donating a good chunk of whatever credit was to be gained to the Ox brothers to help buttress the potential loss of an able-bodied son in their business, while splitting the rest with everyone else.

It had been a knife-edge encounter, with adrenaline pumping, hearts racing and wounds opened and blood spilt. All of them had fought and bled together, that type of bonding is not long lost, as even the boys who had once made crude jokes about her figure had suddenly gained an elevated position of respect and consideration in Taalia's eyes. 

But if the bound and currently-still image of "Bertuccio" and the injured image of the brothers were anything to contend with, it was not yet over.

----------


## MrAbdiel

You pass by many pens and fenced gates full of livestock as you roll into town; with the dregs of day staff handing over to night watchmen and handlers.  Caesa di Silo is only a very small town - a few hundred permanent occupants - but it was a southern hub and receiving point for many villages and independent farms.  These extra pens exterior to a low but impassable masonry wall caught the overflow when this trading season came through; oxen and swine and sheep all purchased up by middlemen to sell to slaughterbarons in Verezzo or further afield.  The red haired brothers, with their fifty head of cattle, were doing quite well for themselves, in village life; but you see a team of four men on horses driving a herd of what must be a hundred oxen into a pen where great stacks of straw are layed out for their feasting.

_If each of those oxen is healthy, that herd might be worth three thousand gold pieces,_ your instinct tells you.  _That's how someone becomes a Senator of Verezzo._

As you approach the gate surrounding the town, Gaulfredo hops down and jogs to the head of the convoy; smoothing his tunic and preparing his wheelin' dealin' skills.  Before long, he has harried a portly, bespectacled cattle clerk into working a little later than he intended, taking note of your stock to be penned for sale tomorrow - five oxen, three lambs - your cost being a princely total of five pennies for the care and feeding of the lambs overnight.  Since you won't be permitted to bring your lambs into a hired room for the night and the watchmen will probably chase you off if you try to set up your own little camp next to the pens outside of town, your alternative options are very few.

*Spoiler: OOC: Cost of Doing Business*
Show

Pay 5p to stable your lambs, for sale tomorrow!


The horses and wagons, Gaulfredo tells you, will be stabled inside the walls; most good inns have a stable attached, just not one that can handle every animal brought in for spring trading.  So then it's you, the dogs and horses, and your assembled boys who check in with the watchmen at the gate.

There are two kinds of warrior minding the gate, you notice.  There are the watchmen, and the militiamen.  The watchmen have brimmed metal helmets that seem designed both to keep blows to their crown from killing them, but also to keep the sun from their eyes; held on with chin straps, over leather skullcaps.  They have leather jerkins, shields on their backs and short spears in hand; and tabards featuring a blue and white quartered field and an embroidered design that, generously, is meant to be a wreath of grain.  But these watchmen seem to be few and far between; there is only one at this gate checking you, where there are four militia men.  The militiamen are much less formal; they have leather skull caps and unrimmed wooden shields, as well as clubs on leather straps; and a motley array of their own clothes brought from presumably their own homes.  Each wears a blue scarf, somewhere on their person; usually tied around the forehead, sometimes tucked into the shirt; and all look to the watchmen deferentially.

"In for trading, southers?  Pulling in late, are we not?"

The watchman, whose thick and curled moustache may be his greatest contribution to mankind, probes as he approaches the wagons.  Gaulfredo is quick to intercept, to explain, rather than let things be discovered.

_"Late, yes; because were were struck on the road by mutants - behold, my cleaved comrades!  Here, let me show you..."_

Gaulfredo throws back the blanket covering the dead roadwarden, and the watchman gives a wince.  _"Aw, no; poor bloody Gabrello.  His wife'll be gutted.  Mutants, you say?  Normally we'd send the warden to go check your claim, but the harvest-marshall will have to figure out what to do. You can speak with him tomorrow, but you'd better get your wounded to bed and poor Gabrello there to Morr's man, left here against the interior wall.  I'll waive the gate fee, since I'm inclined to beleive you; but if I find there was no mutants, I'll come find you to discuss, aye?  The watch-sergeant is over that way, too, to help you with your, ah... prisoner."_

So you're through, to the interior of the town.  Paesa di Silo is the largest colony you've seen.  Possibly excepting the rat warrens, though their interconnected sprawl was hardly a 'city' or 'town', but was much more like a stain that spreads from its middle outward.  But there are dozens of buildings, within these walls!  A large circular road around the interior of the wall is flanked by two concentric rings of buildings, broken up by alleys and lanes that lead into a town centre that is several times larger than the village square of Bella Collina.  Not only that, but the buildings here are of a different character; much less in the way of log and whole wood constructions, more masonry foundations and rough-plastered exteriors with baked tile rooves.   Some buildings are three stories tall, here; such as the _Leaping Vixen House_, the inn to which Nogrom and Gaulfredo lead your party.  The innkeeper _Mia_ is the fattest woman you have ever seen - that is to say, moderately fat, given your upbringing; but is raucously good natured when receiving you, only settling to regular positivity when you have to start bringing in the wounded.  Gaulfredo pays for rooms for the brothers, and the boys, and you and he; Nogrom pays for himself, predictably; and with care you help the others carry stricken Ernesto upstairs and into a bed, where Istuccio lays nearby to watch him. Enrico, too, is hustled off to rest; leaving three of the troublemakers, Nogrom and Gaulfredo with you.  "Best we sort out this body and our prisoner quickly, so there's still room for all these horses in the _Vixen's_ stables."

That's certainly what you try to do.  The first stop is a shrine to Morr; a quarried stone building exactly where you were told it was, consisting of a small chapel like interior and two patches of white roses flanking the door.  The cloaked, hooded figure depicted in the icon above the door is mysterious to you, still; Morr is acknowledged by the people of Bella Collina, and apparently throught the whole world; but he does not have the focus that Karnas and Ishea do, nor a statue put aside like Myrmidia in that place - just a rough woodenbox with a skull in it, set up as a small fane near Bella Collina's graveyard.  But this is a more elaborate worship for Morr, whom legends say is Myrmidia and Shallya's father.  And the acolyte to receives you looks exactly like you would expect - pale, thin, bald, ambiguously old.  Gaulfredo gives him the story, as you and the boys offload the road warden's body onto a slab inside the shrine.  _"Gabrello has been a warden on the Silo road for twelve years.  A shame this would happen; but mutants always flare up in the months after the Mystery night.  The wicked moon calls them up; but you have done good to bring him here.  He will be properly interred.  Here, permit me to call the watch sergeant, to be witness."_

The watch sergeant, whose moustache pales to his inferior you met earlier but whose dagger-sharp beard compensates strongly, comes around with six militamen in tow who must range from fifteen to twenty years of age; barely more than children, much like the troublemaker lads.  Watch sergeant Alonzo is of a much more suspicious caste than the fellow at the gate, however; and he receives word of the warden's death with annoyance, and bluster.

_"Mutants?  Damn.  Mutants killed him?  Strange; he's been driving off the odd mutant for years.  Strange they'd catch him now.  How'd they manage it?  Is this one of them?"_  He gestures to your prisoner, bound, sleeping off his concussion.  _"He doesn't look mutated.  Is it his face?"_

Gaulfredo tries to explain.  _"N-no.  No, we don't think he is one of them; just that , ah, he was caught up with them.  Ensorcelled, perhaps.  We need him only contained for a day; we will take him back to Bella Collina tomorrow, and he will be no problem to you.  But we dreaded to simply carry a bound man into the inn, and to be misunderstood."_

Without waiting for an invitation, the watch sergeant presumtuously pulls off the hood from your prisoner.  Unfortunately, as the sleeper startles and groans, the sergeant, even a couple of the militia men, shift in recognition.  "Sacred Myrmidia - that's Bertuccio, from the south roads."

Hearing this, Bertuccio's mind clears rapidly.  Through his gag, he slurs with that manic animation again.  _"Mmm... Mrrmmmcuoo?  Mmm mrrmrcimoo?"_

The militia men heed some subtle signal, moving closer to you and the boys; you feel in the slave-survival core of your brain the sense of being cornered, surrounded, as the watch sergeant pulls off the prisoner's gag.

_"I'm... Bertuccio?  From the south roads?!"_  Comes the sobbing, hysterical query from the prisoner.

The sergeant, bamboozled by the oddity of the situation, responds quite naturally.  _"Yes, yes!  You're Bertuccio!  A bloody road warden!  What's happened to you?  What's wrong with you?"_

_"I'm Bertuccio?  I'm Bertuccio! Warden of the south roads!  I'm..."_  And then he peals off into sobbing laughter, relief and grief all together - madness plain enough that the sergeant can't stand it, and roughly gags him again.  He turns on you with fury and confusion reddening his face, the acolyte of Morr, having not anticipated all of this, withdrawing tightly to the doorframe of his chapel.

_"You've come into town with one road warden dead and another gone mad, in the back of your wagon!  And you say, what - that mutants did this?  Where are the mutants?"_

With a sinking feeling in your gut, you remember the corpse pyre your group set up before you left.  It seemed like the right way to deal with the bodies of such damned men - but you wonder if someone sifting through the ash and bone will find the mutations as obvious as they were when you could see which arms belonged to whom, and whose fingers were tentacles.

Nogrom is ready to argue at the implication, and Gaulfredo has his hands up, palms forward, trying to physically suppress a spectre of escalation as he tries to explain.  It does, in retrospect, look bad.

*Spoiler: OOC:*
Show

I hadn't anticipated this, but it's an age old WFRP tradition of being falsely accused of murder when you were just defending yourself.

I'm going to ask for some kind of check here, for Taalia to plead her innocence, and to try to make the account convincing.  It's probably charm, unless you can think of something more appropriate; and it's a flat roll, because ... well, this is a very challenging scenario!

----------


## BananaPhone

Taalia

Taalia had remained in quiet contemplation for the rest of the trip, simply watching and listening as Gaulfredo took to being the convoy's face. Hers was perhaps prettier, her winning smile a charming heart-arrow, but Gaulfredo was far more familiar with the ways of the people of this town than she was, so she deemed it wiser to remain quiet. 

Helping with the lambs and oxen, and then with the two badly injured boys into their room, Taalia enjoyed rubber-necking in the town as they passed through it on their way to the Temple of Morr. Something about the plastered, masonry-founded architecture really appealed to the girl, the simple beauty of the buildings that felt homely alongside the rural farmhouses she had enjoyed so far. Smiling to herself, the girl felt that brightness of hope sell within her chest that she could make a great life here in this region of the world, perhaps building a nice manor like this out in the countryside near her friends and, hopefully, future family.

That sense of hope was temporarily suppressed, however, as the watch sergeant dialled the tension up to eleven with his accusation. Fire was in his eyes, lips tight in a snarl as the emotions roiling within him wanted to seek vengeance for his fallen friend and brother in arms. Seeing the other militiamen start to spread out, Taalia felt that Fight of Flight part of her brain start to tick, her muscles tense as she tried to spot the available exits - but she knew it would do no good. Where would she go if she fled? She didnt know anyone, and the town was walled. There'd be no escape, and flight would only make her look even more guilty. 

Ah, but!

"Singore, you have misread the situation," Taalia spoke up, her snorous, smoky voice coming fourth during a single second of silence. 

"Bertuccio is a friend and comrade of ours. We slew a troll together," she started, reaching into her top to retrieve the trolls tooth trinket that hung around her neck to display it. 

"Why would we then stricken him with madness and bring him here? And murder a roadwarden along the way? We have even brought Singore Gabrello's equipment with him, his weapons, clothes and valuables. Why would we bring such things here if we had murdered the man along the road?"

She allowed a pregnant pause to linger as she unsling the slingbag that hung around her shoulder.

"We have two badly wounded boys in the local tavern, one of them has a back wound consistent with a mallet that we have also brought - but had been wielded by one of the mutants, and my companions all carry wounds consistent with the crude weapons we have brought. There were 11 in total, including Bertuccio, so we burned 10 bodies on the side of the road to stop the spread of their contamination. 

Here, proof of their deaths..."

She produced from that bag the 'proof' she had taken from the mutants she had hoped would secure some type of bounty, but now would seem to preserve their freedom.

----------


## MrAbdiel

It's a lot of obscuring questions, and not a lot of answers.  Any manner of Why-Would-We used to argue against guilt, after all, can be answered "To Avoid Suspicion of Guilt", and the Watch Sergeant seems to be the kind of mean who comes with his suspicion musket pre-powdered, wadded, and just waiting the ball.

But it's the bag - the bag full of tentacle fingers, and tiny deformed face-growth-bodies, and weasel lips, and albino thumbs, that seals the deal.

_"...Alright.  Alright, fine.  Ten, you say?"_  The Watch Sergeant offers, simmering down.

_"Eleven."_  Nogrom corrects, sharply.  _"Ten plus Insolente Aldo.  That's... that one."_  He points to the tiny head, in the bag.  The watchman snaps the bag closed, disgusted; disappointed, even.  _"Alright.  Well... We'll send out a squad of militiamen to escort your group back to Bella Collina, tomorrow; you'll show them where all this happened, so atleast we have some witness to the terrain and all.  I'll try to arrange a bounty, but normally that's road warden work."_  He signals to his militia underlings, and they scoop Bertuccio out of the cart, sagging as he is drag-walked away.  The Watch Sergeant tips his helmet's brim to your group, finally satisfied, and takes the bag of mutant-trimmings.  _"Hope your mate walks, again; Shallya be kind."_

And you're let loose, at that; free to return to the _Vixen_ after, your horses are stabled and cart and wagons parked beside a militia checkpoint with a couple of Gualfredo's silver appreciatively in the hands of the militiamen watching them.

The lads share rooms; you're given one to yourself, on account of some discretionary allowance to your femininity.  But it does mean that you're the last to wake, today; one of the gents woke, and woke others, and when you emerge from the small but comfortable room afforded you, you pass by a couple of the troublemaker boys bringing up bowls of hot milk-and-oat mash with dried fruit, up to the red haired brothers' room.  They let you know in passing.  _"It's no good, Taalia.  Ernesto's up, but can't feel his legs.  Can't wiggle his toes, or nought."_

Maybe the Madre can imagine a tonic or something that helps.  Maybe, over a couple of months, or years, he'll heal enough to find his feet again.  For now, though, Shallya has not been kind; perhaps there's just not enough kindness to go around.

* * * * *

The trading in the morning is a different experience from the half-dozen market tables in the town square, asking the same score of people to trade or barter goods.  The whole town centre is given over to tents and pavilions; hundreds of locals and visitors moving through and haggling over goods while the squads of extra militiamen pulled together for this season watch on.  Outside the gate, the livestock trading happens outside the gate; Gaulfredo takes on the responsibility of making a sale for the brothers' oxen, and so you're left to talk to the handful of traders with ovine interests, to try to offload your lambs, and fleeces...

----------


## MrAbdiel

Most of the traders are men, at the exterior market with the livestock; but they've heard of you, and your pluck and precocious nature mark you as the girl who, as they heard it, choked a troll to death with her great long legs.  It's not right, but it's a place to start; and you easily get a laugh out of them.  That's Gaulfredo's secret.




> _"I call it 'the Fool's Riddle'.  But it's simple enough - when you're making a deal, the fastest way to get someone to take you seriously is to make them laugh.  Once they laugh, they're paying attention, and that's the war mostly won."_


Not only that, but you're able to show off the prime lamb's young teeth, and comment on his elevated haunches that mark him like his father, who must have some mountain ram in him which is good for the wool bulk.

You look down into the pouch you borrowed back off Gaulfredo.  It is stuffed with *fifty seven gold coins*, and can barely close.  It's very heavy, infact, and the only sensible thing to do is go and spend some of it in the interior market, after you say goodbye to your lambs.

Corvo stares up at you with his tongue lolling and eyes bright; undoubtedly impressed in your growth as a saleswoman, too.

In the inner ring, you come upon a stall manned by a skilled leatherworker's son.  His name is Marco.  He's eighteen years old tomorrow.  He's been learning his father's trade and he intends to take over shop when his father retires; maybe move it to the big city and sell fashion goods more than practical stuff.  He went to Bella Collina one time and liked it a lot.  He bought a sausage roll there, during a local festival.  He thought it was really good, but his mother doesn't cook them.  Not that he'd need her to - he does a lot of his own cooking, now.  He might even get his own place, soon.  He likes Corvo.  He's always wanted a dog but never had one.  He has a cat.  The cat's name is Gregori.

You know all this because he tells you, almost needfully; the information coming out of him with minimal prompting like the tumble of snow from a fragile drift - the a moon-eyed snowdrift that is so immediately enamoured with you that, even though he's not allowed to go down in prices, he upgrades two of your pouches to better ones, just between the two of you.

*Spoiler: OOC: Marco*
Show

You spend 4g8 silver for a leather jerkin, belt, pouches, waterskin, and backpack.  Two of the pouches are best quality - one is lockable with a clever little brass toggle you have to twist in a puzzly fashion to open, making it hard to steal from.  The other is mostly waterproof, using a draw string to tighten the 'lid' top of the pouch to its bowl.

----------


## BananaPhone

Taalia
Clearing the "misreading" up with the Watch Sergeant was gratifying, to say the least. It wasn't enjoyable to open up a slingbag full of disgusting mutant parts, 10 unique ones in all, within a sacred site to validate their story, but what had to be done had to be done, unfortunately. Nevertheless, it was worthwhile, as the sergeants visible righteous fury rescinded when confronted with irrefutable evidence for their claim, and his anger turned towards consolation. Good. 

oOo
The next day in the sale yards, Taalia felt born again. The collective chorus of humanity haggling and trading at hundreds of different tents, stalls and pavilions was wonderful to the ex-slave, her smile from ear to ear as she hummed to herself while leading the cart to her designated area among the exterior markets. 

The girl with long, asphysiating legs?

Once Taalia might have scrunched up her face at such a typically vulgar tale passed between rough and tough men eager for a snicker at her expense. But having learned well from the Trading post spinsters, the boys in her employ and by eavesdropping on other farmers and male workers, Taalia had come to see that this was just how they talked to each other. It was nothing personal. It was just words. Indeed, gentle insults and mild ribbing showed that one was accepted and a part of the group, for any man who was so thin-skinned that he couldn't laugh at himself, and so witless he couldn't parry and thrust a verbal insult, wasn't worth having around. 

"I didn't strangle him with my legs," Taalia corrected one such farmer-trader, holding up her right hand to form a gripping motion with her fist. 

"It's obvious: I learned how to turn my legs into scissors - I snipped its head clean off!"

This elicited at least a snicker and a grin, and the recognition that the girl could at least laugh at herself and not get offended. 

What they might _not_ have been prepared for was how the Spinster Sisters and Gaulfredo's trading lessons had also filtered down to the girl. But they sure soon felt it as the new girl sold fleece after fleece at premium prices, providing beautifully large sheets of fleece from a fine new flock from a novice shepherd. 

Through this process Taalia discovered something new. She had once considered the sun rising in the morning, peeking its warm gaze across the farm and eliciting the chorus of animals, birds and gentle insects to sing at its arrival, to be the most beautiful sound she had ever encountered. But now, she had a new favourite: the metallic _clink!_ of gold coins falling against each other as they collectively tumbled into her waiting hands or open purse. 

Fifty seven gold pieces. What a score! That was more than she had acquired during her first trade from that mirror, and only about half the proceeds of _that_ had only been spent on her flock and pen. Now she had even _more_ after just six months! And it could all be put back into her growing enterprise. 

Already the cogs were moving within Taalia's ambitious mind. Expanding her flock to 20-30 sheep. Renting the deed to 3-4 acres. A small, but prosperous pig farm. Hiring a lad or two as permanent employees. From beaten down slave to card-carrying member of the bourgeois in just half a year, that was quite something.

oOo

Taalia enjoyed Marco's attention, though it was foggy whether she was returning his interest or not. Her smile was genuine, he was above average in looks, though shorter than her...but then again, almost everyone was. But he enjoyed cooking, and seemed to have his own ambitions in mind - a go-getter with dreams pursuant to his passions.

Flattered and performing the reject-reject-reject-accept ritual of receiving superior quality goods for the same amount of coin, Taalia's pried into Marco's mind a little more, as she saw an opportunity to get a bit of a lay of the land. 

"I am actually travelling to Verazzo in a day or two," she said, "I plan to stay there for approximately 2-3 days, business depending. I am looking for a good pair of riding boots, something comfortable and sturdy, that will retain their integrity for some time to come. Who would you recommend?"

oOo

Taalia _wanted_ to be in a good mood when she arrived back to the inn, but she knew there was one grim portent that she had to face. Though today had been a date she would long celebrate as her ascension into a higher social and productive class, something else bleak weighed upon her mind. 

Holding her hand on the door, rapping upon it, Taalia waited until access was verbally granted, and gently eased open the door to Ernesto's room. 

"Ernesto, how have you progressed?" she asked, her smoky voice carrying a gentle and warm maternal concern as she closed the door behind her. 

In her hands she had her medical supplies, clearly here to visit and try her hand once again.

----------


## MrAbdiel

_"Oh, boots?  Well, if you want boots that won't wear out, you want hobnailed boots, and dwarves make the best for sure - but you pay for them, that's no lie.  Who has thirty duro for a pair of boots?  A mercenary who never wants to buy boots again in their life, I suppose.  I made a pair of shoes once - hey, here-"_

He lifts his left foot up and , while hopping, holds his left ankle to show the profoundly mediocre shoe there, before he drops it town to avoid topping.  _"Thought it would be easier.  Came out okay, all things considering.  But cobblering is a whole art alongside leatherwork; so it'll be a while before I get good.  There's a lot of middle ground between bad shoes and the best shoes in the world, though.  In Verezzo, you'll find great cobblers.  If you want something good - custom, even - then you're probably best finding a barker.  The barkers have carts of goods and roll around the Market District selling them; but if you have the spare coin to get boots made for you particularly, the barker will be able to point you to their supplier.  For a silver, they might point you to a competitor, even."_

* * * * *
Ernesto calls you in; Istuccio sitting on a chair beside his bed.  The latter's arm is still in the sling you put it in, mostly to keep the injured hand out of trouble with reflexive use.  The former lies on his stomach  on the bed; the   purple-black mass of bruising on his lower back exposed as a grotesque blotch under his skin with one conspicious right-angle corner from the mallet's shape.  He looks miserable, as he should; but he gives you the faint, emancipating smile of the suffering that tells you that he removes from you the burden of needing to operate at that level if misery for his benefit.

"It hurts."  He offers, unsure of what else to say. "Everything above it hurts; but that's all.  I think I'll be okay, after the swelling goes down."  This is baseless hope; denial, even.  But he can hardly be blamed; and there's not much you can do but offer positivity in a general sense.

The Madre has told you that, at some point, you'll want a set of physicians tools if you ever have to do something as dramatic as removing a bullet; or worse, a lodged arrow head.  A bag full of fine cutting blades, metal clamps, and the alchemically brewed tonics that can't be made from wildnerness herbs is key to advanced procedures.  If Istuccio's hand had been more badly cloven, you'd have needed such then; but he was lucky.  On the other hand, with Ernesto's injury being internal and within the bones and tissue of his back, there's not much you can do one way or the other.  But you supervise some of the boys moving Ernesto very carefully to make him more comfortable in as much as is possible; you impress on them the need to keep his back as straight and unmoved as possible, in his healing process.  You squash a plan Enrico was concocting to get Ernesto blackout drunk to help with the pain - the pain is bad, but there's nothing medically useful drink does for the body when taken orally, and he needs every edge he can get.  Gaulfredo stops in, to drop off the money from their sale - an eye popping 150 duro for the sale of the five oxen, the slaughter of which will feed many mouths for a long time.  They had intended to spend that money on dairy cattle, moving into the uplands near the mountains somewhere with consistently colder weather where they could make a cheese cave - but that plan is coming apart, due to recent events.

Istuccio takes you aside.

_"Taalia, you're going on to Verezzo, yes?  I wonder if, when you're there, you can hire on a physician for us - someone who can come and be on hand for Ernesto in the next few months, as specialized in such injuries as you can find.  And lead them back to Bella Collina?  We have enough money, certainly.  And I appreciate all you've done, and everything the Madre will no doubt offer, back home, but..."_  He grimaces, obviously guilt ridden at the niggling sense he is somehow shaming Madre Angeletta by appealing to schooled expertise from the 'big city'.  _"...But you understand, yes?"_

He gives you twenty five duro which, to Gaulfredo's estimation, should cover a very fine specialists wages for two standard twenty-five day months.

----------


## BananaPhone

Taalia


Taalia smiled at the helpful advice, her position on the boy ambiguous. 

"Thank you Marco," she smiled, nodding. 

"I have never owned a pair of boots before, actually this is my first venture into the world of livestock sales," she laughs gently, "but I walk often, and a good pair of boots seems more cost effective than getting a horse and learning how to ride it!"


oOo

Taalia looked sombrely at Ernesto from the doorframe, Istuccio having just made his private request. Fortunately for him, Taalia didn't have professional pride enough yet that the suggestion that she was inadequate would stin g her. Still considering herself a novice in all things, she understood the desire for the best care one could get, and if that was not from her hands, then she would rather the more experienced practitioner take over and potentially rescue the boy from invalidity than satiate her own ego. 

Nodding softly, discretely receiving the pouch of money, "I will Istuccio..." she answered quietly, giving his elbow an affectionate and reassuring squeeze. 

When Gaulfredo approached her, she leaned to the side, so that the two were speaking just outside of the door. 

"I think that perhaps we should get Polo to teach Ernesto how to read and write..." she out-and-out suggested, looking back in the direction of the downed boy. 

It wasn't just that he had acquired that injruy while fighting alongside them. No no, for almost all of Taalia's life she had witnessed only 1 end to 'slaves' who were no longer physical able to do their jobs: death. Or worse, fodder for the beasts. As such, the idea that she had 'failed' the boy and he was now upon infirmity and decrepitude's door because of her lack of ability ate away at her central nervous system as she desperately thought of ways the young man could find purpose in his life if he was not able to regain the function of his legs. 

"Where I am from..." she said, veritably whispering in Gaulfredo's ear so as not to be overhead, "those...well..." she trailed off, not wanting to get into details. But, Gaulfredo knew enough of her stories and the character of the ratmen to guess where she was going. 

"Or the fiddler in the town, I cannot remember his name, he plays at each festival. If Ernesto can still keep a ledger and records, perhaps even produce music, I think that would go along way in helping him here and here..." and she gestured first to her head, and then over the area of her chest where her heart would be. Though currently unable to articulate precisely what she meant, the meaning was clear: young men without a purpose who felt like a burden could sink into despair and madness, but if he received new training and skills, he could find new purpose and enjoyment in life.

----------


## MrAbdiel

You leave Marco smiling, but cursing himself for blowing his chance inside, and not one step closer to understanding what women want.

* * * * *
Gaulfredo nods.  He's made a point not to pry about the specifics of your slavery; but he seems to get it.  _"You mean Emio.  Both are... good suggestions.  I don't think it's quite settled in for him, yet.  He might need some time to just... grasp it all, before we begin giving him that kind of help.  It's a crying shame.  Those two lads held off twice their number long enough that we could ultimately win; but what a price."_  He calls them _lads_ though the red haired brothers are not remarkably younger than Gaulfredo; the farmer himself in his early thirties, the red headed ox traders perhaps not quite into, or just on the other side of, that decade delineation.

_"I know we haven't done much riding work with you... but did you want to take one of the horses?  Not to sell, just to take the weight off your feet.  You'll have trouble if you had to gallop from something, but anything you need to run from you're better off on a horse than on foot.  Trolls come to mind, eh?  And it's a long way to Verezzo.  You'll have to stay at a coaching inn on the way.  There's no regular coach runs from Caesa de Silo to Verezzo, since it's just a farming region; but there's a stop there for folks taking wagons and carts back and forth.  If you don't want a horse, you can probably get a life with one of the wagon trains heading in to the city."_

----------


## BananaPhone

Taalia

Taalia didn't leave Marco completely at a loss. Unsure how to reapond to such interest, she offered a genuine, warm smile, "Thank you, Marco.".

oOo
Taalia heeded Gaulfredo's concern and concedes to them. It would be premature to being forth the 'alternatives to active life' brochure. It might even harm his chances. It was best to let him...adapt first. The girl made a mental note to visit the brothers in the future.

At the suggestion of a horse Taalia smiled.

"Me? Ride a horse?" She asked in gentle disbelief, her heterochromia eyes lightening up at the sheer idea she would be atop one of the beautiful animals.

"Yes!" she exclaimed with a bright grin. "Yes, I would love that!" both of her hands came together as excited fists before her as she oscillated in joyous anticipation.

----------


## MrAbdiel

Gaulfredo confers with you and Istuccio, and it's agreed to loan you Istuccio's horse; a rust colored mare named _Jezzabella_.  By a certain dark logic, Ernesto could be said to need his horse less, from now on; but that mare, _Clarabella_, may be a familiar comfort to be around him.  So Jezzabella it is; and while the day has crept on from all the shopping and dealing, Gaulfredo spends a few hours with you trotting around the ground next to the stable, leading Jezzabella by her reins while you ride; then walking alongside; then simply supervising as you get the hang of it.  She's an easily led beast; and as long as you're not required to go flat out, you can manage to control her just fine.  Plus, her saddlebags spare you some trouble carrying everything you have now - backpack, slingbag, sword, shield, staff, pistol box, waterskin, heaving pouch of coins...

_"You ought to buy some rations for the road, too.  Two or three days, in case it comes in handy; and the good kind will keep for quite a while.  We can get them for you on the way out, tomorrow.  Oh - and if you're planning on doing any more camping out, you might consider a tent, and a bedroll.  I know you have that goblin wreck stashed in the barn... but it's filthy and it'll let rain on you; and it would make Ariana so happy if we could throw it out."_

*Spoiler: OOC:*
Show

If you choose to follow through on any of those, a small tent for you and Corvo would be 15s, easilly enough acquired in Verezzo later.  A bed roll is a hefty 15gc - being lined with furs, it's a pricy way to camp; but it's much more comfortable than just a blanket on the ground and more insulating to the cold by far.

Rations you can buy on the way out of town.  Rations are 6s per day.

Incidentally, a horse needs 5p of fodder per day, and Corvo probably goes through 5p of food a day, too.  So if you wanted to carry 3 days food for everyone involved, that would be 1gc 6p.


* * * * *

The next day, you say farewell to your companions and head around the big semicircle of road to the gate leading out of town.  As you approach the checkpoint and the squad of militiamen there, you spot a stranger coming alongside as you carefully steer Jezzabella. _ "Off already, are we my lady?  Well you are, then; well you are.  Back to the city!"_

This declaration comes confidently, with a little too much volume to be just for your benefit, or his.  He's well dressed on first glance; though as he starts strutting along parallel to you, you can see the fair looking clothes are frayed at the corners, and have seen hard work removing old stains.  The feather in his cap is splinted with a twig to hold up its wilting stem.  He gives you the smallest glance as you regard him, his eyes pleading, his forehead sweating, as you make your way toward the guard checkpoint.

----------


## BananaPhone

Taalia

Taalia felt confident in the saddle, her smile bright and large. She had new clothes that she bought. New leather wares thst she bought. A fat purse filled with coin that she earned. And now she was upon a horse lent to her ao she could travek to Verezzo for further business.

If only she could send messages back in time to her old self when things looked darkest during her enslavement. How things had changed!

"Off already, are we my lady? Well you are, then; well you are. Back to the city!"

Taalia turned her head to regard the newcomer, warning sirens screaming in the back of her head...warnings that had been long honed during her enslavement.

"How do you know I'm from the city?" Taalia asked tersely slowing her horse down so that thr stranger would gently ovetake her and encounter the checkpont first.

----------


## MrAbdiel

_"Ahah!  How you jest, my lady."_  He offers, tightly.  _"I know because we came from there together; though certainly you have such servants I would not blame you for mixing us up."_  He claps a little, celebrating your 'good humor', laughing nervously as he slows to match your pace so he _does not_ encounter the check point before you.  The militiamen at the check point begin to look at you, as you approach; but it's not obvious they can make out your conversation clearly when he's not announcing it loudly.  _"But I am_ your hardworking and faithful manservant Blasio, _of course.  Whose service to you, you must agree, has been_ rewarding."

He gives you a smile as tight as desperate as might be offered by a man holding on to life by his teeth.

----------


## BananaPhone

Taalia

Taalia's blank stare was a wild divergence from her usual sunmy disposition. Her mouth was straight, her eyes almost blank as she just stared at him.

Maybe he had good reason for the deception. Maybe he was a thief trying to escape or worse. Either way, Taalia had endured elves and thieves, mutants, insane friends and potentially crippled friends within the past 24 hours: she had no sense of humour for this.

"You have me mistaken for somone else, Sir," she said forcefully, "I suggest you return to town to look for them..." she stated, giving him the mercy of one warning as she sped her horse up to reach the checkpoint visibly before him.

----------


## MrAbdiel

_"Ah, certainly, no my Lady-"
_
He gives chase for a few yards, his unibrow furrowing with fear; holding is cap to his head as he tries to keep up; but the militiamen see the spectacle, and they see him, and they see you trying to avoid him, and two of them peel off the group to find out what's going on.

He turns, and runs.  Given reason, they run after him; and the last you see is the scruffy, unibrowed 'Blasio' rounding a corner with the militiamen in hot pursuit.

_"C'never be to careful."_

The watchman at the gate, with the remnant of his flock of militia youths, commends you for your disassociation with the cretin, and gives you a nod.  Then he looks over you, and Jezzabella, and Corvo.

_"Well, leaving the city via the north road incurs a Leg tax, signorina.  Ten copper from you, if you are so kind."_

A tax.  The guard at the front gate let you through as a courtesy, given the condition of your injured friends; this one doesn't intend to let you out on such kindness, though.

----------


## BananaPhone

Taalia

Taalia watched with narrow eyes as Singore Blasio dashed away, militiamen in hot pursuit.

'Stupido...' Taalia mumbled to herself silently as she approached the checkpoint.

Hearing the request fir a tax Taalia at first hesitated, due to her unfamiliarity with the concept.  But, Gaulfredo had warned her that such levies existed, as the authorities would devise different ways to reach thwir fingers into her purse.

"Of course, Singore..." Taalia responded, withdrawing her competently locked purse, counting out 10 pennies and handed them down to the militia warchman.

With the toll paid, she smiled and headed forward at a trot, Corvo keeping up beside her ss she ventured off to Verezzo!

----------


## MrAbdiel

You head out the gate; past more exterior pens on the northern face of the town's wall, past a half dozen small auxiliary silos built after those inside the walls were filled, more orchards, and then another long stretch of loosely wooded road.  A charming little lake features on one side, when you stop to eat when the sun is high; waiting in the shade and letting Corvo and Jezzabella lap their fill.  The muddle cattle footprints and cowpies dissaude you from drinking the water; but such things don't bother the beasts, and you sip from your waterskin while watching clusters of brown and white ducks swim, and root around in the shallows for grubs.

Shortly after heading off again, you catch up to a pair of wagons that must have passed you at the lake.  They're hauling covered loads of sacked oats from Caesa di Silo; the drivers are almost matched sets: gruff old gentlemen at the reins with young boys holding light crossbows.  None of them are chatty; but they're content to have you fall in with them.  The thought of facing another ambush entirely alone is unpleasant indeed, though you're assured it's less and less likely as you get closer to the city.  But there's no ambush, this time; and as the sun starts to pinken the western sky, an impressive building comes up on the road ahead.  Occupying all four corners of a big crossroad is the are wooden structures with red-pained walls.  A huge and stables on the south western corner; long dormitory houses on the north west and south east; and a great, two story affair on the north east.  At the centre of the crossroads, on a pedestal made of stacked and mortared stones with a wooden flatform, stands sculpture made of wooden logs, planed and cleaned, carved roughly to purpose and held together with big iron nails.  The overall shape is that of a large pig, wearing a wide brimmed 'hat' made of beaten and shaped copper.  The two story building has a large balcony on the second story, already occupied by patrons sitting, gazing out over the land, carousing and chatting.  The shingle hanging by its door reads: *"The Pigly Inn"*.

After tying up Jezzabella and Corvo to hitching posts outside, you pass into the main room and are immediately struck by the competing smells of such a place: old ale, human sweat, horse, warring with more directly pleasant smells of cooking meat, and pastry, and some kind of sweet fruity scent.  There's as many wagon drivers, wagon hands, farmers and road wardens drinking and eating here as there are people in all of the community of Bella Collina.  But this is no festival or market day; just a brisk trade of people coming from the big city, or heading out to one of the many towns or villages that branch from this arterial crossroad.

 The proprietor, you realize after a moment of confusion, is not a short mutant; but a halfling.  You've precious little exposure to those folk - they make bad slaves, so they never lasted in the tunnels.  But an affably fat, middle aged halfling is calling over his shoulder to a window in an interior wall, through which his wife hollers back.  They needle and squabble, but seem to take no offense to each other.

_"Buona sera, signorina.  Welcome to the Pigly.  Checking in for your pa, are ye?  How many in ye party, and how many horses alongside?"_

----------


## BananaPhone

Taalia

After she passed through the gate Taalia realised she was the furthest from home that she'd ever been, and was doing so alone. It was dangerous in some ways, like thst Blasio Stupido had demonstrated earlier.  But as she ate a ration and admired the beauty of the lake, she knew it could be beautiful too.

The cart with the two old men and younger armed fellows suited Taalia just fine. She was stop her horse, loyal hound trotting by her aide, while she made conversation where she could. She had to admit, as much as she enjoyed the idyllic living on her farm - "her" farm - there was some exciting about traveling the road. Never know who one would meet or what beautiful, or dangerous, spectacles she would encounter.

When she arrived at the Pigly Inn, Taalia was smiling gently. Tying Jezebella up, Corvo next to her, the adventuress headed inside where she was greeted by the first non-enslaved Halfling she had ever encountered. He had a homely way about him, and the more she explored of the surface, the more pleasant it was to encounter her fellow surface-dwellers in their natural predilections instead of in bondage to the disgusting Skaven.

"No Singore, I am on my own," Taalia stated with a smile and her smoky voice.

"Myself, a horse and hound. I would like a good room, stabling, meal and bath, if it is available Singore," her smile friendly.

----------


## MrAbdiel

_"Lovely!"_  He coos, delighted by your forthright willingness to do business; and that general sentiment adults have with well-spoken youngsters; something akin to hope for the future of the world, in microcosm.  _"Beds in one of the common halls are five rami, but a good room for yer fair self is ten scellini.  It's another ten rami for the horse, but if you're taking a private room, we let you have one of them for free.  And if you've a dog, well, we've learned it's not worth trying to pry them off their humans; if he makes his earth and water outside and doesn't chew up the furniture, you can have him in your room overnight at not charge.  And the baths are good and hot - we have a great bore dug here, so plenty of water.  That's a single scellino, and you take this here token upstairs to the big door at the end of the balcony up here with the picture of a pig in a pot on it; the my boy Rumpold will draw you a bath while you wait.  Oh, and I'm Bolo.  Bolo Hempfire, propriety; it's a pleasure, signorina."_

But, of course, you don't need to pay for a bath token - you have little wooden disc just like the one Bolo is halfway to offering you, as you produce it; scrubbed to redemption from its abandonment in the troll cave.  _"Oh!  Lookithat, so ye do.  Ooh, this one's seen some travel.  Haha!  Where'd it go?  Furthest I've heard is Magritta.  Well, since you're saving that scellino, can I tempt ye into spending it to try one of our famous Pigly Pork Pies?  My wife's Mootborn, and she knows secrets of pastry that would conjure the elven hosts from their mighty islands if they ever knew; such is the magic of it.  Second in perfection only to her lovely kisses, har har!"_

Bolo's wife, apparently hearing all of this from the kitchen beyond, responds with a stream of animated chiding in what must be the halfling tongue; a language as rapidfire and dense with syllables as Queekish, but sacrificing all the spit-spraying dental and guttural morphemes for musical palatals.  Bolo gives you a cheeky grin has he endures this torrent; apparently deriving a particular glee from embarrassing her with public flattery.

*Spoiler: OOC:*
Show

If you want a private room, it's 10 silver.  The cheaper option is to take a cot in one of the common rooms for 5p, and another 10p to stable Jezzabella.

In either case, you already have a bath token for the Pigly, so you might as well use it!  But if you want to try their famous pie, that'll be an 1s; or a mere 3p for a less prestigious, normal meal.  Let us know if Taalia is splurging on comfort and security or going cheap!

----------


## BananaPhone

Taalia


Taalia looked genuinely happy when the halfling extoled his services and spoke at length about their virtue and ease of access. 10p for the horse stabling sounded just fine, and 10 silver for a room to herself in which Corvo could also rest sound perfect as well! She had never stayed in a coaching inn, and the prior 6 months had scrubbed away any sense of normalcy in sharing a room with a mass of other bodies starving for air and just a little bit more room. After all, she had been sleeping in a barn for half a year...not that she was complaining! It was luxury compared to what she was used to. But here? In this palace? A full, proper room to herself, complete with a bed? All for ten silver?

"Deal!" the towering teenager smiled, putting down the required currency on the counter, before she received news of another little treat she could purchase from the halfings: one of their meat pies. 

Taalia had never had a pie before. She knew what they were, of course. She had enjoyed sausage rolls and other pastries...but no _pies_. This meaty, savory delight fostered truly mouth-watering images inside the girls head as she pondered what type of boutiful saucer of hearty tastiness she could chow down upon should she indulge in this little treat...

"Would I ever!" she beamed, producing another silver coin and sliding it across the counter into the halflings waiting palm. 

"Could I take it while having my bath? With an ale as well, Singore? Something sweet." she asked, clearly excited with anticipation but also wanting to maintain an air of decorum. Taalia was mature beyond her years, but she wasn't immune to the occasional flight of fantasy. 

Once the transaction had been completed, money had changed hands and keys were administered, Taalia returned outside to lead _Jezebella_ into the stables, the girl soothing the lovely beast and removing its bit, bridle and saddle for the evening, and then giving the lovely animal a brush down before retiring herself. 

A room and bed all to herself. A hot, soapy bath _while_ eating a delicious pie and drinking a flagon of ale? 

Absolute luxury.

----------


## MrAbdiel

*Spoiler: OOC: Ale!*
Show

Don't forget to mark off another 2p for that pint of ale!


_"I don't see why not!  Thank you kindly, signorina; here's the key to your room, so you can get settled in.  You take that token up to Rumpold to get him started, move your things into your room, and I'll have one of the servers run you up a pie and an ale in about fifteen minutes, when your bath should be drawn."_

Rumpold turns out to be an adolescent halfling.  He's two foot two inches tall with curly brown hair that sits on the top of his head in a clustered poof.  It's not clear how a person so small will be able to do much preparing of a bath at all; but the bath room set up is quite ingenious.  A long metal trough is built into the wall with a fire place beneath it, the coals kept warm and only easily stoked back to life; and when the water in the long tank is boiled, Rumpold uses a set of wooden tongs to swivel a copper pipe down so the heated water can pour into a tall sided wooded tub, with a big cork on one side to let the water out into a gutter on the floor that leads to a hatch in the wall and, presumably, some kind of collection device.  The timing works out near perfect; a young human woman with pleasingly round cheeks brings up a mug of ale and a tray with a much larger pie than you were expecting; an almost perfectly squared off disk that must be eight inches across and three high.  You eat it with a fork, and if it's pretty bloody good - a hot, spiced pork mince interior in a thick flavoursome gravy and pastry that is the best you've tasted.  It might be the best food you've ever eaten; or the best since-

*Spoiler: Intrusive Thoughts.*
Show

You remember, once, the three of you rode in a borrowed wagon for two days for a wedding of some relative. They married well, and the food there was the best you had ever tasted - equal to what your mother made, with the apples. You would never taste its like again.


- since you can remember.

Corvo is a little bored in the room with you; but he's soothed minute by minute as you drop him scraps of the pie.  You can hear the revelry in the bar room below grow, as you soak lazilly until your fingers prune up; a minstrel must have kicked up his act down there, provoking the rhythmic, rum soaked chanting of the crowd; none of the words audible through the floor, but the sentiment of peace and merriment as good as poetry.

You soak until the ale is gone, and the water is luke warm, and the bloated feeling of having finished off the oversized pie fades to a groggy fullness.

*Spoiler: OOC: Options!*
Show

You can go to bed and set off in the morning, if you want. 
 But if you wanted to wait around in the bar, chatting with the folks and trying to pick up gossip and meet interesting people, that's an option too.  You can make a Gossip Roll at flat, if you do - but you can have a bonus to that roll that is equal to the *number of pennies you are willing to invest in buying people drinks.*

----------


## MrAbdiel

You spend a few hours downstairs with the singing, drinking crowd.  It's all too much for Corvo - he keeps getting underfoot, and it's too much stimulation, so you take him to your room with promises to check on him regularly with treats for being a good boy.

You find it's easy to make friends, atleast temporary ones, when you buy them ale.  Many of these drinkers are tough farmers and wagoneers, and they don't think much initially of a young woman looking to ask questions that are obviously not in a flirtatious direction.  But the universal lubricant, served by the pint, loosens many sticks from the mud; and by the time it's well into the evening, you are welcome at just about any table in the joint.  There's a table with five road wardens at one end of the room; they drink lightly, and their presence means the one fight that stars is quickly ended with a sharp kicking of the ass and an early to-bed.

You try and learn the songs as they sing them; they tend to be about the Verezzan overthrow of their prince, a few sentimental songs about leaving one's love behind or returning to her, just as many about bawdier pursuits with a distinctly less romantic conviction, and one about the Pigly Inn itself.  The nature of this inn at this crossroads must mean there's a revolving set of regulars, and there's plenty of affection for the staff from those livelier, drunker patrons.

You meet three interesting people that night, each of them with rumors to spare.

A middle aged mercenary sergeant named Daniele da Floriglio is drinking with a few of his men.  He tells you there's only a few of his company, the _Golden Gallants_, here at the Pigly; but there's almost a hundred of them scattered into the towns nearby Verezzo, and in Verezzo itself.  They're anticipating work, and want to be on hand to assembly quickly; in the meantime, they're tasked to go out and make the money they can as small groups guarding wagons and coaches.  _"It's not a matter of if, but when.  Tilea's a pot under pressure, right now.  The Sartosans have become very aggressive with the sea lanes, and the orcs and goblins in the pass north to Bretonnia are riled up, raiding into Carcassonne.  And some bloody fool sabotaged the great tunnel - the River of Whispers that runs under the Vaults into the Empire.  It was always dangerous, yes; but it's inoperable right now, so external trade has slowed to a crawl and so have mercenary endevours abroad.  Remas and Luccini will find any excuse, as always.  And it wasn't thank long ago that Pavona gave the Verezzan senators a spanking; that's why we're lingering here.  Within a year, we'll be on campaign going north to gouge come concessions out of Princess Lucrezzia.  Mark my works, young miss.  Hey, you're big enough gal to stand the line - you ever thought about going merc'?"_

A messenger woman in her late forties, named Galiana is drinking alone is and doing her best to keep away from the mercenaries and the road wardens, keeping her satchel on the table infront of her at all times. Still, you manage to wriggle into her good graces.  _"I just passed through Verezzo on the way, actually.  Heading to Monte Castello.  From where?  Oh, I'm not supposed to say.  But I'm glad to not stop in Verezzo long.  I don't like the republics - you'd think it'd be more peaceful since no one can just stab someone and become prince; but I think it just pushes all the knives into the background.  Right now, Senator Groccolo for the Yellows is still the effective Senator Majora and Merchant Prince, but no one's forgotten that big debacle with Mydas the Mean.  You don't lose that much gold to a defecting mercenary captain, and then come back with neither revenge nor the gold and with all your mercenaries irate and unpaid and hold power.  Not for long, anyway.  But Groccolo has clung on for this long, so what do I know?  The reds are the next strongest faction, but that just means the blue and green are positioned to form a sneaky coalition; and everyone's planning to prevent everyone else from doing everything.  Don't be shocked if a few older, too-loyal electors have suspicious deaths in the next six months; or if someone declares war on Pavona to try to induce a uniting crisis."_

As you begin to get tired and ready for bed, having talked and sipped at ale and done laps upstairs to check on Corvo all night, the tavern has a late arrival that quietens the patrons to a dull roar of muttering and conspiratorial questions.  Preceded by a pair of hard faced mercenary guards (of the Golden Gallants, infant) and followed by the same is a beautiful, elegant and mysterious woman.  She must be riding in an enclosed coach, for there is not a puff of trail dust on her sweeping blue gown or its exterior blue leather corset.  Blue gloves, blue shoes, and a necklace of lapis stones keep her image confined to the singular track of azure refinement; her dark hair swept up in a complicated fascinator behind her head.  A simple plaster mask, with a predictably blue glaze, covers her face from the point of her nose to the verge of her hair; though her lips are painted a contrasting ruby red, and cheeks powdered ethereally pale.  She has a quick word to Bolo, receives a key, and heads upstairs to her room while her guards retire to the table with their companion mercenaries.  Bolo cheerfully declines to answer questions about who she is - _"I can hardly say - and if someone were to come asking about you, Signorina Taalia, I'd tell them likewise I could hardly say."_  But one of the stablehand, a fellow named Bennetto who keeps the horses here but also trades them to travellers as a side business, is a little more loose lipped.

_"Oh, I wouldn't know her.  No one would - that's the point of the masks.  The Courtesan Guilds hold a fair bit of power in Verezzo, I understand; Senators like to keep one on their arm as a matter of status, but the way I hear it, the whole thing's a racket by the Courtesan Guilds themselves. Blackmail and such.  But they don't take off the mask, where anyone can see them.  That way, it's much harder for one senator's wife or another to retaliate; or for an opponent to snatch them up when they're not suspecting and use them as a hostage in some way.  So the color outfit is just a show to match them to whomever they're attached to, at a given time; but the live a life with the mask on, and a different one with it off.  Sounds like an exciting life."_  Then, awkwardly,_ "...If I were born a woman, I mean."_

----------


## BananaPhone

Taalia

The bath was heaven. That's the best word Taalia could describe it: heaven. She lay there in the warm, beautifully just-hot-enough water with her head resting back, her feet poking out of the end, and her skin glistening in that soapy liquid. Sometimes she would draw a saturated hand out of the bath to pluck her pie off the table next to her so that she could take a greedy bite, chew, swallow, and then groan and sink further back into the bath in mind-numbing bliss. 

"When I have my own house, Corvo..." she spoke gently, eyes closed, wagging her finger in the air dramatically, "I'm getting a bath, and I'm going to use it once a week! Yes sirree..."

Corvo, his eyes up at his barely visible master, exhaled and curled more onto his side, sleeping against the tiles while his mind drifted off to more entertaining things, like barking at storms and receiving pats. 


oOo

Daniele da Floriglio watched with amusement as Taalia sat at their table, her face strained and her arm up on its elbow and in a position of disadvantage, while Bruno, the newest addition to his company and a kid from the outskirts of Verezzo, pushed down heavier and heavier upon the farmgirls hand in an arm wrestling match. The two competitors were roughly similar in age, though Taalia's height and clearly athletic disposition marked her as a candidate for the game of strength _and skill_, the later part catching the novice completely off guard as Bruno had used both his arm _and_ hand to bend her own back and then pull her arm towards him, immediately gaining advantage - and never lost it. Her face straining, her grip tight, Taalia was fighting a losing battle, her fist slowly, slowly drawing backwards until _bam!_ the back of her hand impacted against the table, and the mercenaries about them cheered and hollered. 

Bruno himself, though flush with victory, had clearly struggled, but had nevertheless earned his win. 

Taalia, meanwhile, panted heavily, her chest heaving as she flicked her hand and laughed, processing everything that had happened, as Bruno looked up at her and made a 'gimmie' motion with his victorious hand. 

"One silver, that was the wager!"

Taalia, grinning, panting, rolled her eyes in good humour and reached into her purse to retrieve the coin, and then slid it across the table to the eager kid, who promptly got up to go and get himself another drink. 

"I'm next!" a feminine voice came from the side, as Taalia's head turned to look at the smirking, black-haired woman in waiting, her elbow already on the table, arm up. 

"Bruno strengthens his arm through years of practice," with her free hand she made a 'jerking' motion, and the other mercs snickered at her crude humor. Taalia could see how a woman had fit in with a group of hard-drinking fighters: vulgar humour and spirit. Few women served in the front lines, but from the intelligent glean in the womans eye, she likely served with the pavise crossbowmen, or handling logistics with the baggage trains. Maybe?

Taalia laughed softly, shrugging, nodding, producing another silver and putting it on the table next to that of the mercs. She drew her hand up, elbow on the table, gripped the other womans hand and - 

"Start!" 

This time the ex-slave was ready. She'd learned from Bruno's technique and immediately applied pushed her hand forward and _pulled_ towards herself. The black-haired woman, clearly not expecting it, was now in Taalia's position as before, slowly fighting a losing battle as she winced, grimaced and strained, while Taalia felt an adrenaline surge of victory as she pulled and pulled her opponents fist towards the table.

"C'arn Victoria, gunna let some farm girl beat you?" a watching Merc snickered, as Vic's face stared to redden. But inch by inch, her battle was lost, and Taalia pressed her hand down on the bench before throwing both her arms up.

"I win!" she exclaimed with a laugh, happily collecting the other womans silver. 

"Boo! C'arn Vicky, what's going on?" the merc from before laughed and teased, as Victoria panted heavily, face reddened as she swivelled her head about. 

"B!tch is stronger than she looks!" she pointed to Taalia, her tone exacerbated but still clearly in good humor. 

"What are you wrestling the bulls into their pens or something?"

Taalia laughed and took another sip of her ale, the flush of fun running through her system as she turned to look at the quiet, muscular man sitting next to Daniele da Floriglio. He had been watching with a quiet dignity, taking regular but small sips from his flagon, but Taalia could see the well-muscled shoulders and arms though the linen of his jerkin. It was clear even when he was seated that he was a tall man, perhaps an inch taller than Taalia herself, with a chest crafted from labour and exercise and a pair of bright blue eyes that looked upon things as if he were an old, patient soul within the body of a man in his prime.

"You?" Taalia asked, feeling confident as she put another silver on the table. 

The man smiled the type of smile only given by one who didn't feel he had anything to prove. He brought his hand up to give a gentle declining gesture, before taking another sip of his ale. 

"Ohh, Mighty Gennaro, running from a challenge of strength from a farm girl half his age! Ba-haha!" Daniele da Floriglio laughed from beside him, giving the larger man a mocking nudge. 

"He'd rather take her hand and walk her down by the lake and read her some poetry...mwah!" Victoria joined in, holding her hands together and making sappy, romantic gestures as the others snickered and laughed. 

Gennaro, keeping with his apparent nature, just smirked and rolled his eyes with a "Fine," as he drew his large arm up on the table, a silver coin soon joining it. 

Taalia, grinning like an excited schoolkid, put her wager upon the bench and drew herself up into position - arm out, her open, as both locked fists. She expected to lose, but if she could put up a good struggle then that would be a win in itself.

It'll never really be known if Taalia won fair and square, or if Gennaro _let_ her win. But what was certain, was that once she gained that initial few-second start advantage of a bent wrist and pulling towards herself, Taalia had the momentum. For a moment it looked like Gennaro was struggling, flinching even with pursed lips that signified he was at least putting in effort, but as the mercs watched with wide eyes and bright grins, Taalia strained and grit her teeth as she brought that hand down onto the table - those watching laughing and taking swills.

"Yes!!" the farm-girl exclaimed, panting heavily, face red, a bead of sweat across her brow, chest heaving as she drew up her arms again in the flush of victory. 

"Lost to a girl from the sticks!" Victoria laughed, teasing her bigger companion with a gentle elbow to the ribs. 

Gennaro just smirked and brought the flagon to his lips, "As you said, girl must wrestle the bulls into the pen or something," then sipped, but not before giving Taalia a wink and a nod.


oOo

Seated across the messenger, Taalia listened and tried wrapping her head around the politics that had just been explained to her. She took note of things, tried to remember it all, but even after her excellent progress in six months she couldn't grasp everything. What she gathered was that the political situation in Verezzo was becoming tense, or at least had the possibility of breaking down in some type of struggle. Taalia did not know much about the specifics, but she knew what civil conflicts looked like: the Skaven engaged in them all the time. That moment she had to use the poison windglobe  against ratmen invading Rashabangs workshop sprung to mind. 

But then she thought of something else - her gun and the 'bounty'.

"I am new to the area, you'll have to forgive my ignorance," she said gently, offering her humility. 

"But when I was trading my fleece in the markets, I heard mention of the Damerino's family and that they are particularly wealthy. What is their role in all of this?"

oOo
The beauty of the dark-haired womans clothes took Taalia in, and for the first time since the incident with Bella and Bert at her first harvest festival, Taalia felt jealously. 

_'I wish I had clothes like that...'_ she mewled in her mind, reassuring herself that one day, in twenty or thirty years when she had her own large farm and house full of kids, she would garb herself in a similarly elegant and beautiful fashion. 

Hearing the stable-boys explanation and remembering the discussion that the 'blue' faction was a minority political faction, Taalia guessed that this masked member of the Courtesan Guilds was attached to a politician currently out of power. What was she doing all the way out here? Was she traveling _away_ or _too_ Verezzo? And why? 

Taalia didn't know, but as she pursed her lips, maybe it was safer to keep her pretty head _out_ of politics for now. She wasn't even twenty - these were adults with decades of wheeling and dealing under their belts. What, she sold a few sheep and fleeces and now she thought she could hang with the big boys? No no, Taalia checked her ego pretty quickly. People who thought like that back where she came from got that dome snipped off pretty quick. Let the politicians play their games, she'll stick to what she's interested in for now.

oOo

Taalia woke up the next day with a bright smile. Though the natural vigor of youth would have surely protected her from a hang-over, Taalia had taken that extra step and had only taken in one flagon per hour. She had learned a harsh lesson from the whiskey she had brought months before: pace yourself in moderation with liquor and you'll be fine. Be a greedy guts and...well. Some groans emanated in through the walls from other rooms as an exhibit of what happened to those who were not so frugal.

Getting dressed, accounting *all* of her items and letting Corvo out for a run before giving him breakfast, Taalia went and squared things with the proprietor of the The Pigly. 

"Thank you so much, I had a wonderful time!" she exclaimed to the halfling before paying a silver for breakfast.

"You have a wonderful job! Meeting so many interesting people every day, your home always full of warmth!"

It wasn't long until Jezebella was saddled once more and Taalia drew herself up into position. With Corvo trotting alongside, her shield on her back, her sword in its scabbard and staff tucked away by some straps on the saddle, Taalia bid farewell to any of the prior nights patrons she had encountered and then departed towards Verezzo, the crisp morning air fresh in her lungs.

----------


## MrAbdiel

Caesa di Silo was a revelation to you; your vague memories of your home village with the apple tree and the Norscan settlement where you briefly served did not match that size of massed humanity.  And ordered, and living together... _well_, all things considered.   A handsome wall to protect it from enemies, and a rich season of commerce around it; a tolerably competent city watch.  But it was nothing like Verezzo.

Where the community of Bella Collina might total a hundred people, and the town of Caesa di Silo was several hundred, you would later learn that Verrezzo and its immediate surrounds were home to between thirty and forty _thousand_.  This is a size of number you had previously have very little use for in Tilean.

The city is build in the middle of a grand plain of grainland that must be like a golden halo around its walls when ready for harvest.  Now, the half-grown green shoots at a distance are almost indistinguishable from a great ocean of green grass, which only exacerbates the city's singularness.  It is built on the only portion of raised ground for what must be miles, with any hills and dips in the earth smoothed out over hundreds of years of plowing and fallow.  Its walls are fantastically high, with six imposing bastions forming corners on the hexagon of walls. As you emerge from the last swathe of forest on the back of your borrowed horse, you look down and realized the road has straightened and widened imperceptibly on your way here.  Now it's a long, straight run to the city with plenty of room for the wagons a hundred yards ahead of you to  proceed without deviation as the knights come by the other way.  The knights are fantastic, too; their warhorses are huge, like none you've seen; and the horses are armored like their riders in mirror-polished steel armor with brass trim and Myrmidian sun motifs.  The company of thirty of them canter by you at no hurry, all of them grown and strong men with impressive curled moustaches and firmness in their features that suggest no fear at all of what the roads, and the forest, and the world beyond have for them.  They glance at the conspiciously tall girl riding alone with her dog, as they go; some of them lift hands to touch the visors of their helms, in salute.  One, an older knight with scars much like yours raked over a pale blinded eye, must notice your marks, and gives you an avuncular wink as he passes by.

The main gate is huge, flanked by two proud perching lion statues carved from stone, each perhaps twenty feet tall.  The way is guarded by not rural constables with tin hats but professional mercenaries with halberds, breastplates, and white sashes.  They hit you with a fee for coming into the city, but regard you with very little suspicion at all; they pay much more attention to armed men and those with wagons potentially smuggling something that a lone rider and her dog.

*Spoiler: OOC:*
Show

Knock off another 5p for the gate fee, rider!


Inside the gate, you find your experience changes immediately.  The buildings are mostly beautiful, with baked brick foundations and whitewashed plaster exteriors; but they are all so tall!  Three, some four or even five stories tall, and the streets are too narrow - which is probably why everyone has had to build so tall.  There's also an intensity of smell that isn't present in the countryside, or in small towns; the cramped confines of humanity and their various leavings hanging still in the air.  But after an initial wave, your nostrils, hardened by life in the skaven warrens and perfected by manually scrubbing away troll-funk, incorporate it into the ignorable olfactory background.

It's a riot of color; some buildings openly display their senatorial allegiances with splashes of paint or floral arrangements, and the wealthier people look the more of the allegiant colors they display.  But even most of the typical citizens, kicking about in their scrappy work clothes or functional rags, are adorned somewhere with a pinned color ribbon or a flower behind the ear.  The problem here, in a place so huge and busy, is not that you won't find what you're looking for in a lack; it's finding what you're looking for in such a profusion of distractions and options it could be easy to be bamboozled, or get lost, or while the day away gazing in wonderment at the displays of public art and end up forgetting that you ought to find somewhere to stay the night!

*Spoiler: OOC: Options!*
Show

Welcome to Verezzo.  What's your agenda?  You've arrived in the afternoon, with an hour or so before dusk!

----------


## BananaPhone

Taalia


Verezzo


Apples. What was it about the fist-sized, deliciously sweet fruit that kept tugging at unseen strings within her brain? Why was it every time she encountered an orchard or singular piece, some long-buried memory was exhumed as fragments and drawn past her minds-eye in an almost tauntingly vague and teasing manner. Apples, pies, orchards...Taalia could not get the images out of her head while her body gently rocked back and forth atop _Jezebella_ as the road passed by them, mile after mile, before eventually Taalia found her stream of consciousness drifting.

Indeed, the closer Taalia drew to her destination, the further the excitement grew within her chest. She had never seen a human _city_ before, and only had the assurances of more travelled and worldly men of the wealth and people to be found within them - but never had she witnessed one herself. Sure she had beheld the various pits the Skaven "constructed" and passed off for cities, but those weren't for lack of size. No, indeed, they festered and grew like tumors in the bowels of the earth, eating away at the immediate resources before the Skaven turned on and consumed each other just to cull a few generations away to make room for the next fetid tide of rats. No no, when one said 'city', Taalia imagined an enormous lifeform with a character of its own, something _alive_. As it turns out, she would not be disappointed. 

When she first emerged onto the plains and bore witness to the pyres of Verezzo reaching out of the ground ahead of her, the ex-slave had to halt her mount and simply...take it in. Her heterochromia eyes widened, her jaw dropped as she gaped and witnessed in utter amazement at the sight before her. Even from here she could spot the architecture of the walls and buildings, the bas-reliefs and statues, the odiferous melange that wafted out of the city...some of it laced with food and perfumes, other elements...eh better off ignored. But nevertheless, there before her was a sprawling bastion of humanity among the beautiful golden plains. Was that pride swelling within her? It was possible. Taalia took time enough to simply savour the beautiful sight that almost inspired her to learn how to paint, just so that she may capture a fragment of its captivating beauty for future generations to cleave unto them and understand her astonishment. But! Such artistic flights of fantasy were not to be. She had a purpose here beyond sight-seeing. Even as she passed the smart and handsome looking knights in their well-maintained armour, the teenage smiled and returned the little salutes when they were offered, while the older man, brandishing a disfigurement that mirrored her own, received a bright, knowing smile and nod of her head.

Retrieving the rope-leash the boys had made for her to restrain Corvo's young adult instincts, Taalia lowered the hoop down around her pets neck and drew it comfortably tight around the hound to ensure he remained by her side during the next couple of hours. It wouldn't do to have the excitable dog run off into the crowd chasing some flight of fantasy that caught his attention. 

"Shall we go?" she asked down to her pet with a bright grin, before clicking her tongue to compel _Jezebella_ forward at a gentle trot. 

Paying the guards their due and offering no problems, Taalia emerged into her first, bona fide _city_, human city that is, one where the buildings were enormous and the crowds were thick, but all of the inhabitants at least looked similar to her in some capacity instead of disgusting walking rats. Though judging by some of the smells wafting out of the less reputable looking alleys, Taalia wouldn't be surprised. 

But - pish and tish! The girl somehow re-experienced her prior awe that had apprehended her mind on the outskirts and insisted she behold the visual beauty of Verezzo, only this time it was from within the walls. Streets, though narrow, stretched off in every direction, a throng of humanity and human-like inhabitants going about their business in a variety of clothes and garments that marked a rich diversity of social classes. Market stalls commonly lined the streets, while signs hung above open doors with name of the establishment within brandished upon the worked wood that marked businesses of all varieties, from taverns to tailors, workshops to jewellers. But though the wall of odours and visual stimuli threatened to momentarily rob Taalia of her reason, it was the _sounds_ that were the most compressing element of a city that the girl had not been anticipating. Shouts, yells, cries of advertisement, bartering and haggling unfolding in every direction and simple conversation, flirting and laughter. It seemed like the entirety of Bella Collina's harvest festival occured within the space of a few seconds only to be distilled into a pure form to be poured into Taalia's ears, as the girl's exceptional audible sensitivity at first struggled with the veritable wall of sounds enveloping her. But, tugged between being awed and overwhelmed, the ex-slave pushed herself through, that bright smile on her face, and a pottery merchant stuck behind her on his cart shouting obscenities at her to move her arse. 

Giggling a little and waving the man off, Taalia kept atop her horse and moved onwards, Corvo's leash in one hand, the reigns to her steed in the other, as the ex-slave went forth into the great big city!

ooc:
*Spoiler*
Show


See OOC for items on her agenda. 

Though her main goals for today, given it's an hour before dusk, is to a) find a good place to stay with a private room and stabling, and scope out a credit union she can open an account with and deposit money into.

----------


## MrAbdiel

*Spoiler: Back at the Pigly...*
Show

The middle aged messenger woman, Galiana, listens to your question about the 'Damerino' family.  As she complete the query, the corner of her mouth is curling a little suggesting she knows something funny that you don't; but she brings you in on the joke soon enough.

_"Oh, the damerino's are wealthy indeed, almost as a rule.  Hah - your Tilean is very good, Taalia; I could barely detect any curl to your words at all, so much that I didn't trust my guess until just now.  What's that accent... Arabyan, maybe?  But you're a little pale for that... But a damerino is just a man who cads about with no sense of responsibility or the cares that those who must eat by their sweat endure.  A dandy; a toff, if you will.  It's a... mild insult.  But you'd have to be richer thabn me, to get around to taking offense!"_


You wander the streets and take in the sights, and sounds, and smells of Verezzo.  This first area, appropriately called the _Quartiere della Porta_, has numerous taverns and inns, guard posts and shops.  Asking about, you find that it's prohibited to set up stalls and stores in the already narrow streets; but the traffic in the area makes the opportunity too good to ignore, and enterprising merchants and dealers find ways around it.  Pedlars are forbidden to carry more goods than they can ferry about in a single wooden tub.  Naturally, this rapidly invited an escalation of the sizes of tubs and techniques to carry them, which have been standardized; and those tubs are rented from the town Watch station for pennies a day.  Storefronts on the ground floor seem older, more established, and probably more expensive and desirable as property.  But the floors above them sometimes have services to offer, too; and they have to work harder to get the attention of the public while the gleaming halberdiers chase off hawkers and drive off pedlars who linger too long in _Quartiere della Porta_.  Many of the elevated stores have elaborate painted advertisements on their lifted storefront, with simple words like 'FORMAGGIO' next to a painting of a large wheel of cheese, or 'PELLICCE' next to a bear hide staked into the bricks, weathered and tatty from the open elements.  On one third story balcony, looming over the road below, a husband, wife and daughter team work a swift and efficient operation selling their particular brand of street food.  In the window of their storefront, the man works a large sizzling pan stirring about diced potato and chopped herbs and fine shreds of bacon.  The girl, crouching on some kind of scaffold or ladder behind his cook station, waves a broad fan made of fabric and wooden slats to blow the fragrance of operation down to the street below.  When some passing mercenary or merchant is snared by the smell of it and has three copper to spare, they wave from where they are in the street, call out _'Patata!'_ with three coins pinched in their fingers held high, and are soon attended by a scrappy urchin made presentable by the addition of a green vest.  The wife, on the balcony with a worktable infront of her, sees the urchin wave by the customer; she takes a hard crusted bread roll, cuts a 'lid' in it and pulls out its soft interior, fills it with fried and bacon'd potato cubes before finally lidding it again and wrapping it in a square of sack cloth tied up at the top with a bow of twine.  This whole operation takes about six seconds.  Then she simply drops the parcel over the edge of the bacon, where you see a half dozen kids leap into the air, arms extended to grab it; but the tallest, fastest and most dextrous children are the ones given the work, so a green-vested champion snatches it from the air and flings it across the street to another of their team of culinary athletes.  With a network of eight or ten hardworking runner-jumper-throwers and two to five passes per delivery, the _patata_ reaches its target anywhere within earshot where it could be ordered, pays their immediate provider, and goes on their way either eating the potato pieces out of the break husk with their fingers or, if they're sophisticates, using the roll's lid as a kind of shovel.

Less savory, but no less hard working operations go on in the district, also.  It's illegal for a tavern to be run above the first floor (too many accidents), but of the three taverns you spot in the _Quartiere della Porta_, two of them have painted murals of prowling housecats on their second stories, and a pair of powdered, corseted, and typically ample women cooing to the passing visitors and soldiers.  When they attract the interest of a patron, a young girl or boy earns their pay by tossing down a rope ladder so the intruiged party can climb up, and the ladder is pulled up after them before they vanish inside.  It's not difficult to guess what these women are selling, for someone with your cunning; but you note they these ladies are not masked, and not at all as refined as the woman in blue back at the Pigly.  These _gatte_ are not the same as the masked _cortigiana_, for sure.

*Spoiler: OOC: If you buy a Patata for 3p...*
Show

...The urchin who attends you hasn't clocked your height until he is standing right beside you, and stares up at you in such befuddlement that when your _'patata'_ arrives, it boffs into his chest and he has to catch it at a scramble before it hits the ground.  _"You're very tall, signorina!"_  He states this quite plainly, impressed, as you pass him the coins.  But within moments, there's someone else nearby calling for his services.  _"If you did this job, you wouldn't even have to jump!"_  Then he's off, providing his critical service to the community to one hungry mercenary or another.  The food is pretty good; the potato pieces have softened on the interior nicely and crisped in the sizzling olive oil; the excess of which has soaked into the bread roll so that eating even the vessel of the dish is a pleasant experience.


You settle on the tavern without the cathouse above it, and find _The Lucky Duck_ to be cramped, but agreeable enough.  It does not have the spacious, jovial charm of the _Pigly_; it cannot afford to, and as a tavern, most of its space is given up on the ground floor to a bar full of mostly solitary male travellers drinking alone.  The proprietress does have a room for you, though:

_"Ten scellini for a private room, signorina; and ten rami to house and feed the horse.  And, uh..."_  She eyes Corvo, frowning a little, clearly imagining what such a beast if turning out to be poorly trained could do to a room.  _"Three more rami for the hound to stay in the room with you."_  This last feel feels arbitrary, and you see some room to negotiate.

*Spoiler: OOC: Haggling.*
Show

A haggle roll at a mere +10 to get this tavernkeeper to waive her confected 'dog' fee of 3p, though she won't budge on the other 10s10p for you and Jezzabella. 
 No reputation bonus out here, I'm afraid; the legend of Taalia Trollslayer ain't so impressive in the big smoke.

Also, if you didn't buy a patata, you still gotta eat!  The Lucky Duck will sell meals this late, but only poor meals for 1p.


It's some work to get Corvo to the room.  The tavern's rooms are on the floor above, but they are not permitted to have the second floor connected to the drink-selling lower floor.  Instead, the private rooms on the second floor have a rope ladder like many other businesses, and the operation to calm Corvo enough to be put into a sack that is then hoisted up slowly parallel to you climbing to console him... Well, it's free entertainment for some folk in the street, who bray with laughter at your and Corvo's expense on your way up.  But when he's up and over on to the balcony, the mockery turns into a loose cheer and scatter of applause; the praise and scorn of the crowd a fickle thing indeed.

The floor above has just eight small rooms very simply furnished, and a small interior space before the balcony with a table and two old chairs.  One is occupied by a girl not much older than yourself; pretty but tired with bags under her pale grey eyes, yellow hair, and pale skin; though her fingers are stained black from her current task.  She dominates most of the table with an ink pot and quills, a sheet of parchment on which she currently draws, a scrollcase, brass instruments of measurement and marking.  She takes a break from her work to help you and Corvo up to the floor, apparently doing some side work for the _Lucky Duck_ doing ladder throw-down-pull-up duty.  She introduces herself to you as Sapienza da Larimo but, when it would normally be appropriate for young ladies meeting in Tilea to clasp each other's hands gently, she raises her darkened fingers and offers a wincing smile of apology.

_"I don't suppose you'd be interested in a map of the city districts?  Only five scellini.  They're loose maps - they don't include all the alleys, but they have all the main streets and districts.  Only three scellini, if you don't need the lettering."_

----------


## BananaPhone

Taalia

*Spoiler: Back in the Pigly...*
Show



Taalia smiled politely and nodded at the compliment. 

"Thank you, Tilean is actually my second language," she nodded, before listening to the messengers 'information' about the Damerino's...which turned out to not be much. 

"Are they...known for being up front, honest enough...or a herd of bastards, something in between?"




Taalia had enjoyed her gentle canter through the market avenues, as the dusking sun washed its beautiful amber through the narrow corridors of commerce and human traffic. The new food that she tried, the large bread bun containing potato and bacon, was absolutely beautiful! A true simple, hearty dish that would have really hit the spot a few times while watching her flock...if Ariana's masterful cooking hadn't already been magnificent in itself!

Failing to haggle down the price of Corvo staying in her room, Taalia accepted defeat and took to ascending to the second floor in the most awkward spectacle she had ever participated in. Her growing, large dog was instinctually anathema to remaining confined within a potato sack so that it could be carried out, its yelping and struggling causing all sorts of chaos with Taalia's attempt to sooth her pet. And when the small crowd looked on, snickering and laughing, Taalia was initially annoyed, her resentment brewing as her dog refused to heed even the most straight forward and simple obligations she gestured and attempted. One such occasion came when she was trying to stuff her dog in hind-quarters first into the sack, but Corvo had other ideas as she writhed and wriggled mightily, Taalia's narrow-eyed, lip-curled string of expletives arousing a laughter from the few who stopped to watch this towering girl's impromptu comedic act with her canine. But soon she had an idea - Corvo didn't actually _need_ to get in the sack. 

Stepping into the bag herself, then reaching down and snatching Corvo up in her arms like a groom would his new bride, Taalia 'rode' in the bag as she was hauled upwards towards that balcony, a bright, satisfied grin across her face as the cheered now laughed _with_ her instead of _at_ her. When she took that first step onto the floor above, those who were watching laughed and clapped, cheering at these unusual things as people often do, as Taalia let her pet down, turned to the crowd below, took off her hat and held it at her midsection as she bowed and blew kisses. 

Meeting the other girl attached to her *private* room, Taalia offered a friendly greeting and - mimicking what she had seen others do - took off her hat and offered a little bow. Even though it was a masculine greeting, it sort of fit the towering, athletic girl. 

"I am Taalia!" she introduced herself with a bright smile.

"Are you are..." Taalia thought of the word, biting her bottom lip, "...cartographer, is it? Do you live here or traveling through?"

Approaching the girl, Corvo entering Taalia's room and circling about with his nose drag-net-huffing in all the scents he could, the farm girl considered the shorter woman before her. 

"Are they accurate?" she asked, tilting her head to peer over at them. 

"Because if I'm late for an appointment or your map leads me down an..._unpleasant_ alley, I would not be too happy."

----------


## MrAbdiel

*Spoiler: Back a the Pigly...*
Show

Galiana laughs, and waves a hand infront of her face as if silently begging to forgive the laughter as she regains herself.

_"No, no, Taalia; forgive me, I'm not being clear.  There is no damerino family.  'Damerino' is just a rude name to call someone with money who you think doesn't deserve it.  If you heard someone complaining about the 'damerinos' being very wealthy, they were probably griping about the plight of the poor, in contrast to the merchant princes in total, not naming a particular family!"_


Sapienza blinks, and looks down at the map she's currently drawing, and then back up at you with puzzlement; keeping an eye on Corvo from time today as he pads around the floor and gives each of the doors to the private rooms an inquisitive _sneef-sneef._

_"I don't think I'd last long here if they weren't.  Like I said, they're not complete; they don't have all the lanes and alleys marked.  A complete map would cost you maybe five or ten gold pieces, but I'm not -"_  She pauses to carefully parse her words. _"...Not... making those right now.  If you just want to make sure you don't get lost looking for the different districts or finding your way back to the gate without getting pinged over and over with gate tolls going from one to the other.  But I've been here in Verezzo for a while doing this - where is your appointment?  Maybe I can point you in the right direction."_

----------


## BananaPhone

Taalia



*Spoiler: Back at The Pigly...*
Show

Taalia's face looked as if she had just received revelation. 

"Ohhh..." she uttered in understanding, her eyes zoning out for a second as it became clear she now had _no_ lead on who the gun had belonged to, and from whom it was stolen, except that there was a bounty on it. 

Imagine if she had gone looking for the "Damerino's" in Verezzo. What an arse she'd make of herself!

"You don't know it yet, but you just saved me a _whole_ lot of trouble!" Taalia laughed, happily getting another drink for the woman.




oOo

Taalia considered the girls proposal. Her face wasn't one of lethal suspicion, more like a big sister considering the words of a younger sibling and judging whether they were being pranked or not. 

"Very well," she finally acquiesed, withdrawing three silver coins from her 'silver' pouch (as not to reveal to strangers just how much money she had on herself, and where).

Handing the currency over to the girl, Taalia received her item and looked over it. Holding the map out, she received a few pointers to help gauge her current position. This allowed her to mentally plan out the next day. 

Nodding, "Thank you, Sapienza," she said, her tone more gentle now rather than cautious. 

"If you would be so kind, please point out the best district for banks or credit unions, and where a girl can buy some clothes..."

oOo
Taalia awoke early the next day, as she always did. Being a country girl and former slave, 5-6am was the typical hour of her awakening, and the girl set about clothing herself for the long day ahead. With her map in hand, she planned out the best route and made sure to memorise land-marks to make navigation easier, having made several of her own notes upon the parchment she held before her. 

The agenda for today?

1. A merchant bank. One whose credit slips could be legal tender in Bella Collina, at least. 

2. The Bounty Hunters Guild. She was sure that such a station would have posters, flyers, pamphlets and advertisements for current bounties, large and small, offered by the denizens of Verezzo. If there was a bounty on the pistol, she'd see it there, and thus would know who posted it and how to contact them or where to find their house to do so directly. Plus she could see how large the reward was.

3. A market district specialising in textiles and clothing. Using her information Sapienza had told her the night before, Taalia was going to sell the remainder of that chests contents in this region. She might have to check with the Watch and hire one of their 'tubs', as it were. Taalia didn't want to go outside the law, after all. And once she _had_ sold those wares, it was back to the bank for deposit, but naturally keeping a couple of coins for her expenses.

With her plan in place, Taalia nodded to herself. Dressed for the day and ready for action, she stopped by the kitchen of the Inn to acquire a hearty breakfast before entering the stable to awaken her beautiful horse and set to it!

----------


## MrAbdiel

_"Certainly.  Here, I've used these symbols here to mark certain sites - and over on the side, this is called a key, because it..."_

She goes over the map with you, producing a scrolled copy of it from her things and happily providing it; taking your coins and putting them in a small carved wooden box.

*Spoiler: Points of Interest*
Show

The city is divided into six segments, called _Quartiere_; either because the north and south gate districts weren't originally considered 'real' districts, or because the use of the word is not meant to specifically imply four sections, but rather just segmentation.

*Quartiere della Porta*, or more properly Quartiere della Porta a Sud, is the main entrance on the southern face of the city.  If one imagines Verezzo topdown as a clockface, it's at six o'clock.

Points of Interest:
- Shrine of Fury
- Order Hall of the Knights of the Blazing Sun
- Alcatani Fellowship Chapter Hall
- Hall of Hired Blades

*Quartiere del Bue*, the Ox Quarter, is not known for a brisk beef trade.  It is a euphemism for the respectable, hard working qualities of the people who live there.  That, too, is a euphemism: it is the region of the city where the poorest folk who can afford lodgings at all dwell; and between those lodgings on the street dwell more people still.  If the south gate is six o'clock, this quarter is eight o'clock.  

Points of Interest:
- Sanitorium of Shallya
- The Petty Markets
- Shrine of Tyleus
- Fountain of Beggars
- The _Seven Signorine_ Theatre

*Quartiere degli Dei*, the Gods' Quarter, is a quarter of moderate wealth which peaks in islands of opulence around the holy places in the district.  It is at ten o'clock, on the Verezzo clockface.

Points of Interest:
- 'The Five Graces' (famous sculpture)
- Temple of Ishea and Karnas
- Temple of Shallya
- Temple of Verena
- Temple of Morr
- Temple of Clio
- Academy of Empirics

*Quartiere della Porta a Nord* is the gate district on the north side of town; though the gate it corresponds to is a tunnel through the thick wall with two large double doors at either end and several porticculli within.  It is accessible and guarded during the day, but coaches and wagons would have a hard time making it through and are expected to exit and enter only via the south gate.  It is twelve o'clock, on the Verezzo clockface.

Points of Interest:
- Karaz Verezzo (Little Dwarftown)
- The Leaning Tower of Verezzo
- House of Mysteries

*Quartiere del Leone* is the wealthiest quarter of the city, named for the city's majestic icon, the lion, whose likeness is apparently the giant cats you saw outside the gate. It is two o'clock, on the Verezzo clockface.

Points of Interest:
- Senate House
- The Way of Muses (street of museums and galleries)
- Temple of Scripsisti
- The People's Gardens
- The Bronze War (public art display)
- The People's Opera House

*Quartiere dei Mercanti* is the merchant quarter, and mostly self explanatory.  The bulk of trade happens here, except livestock and large scale produce sales which usually happen outside the walls to prevent everyone involved being taxed over and over for bringing the goods in and out.  It is four o'clock, on the Verezzo clockface.

Points of Interest:
- Temple of Mercopio
- The Grand Markets
- Signore Sensazione's Zoo of Wonders
- Lenders Guildrow
- Road of Excellence (Crafter's Guilds)


Sapienza seems to be doing her best to advise you, inasmuch as you can trust that.

"For banks, there's two options.  Well, there's more than that, but really you have the Lender's Guilds, which are the banks; or if you're a charmer, you can try your luck with the dwarves up in Karak Verezzo.  In my experience, dwarves are less likely to take your money and skip town; but they're tight-fisted with interest."

"Bounty hunters are just mercenaries with a small scope; you'll be looking to the Hall of Hired Blades for such.  Good drinks there, too."

"And markets, you have a few options.  People are trying to buy and sell their things everywhere.  The main concentration of peddling individual items, fast sales for desperate cash, happen in _Quartiere della Porta_, as I'm sure you've seen.  But the major selling and buying goes on in the Petty and Grand markets.  If it's worth more than ten _duro_, I'd look at the Grand Markets.  You can find such things at the Petty Markets too, but you're more likely to get ripped off.  Or you could check out the Road of Excellence, for custom orders.  A woman of your uncommon height might benefit from a measurement and make-to-order."

_"The important thing to remember is whenever you cross from one_ Quartiere_ to an adjacent one, you'll pay two penny gate fee; and there's no cutting through Castle Verezzo in the middle, so you have to work your way around the circle.  So it's worth having a map, and knowing where you're going!"_

----------


## BananaPhone

Taalia

Today, Taalia wore her *good* clothing that Bella had given her and she had applied some cosmetics. Alongside her horse, dog and weapons, she appeared as a trustworthy young lady of sales.


*Karak Verezzo*

Taalia trotted along gently on _Jezebella_ as she entered the dwarven district of Verezzo. If she had felt tall among her own kind, here she felt like a giant, as the busy street and clean alleyways became littered with people barely up to Taalia's abdomen. But it was cute in a way. She had only met Nogram as her sole dwarven representative, the unfortunately slaves that ended up in the Skaven's hands not-withstanding. Those couldn't be said to be real interactions, as such poor wretches quickly went mad from the conditions. But if those paltry examples, Nograms character and word-of-mouth was anything to go by, the dwarves were stubbon, but she believed would play straight with her. 

It's not that she didn't trust her own kind. She did. She was sure there were honest banks in the Lenders Guild, but the problem was finding them. And such sifting would occur with Sapienza's warning in the back of her mind: less likely to skip town with her money. 

No no, tight fisted with interest rates Taalia could deal with. Indeed, it lent a degree of structure and certainty to things if she knew how much she owed, or how much she _was_ owed, and that the agents of such promises stuck to their ledgers and numbers.

Speaking with several passer-bys to get directions, Taalia soon discovered the location of a bank, that glimmering reassurance of protection for her future riches. 

Dismounting her horse, and being one of the few humans around, Taalia set her dog and horse to tether and entered the building.

*Quartiere dei Mercanti - the Grand Market
*


Taalia walked alongside _Jezebella_, the reins to her horse and the leash to her dog clasped in her right hand was well as the handle of the wheelburrow she had 'rented' from the watchmen for just this purpose. Arrayed on the flat opening of the tub was the items she had on offer today:

Hat, Perfume, Cloak, Best Clothes and a Disguise Kit. 


All in all an wonderful haul for an entertainer, a bored young merchants daughter, or any other sort who wanted a nearly complete set of excellent clothing, and the means of disguising any particular facial shortcomings they believed they possessed.


*Quartiere della Porta - The Hall of Hired Blades*


Taalia was atop her horse once more as she entered the Hall of Hired Blades. Tilea was famed for its mercenaries, and entering this realm one could see why, as a veritable menagerie of fighters or agents were available, from lowly street toughs to professional knights polishing their armor and sharing battle stories amidst their clusters. 

But, Taalia wasn't here to find a hired arm. She need to trace something instead!

Tethering her horse and hound outside of the hall, Taalia entered and observed for the closest thing to a clerk or host. When she found them, she would approach, smiling, friendly, only her height and athletic disposition marking her out as a potential candidate for this type of life. 

"Dear Singore," she would start, "I am looking for the notice boards of lost or stolen property. I had a ring stolen from me recently, and I was interested in posting a bounty for its return. Is there an area where such advertisements are displayed?"

----------


## MrAbdiel

*Spoiler: OOC:*
Show

Your projected route will take you 'counter clockwise'.  Your first stop is in the same quarter as the Lucky Duck, so it's natural to do that first; then to the Merchant quarter to shop, then you'll have to pass _through_ the Lion Quarter to get to the North Gate quarter.  So three gate fees going north, and then another three coming back in the evening for a total of 12p expenses taking gates.  With that in mind, whatever you choose to be your fourth 'event' of the day, can be from anywhere, since you need to come the longest distance back to the South Gate to get back to the Lucky Duck anyway (unless you want to try your luck finding another lodging elsewhere in the city).  If you prefer, we can tally up your accrued daily expenses at the end of the day, since you're not in danger of running out of money right now; so we don't have to literally nickle and dime you.


_Quartiere della Porta - The Hall of Hired Blades_

The Hall of Hired Blades is a huge circular stone building with a magnificent white dome topping it; a bronze statue of Myrmidia in stride bounding skyward from its very topmost portion.  You wonder how men can build such things - does the dome not just collapse inward, partway through the construction, as the mortar fails to hold?  Apparently not.  And inside, it is not without a certain air of sublimity.  The interior of that dome is studded with what first seems to be tiles in some kind of mosaic, but upon later examination seems to be tiles _each of which has a single coin baked into its centre_, before a glaze has been applied to its ceramic majority.  The ceiling is tall, but even eyes less keen than yours could see that the coins vary in metal, shape, and size - currency from all over the world, all of it the blood money of some old soldier of fortune, tiling the interior of the dome.  The interior of the hall is a hive of activity, with tables and benches scattered around and all sorts gathered at them - weird and wonderful soldiers of fortune of many stripes, though not whole units or regiments but single representatives of pairs, often with smaller, uniformed members of the Clerk's guild on hand to mediate the numismatic portion of a discussion.  Distinct from these groups, who are known by their professionalism and uniforms and sense of prideful presentation, are three other kinds of folk who populate the Hall.  The first are the kinds of knaves and ne'erdowells that other nations would call _freebooters_; what some call more generously _adventurers_.  These twos, threes and fours are distinct because of their total lack of uniformity; scruffy bands of bone-pickers, beggars and failing students who have managed to arm themselves and seek fortune and glory as an alternative to their middling lives.  These are the lowest of the low; they are not often consulted directly either by the mercenaries or those courting them, but do sometimes attend the wooden boards at the edges of the hall with postings nailed to them, usually to ask someone to read something to them.  Next are the knights of orders; distinct from the mercenary knights who mill with the other soldiers of fortune.  Knights of orders are like those you saw riding out from Verezzo as you came in; knights devoted to a fraternity, and devoted to some god or principle.  They do not seem to get along well with the mercenaries, especially those with the blazing sun motif like those you've seen.  You can't imagine why - they all seem to revere Myrmidia.  Why would they be less favoured?  Only a dedicated effort to _gossip_ on the subject may discover the answer.  The final group that fills the place are musicians, of which there is a number sufficient to make a small orchestra.  They have violins and violas, snares and cymbals, flutes and other instruments of wind you have never seen; but they do not assemble and play together. Rather, they loiter about in chatty clumps until a mercenary representative and their usually incognito hirer reach a tenatative agreement, and  need to further their discussions in private. The merc will toss one of the musicians a silver piece, and the happy player will follow them to one of the dozens of curtained booths rimming the hall's inner wall.  There, when the curtain closes leaving them outside while their employers are within, they will strike up and loudly play a song of their choosing or one selected for them, sufficiently loud to make casual eavesdropping on the curtain behind them all but impossible.  This means that as the day goes on and business becomes more earnest, the sounds of clashing disharmony is likely to become cacophonous; though while you are there, when the muddle of melodies is particularly onerous to the ears, an older gentleman stands up on a table and, with cane in hand and calling out notes to those players in actions, corrals them into a harmonious musical unit as effectively as you have seen Rocco drive your scattered sheep into a neat train for return to their pen.

There are lesser amenities available also; two seperate vendors are selling beverages, giving the hall a faint _tavern_ smell; readers stand by notice boards with job and information postings, mostly to serve the filthy, filthy adventurers; and, as you had hoped, a kiosk manned by a helpful woman about twice your age, with her dark hair coiled up on the top of her head and a room behind her full of ledgers, journals and posters.  One of the knights in dark armor, who is taller than you but with a strangely high voice for such a stature, politely directs you to this woman he tells you is _Amelia_, with whom you are able to raise questions. _ "Buongiorno, signorina.  Are you looking to make a bounty posting?"_

_Quartiere dei Mercanti - The Grand Market_

What a host of wealth!  Tents and pavilions, stalls and tables sprawl out in a grand open plaza broken up only by three tall, roughly equidistant trees; a willow, an oak, and a pine, by which folk are able to navigate and give bearings to other shoppers.  On the outskirts of these tremendous embarrassment of options, which include wonderful clothing and incredible jewelry and weapons on display by dwarven craftsmen that are more _art_ than killing tool, are others like you; enterprising, mostly young folks with tubs and carts trying to sell their small wares to customers with more than two coins to rub together.

*Spoiler: OOC: Hagglin' Time!*
Show

Give me a Haggle Roll for each of them, to convince buyers to pay full price for your tub-wares rather than buying from the big vendors. The mom'n'pop shop dilemna!

The good news is I'll give you +20% on these rolls because of the market's size, on this first attempt; and a +10% instead on subsequent days trying to find buyers if you miss the mark and want to try for full money later. 
 Depending on how much you miss (or pass) by, I'll make offers for each item.


_Quartiere della Porta a Nord - Karak Verezzo_

You might have thought dwarves would build to scale for themselves, and that you would have to crouch to get in their tiny doors; but the buildings, which are distinctly dwarven in style in contrast to those around them, are perfectly tall enough for your liking, even giving your head more clearance as you pass through a stone threshold than you are used to.  What is suggested to be the dwarven _bank_ is more like a dwarf _banking operation_.  You don't see what you had thought might be in a bank - piles of gold, or a big vault where such should be.  It's barely big enough to be a shop front; an older dwarf with a bald head and a handsomely braided grey beard looks up at you from a counter at the back of the room, and narrows his eyes suspiciously.  His helper is a blond bearded dwarf who you _think_ is a dwarven youngster; though he has a beard as thick as an adult human man, so it's hard to tell.  His rosey cheeks, and the brightness of his eyes as he looks from a heavy ledger to you, suggest your instinct may be correct.

_"Oi, now girl;  ah fear ye've wandered intae the wrong shoppe, ah fear, ah fear."_ The older dwarf offers this gently, firmly, judgementally, raising a hand slightly as he does as if tae suggest you've come far enough.  _"'Tis nae place tae buy a bangle, or a feather pin; unless ye mean tae dou the business of money-change, which ah can dou fer ye fer a modest fee."_

----------


## MrAbdiel

You are well presented; and that puts you above many of the tub-shufflers out here trying to offload their wares.

A cheerful, lithe dilettante strutting about in her masculine leather pants and high buttoned doublette, upon seeing how fair you look in your dress with a shield and sword strapped to your back all the same, is convinced to give dresses another chance.

She is willing to buy the *Best Quality Clothes* from you for *12 gold duri*.  Pushing your luck to try to fob off the matching cloak and hat, she'll take the *Cloak* for a further *5 gold duri*; but only if you throw in the *Wide-Brimmed Hat*, for free.

A comically thin dandy - a true _damerino_ - who owns one of the cathouses in the southgate district overshares how good it is to have little things like fragrances and facial props, for the specific requests of certain clientele.  He's willing to buy the *Perfume* and the* Disguise Kit* for *6 duri*; with a further five _scellini_ in it for you if you are willing to have them wrapped in green-dyed parchment (and operation that will itself cost two _scellini_ which he will forpay) and deliver it to him personally at his business, _Le Tante Virtù Della Damigella_ across the way from the _Lucky Duck_.  No funny business, he assures you; merely having you bring the parcel to his hands, smile and curtsey on your way out, seems sufficient to his purposes.  A little odd; but five scellini for very little work...

A grey haired woman with a Bretonnian lilt to her Tilean, calling herself _Madame Suzette_, is your most eccentric customer.  She has surprising energy in her step for her age and is interested in the telescope.  She fancies herself an explorer, now that the children have grown and left the nest; and is determined to set out and do what she always wanted to do: travel to far places, and see strange and beautiful vistas, which she intents to paint.  A small train of hirelings in her wake hold the piles of tents, art supplies, bags, pouches, and accumulated bric-a-brac that her apparently well financed flight of fancy has gained her, today.  While other vendors near you salivate over the opportunity to take a swing at selling her something she doesn't need once she's through with you, she offers you eighty gold for the device.  Remembering Signore Cestié's estimation, you dare to tell her this is too little, as your tub-clutching pedlar peers goggle in dismay at your apparent folly.  But she titters warmly at this, reaching up to poke at your shoulder as if to physically admire the firmness of posture provided by your spine, and revises her offer: *101 gold duri*, for the *Telescope*; or else she will try tomorrow for a seller more easily pushed around.

A portly acolyte of Morr, as round as the dandy was thin, catches sight of the censer you've cleaned up from the Troll cave, and deviates from his errand to look over it.  He confesses it doesn't match the style of his temple, and so wouldn't be useful _perse_; but he has a weakness for antiques and old things, and is willing to buy it if you'll hold it here for an hour or so while he hustles off to borrow a little money from his initiate colleagues at the Temple of Mercopio.  He is willing to buy the *Censer* for* two gold duri.*

But no one will buy the book.  Not that they're not interested; the initiate, the dandy, the dilettante, and Madame Suzette all pick it up and thumb through it when they're at your cart; but they have a universe mask of crestfallenness to find the interior has been so badly gutted, rendering it so deeply incomplete as to be almost useless.

----------


## BananaPhone

Taalia

Taalia rubber-necked around the hall as she couldn't help but smile at the veritable menagerie of disparate types of fighters and 'for hires'. Naturally, for one her age, the most impressive were the knights. The girl knew next to nothing of modern warfare, having only been engaged in small scale fighters. But, when she beheld the glittering plate armour of the knights she felt a pang of...excitement? Jealously? Her youthful imagination wandered to distant fantasies where such armor encased her own towering figure and she rode atop a destrier with her companions, demandnig ridiculous amounts of coin for lending their presence to the army of whatever prince could pay the most, their inclusion the deciding factor in the engagement...ahh it was a fun vision, but Taalia had seen more violence than anyone her age should, and so knew the reality would be far more...unpleasant. 

Soon, however, Taalia discovered Amelia, a friendly enough woman twice her age with a helm of dark hair. 

"Buongiorno, Signorina," Taalia returned with a pleasant smile. 

"I am looking for the posting for items, lost and stolen. I was accosted by a thief recently, and some of their wares were scattered upon the floor before they fled. I would like to see if any are currently being sought by their owner, so that I might return them. Where are the postings for such bounties?"

ooc:
*Spoiler*
Show

I imagine that your original post over-rode mine where Taalia made up the story about the stolen ring. In that case, I'll just go with this, as it's basically the truth, but just with some things left out.


oOo

There was that sound again. 

Clink! Clink! Clink!

Wonderful, beautiful gold *duri*'s passed into Taalia's hands and went straight into her secure purses, as the towering, pleasant looking girl stood in her little niche of the market, Horse resting behind her, large dog by her side, shield on her back and sword on her hip.

"You've caught me in a generous mood - of course Singora, I think you will look quite dashing!" Taalia said with a bright smile to the first woman, mentally figuring that she was still 1gc ahead in the deal. 

"I...don't see why not, alright, I guess? Haha," she laughed in confusion at the dandy's proposal. Now, Taalia didn't know it yet, but her future mid-20s self would scoff and laugh at the proposal and just settle for the gold on offer, not willing to indulge in some little desired power-trip of some pimp for a few extra silver. But, present Taalia was a bit more naive, and so saw nothing wrong with it. 

"Oh, Singora, I love your accent!" she spoke to the adventuress. 

"I agree; but on one condition. Tell me a few phrases in your native language! And tell me, if I travel to your country, where should I visit? I am Taalia, it is a pleasure to meet you!"

Taalia could totally see herself in this womans same position in 30 or so years time. Her lands and farms formed and generating a profit. Her strapping sons out expanding the family fortunes, her beautiful daughters managing the households and keeping the community together, while she, still with vigour, used what was left of her youthful strength to see some of the world before retirement. It was a nice idea. 

The lack of buyers of the book was unfortunate, but Taalia couldn't blame them. Perhaps someone tomorrow would want it? Just needed the right person to see it. 

oOo
Taalia moved through the opening of the dwarf banking operation, her eyes settling upon the old dwarf glaring at her suspiciously and the younger one before him. Though Taalia _should_ be offended by the initially condescension of the dwarf, dismissing her as just a girl looking for feathers, she couldn't stay mad at the dwarf - they were so cute! With their little selves, his neat little beard, his cantankerous mien. It was like a grumpy little grand-dad, it only amused her.

"Buona Sera, Singore dwarf," Taalia smiled, bowing her head a little in a display of friendly decorum. 

"I have been told that this is a business where one can deposit money for safe keeping and withdrawals. A bank. Have I been mislead?"

----------


## MrAbdiel

Amelia offers a weary smile, and gestures behind her to the wealth of logbooks and what look to be stacks of parchment.  _"Well, you've come to the right place.  We keep records of bounties here, for consultation by interested parties interested parties.  In smaller towns they just nail a bounty poster to the door of the town hall, but in a place like Verezzo, the bloody adventurers have a habit of ripping them down and stuffing them in their bags, then forgetting about them and skipping over to another principality."
_
She goes to a shelf, and thumbs along a shelf with many 'books', which in this case are sheaves of parchment threaded near to the spine between two thin pieces of wood, with string.  She must have a system, or have them memorized by order; they all look interchangable to you.  But she takes three specific books off the shelf, places them before her on the desk between you, and then asks gently:_ "Do you have the items with you? Or can you describe them?"_  Flipping open one volume, you see it is a series of blocked entries on the open page.  

_1 Ring, red gold with inset oval cut ruby.  Last seen at the Blue Hawk Retreat by Miodordo on the Remas border.  Reward upon identification - 1000, plus reimbursement of costs.  Poster: (an indecipherable squiggle, which is apparently a signature)._

There are many such entries, often with very elaborate description.  The names under 'poster' are all in the same hand, suggesting it is maybe not a signature but a deliberate kind of cursive cypher.  But Amelia smiles at you, ready to help.

* * * * *

_Madame Suzette_ titters again, delighted as one of her attendants forks over the dosh and she turns her telescope over in her hands.  _"Oh, sweet girl; I suppose I couldn't dissuade you, but Bretonnia is no place for a woman.  I am endlessly grateful I managed to get out while I was young enough to still fall in love, and command a good man to do the same.  In Bretonnia, all the commen men and women are property of the lords to till their land, paid in promises of protection. But here in Tilea, in Verezzo, each owns herself; and if she should desire protection, she has a host of brave mercenaires all too willing.  They do not permit a woman's hair to go uncovered; she cannot own land; though the fall all over themselves when a damsel rides through to wiggle her toes at them - then every duke and baron is on his knees in service.  It's a ridiculous place; and I wish more women would find the courage to flee."_  She sighs a little; and you detect a little more longing in that sigh than she seems to inject into her words.  Perhaps, for all this venom for her homeland, she cannot pry its grip from the place in her soul that knows for better or worse, that land is her home.

*Spoiler: Intrusive Thoughts.*
Show

_You remember a house; one big room you shared with your parents, with hanging cloth to divide some corners for privacy. You remember a brick stove and chimney that your father had built before you were born; and hot food being cooked on that fire._ 


_"But if you_ do_ wander that way - once the orcs are cleared from the pass, I suppose - you'd do well to have a man escort you.  You will find most men there will treat you somewhat respectfully, whether you present as a woman of quality or not; but they won't take you seriously without a man to echo your sentiments.  But a pretty girl like you can attract a knight errant to squire her about, easilly enough.  The nation itself is not unbeautiful, I must say.  Her loveliness as a realm is equal to my fair Tilea, I think; especially the Grey Mountains.  I grey up in Parravon, a castle-city cut into the mountainside, where you can see the forest sprawl proudly out below; and if you wait on the high places and watch the mountains, sometimes you can see_ le Pégase_ fly in twos, and threes; stallion, and mare, and sometimes foal.  Ah..."_  You've done it now; she's a little tearful, but boxes her sentiment with a self-reproaching little smile, and thumbs at her eyelashes to strike away the evidence.  _"But here, I give you three bits of Breton.  In Parravon, they say 'Celui qui regarde toujours en arrière ne peut jamais arriver à la maison.'  Which means 'She who looks back does not arrive home'; that is to say, it is hard to navigate forward while looking over your shoulder, and there is more product in forward thinking than fretful retrospect.  In Montfort, they say a man who is trying to force what comes inevitably is 'creuser pour trouver des peaux vertes' - he digs for greenskins.  And finally, 'mangez bien, riez souvent, aimez beaucoup' - eat well, laugh often, love abundantly.  This one was taught to me by a friend; and now I teach it to you.  Adieu, Taalia.  Merci pour le télescope!"_

And with this, she and her retinue are off; presumably to eat, or laugh, or love.

* * * * *

The older dwarf, obviously in charge, adjusts one eyebrow slowy up, then another up with it; then both of them back level.  "Something like a bank, aye; but that human bankers are bandits in frock coats whoos names cannae be relied upon; fer even the best of them can keep their word nae but eight or nine tens of years 'fore it kills them."

Eustace Goldbrick, you learn through a little more patient and exposure to accent the traversal of which is like paddling through molasses, is an eight generation dwarf _name-trader_, which is something like an independent banker.  You do not know how long dwarf lives up; but judging by his dismissal of a well lived human life, eight generations of such folks may well exceed the full span of human civilization.  _Name-traders_ recognize each other's names and marks, and judge credit based on the trader associated with it; and eight generations of Goldbricks sounds like a lot of credibility.  _Goldbrick of Karag-Dar_, you are given to understand, is almost a currency in itself to dwarves in the region of Tilea, the Southern Empire, and Parravon in Bretonnian; as well as most any dwarf hold.  He's willing to take and hold gold that you have, for safe keeping; in return, he'll give you a marker which will indicate to other _name-traders_ the credit you hold with him.  You can 'withdraw' money from this 'account' by finding a dwarven nametrader in cities or towns, who will take that marker and adjust it with a mark of their own to indicate the transaction you have made with them, which is resolved on the backend between dwarves in whatever fashion they do such things.

*Spoiler: Exciting Banking Minigame*
Show

Banking with dwarves means you will not lose you money to anything but incredible calamity.  The detriment is that dwarf populations large enough to have name-traders are somewhat rare; Verezzo is the one closest to you, with Eustace himself.  Other cities, and some larger towns are likely to have them also; but not villages, and very few small towns.  _Caesa di Silo_ does not have such a name-trader.  But this is the service he offers - confidence, security, reliability, at a flat cost of one gold _duro_ a year for sums under one hundred _duro_, and one percent of another invested amount above that.  Money invested in this way will also earn interest - though not much, because this is a safety tradeoff.  Gold left with Eustace for a Tilean month will earn 1d2-1% interest.

By contrast, banking with a major banking house in Verezzo will have greater accessibility - within towns including _Caesa di Silo_.  There is no fee for depositing money with them; and a month of deposit there earns 1d6-3% interest - possibly degrading in value.  Additionally, with human bankers, there is a chance of shenanigans.  There is a 1% chance each month that something unusual happens with your account - and without revealing all the possibilities, the average outcome is a loss of money around 10%.

Banking with smaller, less reputable human credit unions and lenders is wilder.  With these, you can choose how risky you want to be, and they have representatives in Verezzo and its surrounding towns, including Caesa di Silo.  Choose between 2% to 10%.  Each month, your account gains that much interest; but also has that same chance of being lost entirely as the banker pulls up stumps and leaves.  It's possible to chase such a cretin down and beat your money out of him, but that would be an adventure to conduct in character, and not a garauntee.

----------


## BananaPhone

Taalia

Taalia looks on the huge collection of books with awe, knowing how much it must all cost just to catalogue let alone advertise all of these bounties. How did the Hall generate income? Comission? From who? The bounty hunter, the mercenaries, or the ones who hired them? Or all of the above?

"Well..." she started, leaning in close so her voice could only be heard by Amelia. 

"I don't have it on me. But it is a beautifully crafted pistol, with _'Blue Berthilda'_ imprinted upon it and a hammer in the shape of a raven."

oOo


At the dwarven bank operation, Taalia listened as the general outline of banking, both dwarven and human, was laid out before her. 

It was an interesting concept how seriously dwarves took their name, and indeed Taalia could admire it about them. Having no surname itself, the idea of this lineage that lived on through successive generations becoming the overall concept that was trusted rather than individual members, was intriguing to the girl. That the dwarves would place much greater stock in it, given that they lived for centuries, also made sense. Humans lived far shorter lives, so it was understandable that they could exhibit the best and worst characteristics, as they had a shorter amount of time to use to gain fame and wealth and prestige than the longer-lived, far more patient dwarves. Perhaps that was why human civilisations had come so far, so fast, yet were more volatile compared to the glacial dwarven kingdoms? 

In either case, Taalia performed some head-math and believed she would be better off, for now, using a large, mainstream human lending guild for her own wealth because of that one reason: the credit slips that she could use anywhere while her money remained 'safe' in the bank. She had been attacked twice on the road now, and it was easier to hide some credit slips than it was hundreds of gold coins. 

At a later date, she would deposit a hundred gold with the dwarves as a rainy day fund, should a calamity befall her and she needed money to start over again.

"Yes, I would like to deposit the pay of a future employee," she stated. 

"I am a Shepardess who has just conducted her first season, and I enjoyed much success. I can entrust my own wealth to human banks. But I am now in a position to hire men to work for me, and I would not feel right trusting their pay to such potential volatility. I think I would be more responsible lodging their pay with your shoppe. I have 20 duro that I will deposit with you, and I would like the mark to be exchangeable by them upon their return to Verezzo. I do not yet know their name, but they will be a physician by trade. Is this possible?

In about a years time from now, I will return and deposit further employee pay for later collection, as well as a small amount of my own finances for long-term safe keeping. Is this agreeable?"

----------


## MrAbdiel

Your banking matters are resolved swiftly.

Goldbrick's... apprentice?  Nephew?  He doesn't speak, this whole time; his bright eyes darting back and forth between you and his senior as you conduct business; learning, listening.  Though as you conclude matters, he produces a thumb sized rectangle of copper, and places it on a jeweler's anvil behind the counter; taking up a small hammer in one hand and brushing his fingers contemplatively over a rack of metal punches infront of him.

Eustace Goldbrick establishes a redeemable account for you.  The details of this account - that you are the holder, that it is payable to a physician whose name is not yet known, that it is the value of twenty gold, and so forth, are tapped into its surface in a fine script of dwarven characters you do not understand.  Once this is done in triplicate on its surface, the apprentice uses several blows from differently sized chisels to break the copper blank into three portions, and takes a few minutes to buff the edges recently cut down to a smoother finish, without eroding the ridges. The result is three peices that fit together like a unique jigsaw puzzle of three pieces, with the left and right portions distinctly collective to the middle.  The common numerical characters, 1, 2 and 3, are punched into the top corners of each.  The three pieces have ordered authority.  The idea is that you give piece number 3 to your employee, which they can use to withdraw the funds from the account.  However, if that piece is stolen or lost, you can send piece 2 with a runner to Verezzo to ask Eustace to put a stop on piece 3's capacity to withdraw funds; and when you get there with piece 1, you can adjust the account unilaterally with their 'masterpiece' of the account key.  This, like all accounts, will cost you a single gold _duro_ to establish.  Subsequent years in which the account is active will be subtracted from the balance.

*Spoiler: Cost!*
Show

Mark off the 20GC for the account, and 1 for the account fee; you gain 1 Primary Account Key (Goldbrick, 20GC), 1 Secondary Account Key (Goldbrick, 20GC), and 1 Tertiary Account Key (Goldbrick, 20GC)


With some resistance, Eustace gives up some advice.  _"Mmmrph.  If ye're devoted tae losing money, but_ slowly_, ye're baest to try with Lagubrio, at_ Merchant's Trust._  I'm_ sure_ ye can trust them - it's right there in the name."_  He flaps his arms, grumpily.

Lagubrio, at the _Merchant's Trust_ in the Merchant District, is a terribly serious man in a charcoal black formal coat who is highly dismissive of you, up until the point that you present your gold, at which point he is extremely suspicious; and then when you mention he was personally recommended to you by Eustace Goldbrick as the most reliable human banker in Verezzo, at which point his eyes light up like a man basking in the praise of a king.  Opening an account with the _Merchant's Trust_ is simpler; they fill out a form, and make you a writ of good standing for the value of your input monies; with space on the writ to accommodate the annotations of transactions performed by trusted operatives in other 'branches' who are likely to be clerks invested with transactive authority, rather than built and branded institutions.  But with that done, you can feel a little more comfortable; it's nice not to be carrying all your material wealth in a bag that could be taken from you by a few ambitious thugs with clubs.

The writ you are given is made out in the name you have chosen; the first instance of it being written down: _Taalia Giovanni, of Bella Collina, Verezzo._

** * * * **

_"Ah!  Ah, very good, signorina; the more specific the descriptor, the easier to find an outstanding bounty.  Infact, I think I remember this one..."_

Amelia flips through the first book so rapidly you can barely imagine she is actually reading anything; then the second, and stops partway through it, tracking to a paragraph with one fingertip.  _"Yes, yes - what was the name again, Bertrande? Berthilde, yes.  Imperial names, ah.  Yes, reported lost by... Rodolfuccio da Viteriano.  He's requested personal verification - but if you're in luck,you'll fine him at the Alcatani Fellowship's chapter house.  You shouldn't have much trouble finding him - he's as tall as you, signorina.  He's left no reimbursement funds as a result, expecting to give them over to a delivering agent; but the listed reimbursement amount is two hundred duri - quite a bit of metal, signorina, if you have the article!  It's common enough for bounty posters to insist on personal inspection like this then try to  run down the reward when it's in their hand; but if he gives you trouble, don't make an issue - just come back and report him to us, and we'll have our people sort him out for false posting."_

She smiles pleasantly having performed her work, and asks nothing of you; but her right hand, quite unconciously, rests palm up on the table with fingers in a loose curl, as if ready to receive something.  Not an expert on such things, you wonder what you might be expected to 'owe' her.  *Spoiler: OOC: Tips!*
Show

If you can hit a flat evaluate check, you'll know what amount is polite to tip.  If not, it's probably some amount of silver!

----------


## BananaPhone

Taalia Giovanni

Taalia watched with fascination as the dwarves went about their process of creating a three-way system of accreditation and validation. It was simple but quite beautiful, and the fact she found the younger dwarf to be quite adorable in his simplicity and devotion to his task helped as well. At the end of the process when those three triangles were dropped into Taalia's waiting palm, the human girl looked up at the dwarves and gave a short, polite bow - again, the masculine form of human gesture for gratitude, but oddly fitting given her height, athleticism and youth. 

"Thank you Singore, dwarves. You are both likely to outlive me, so I hope that in the future after I am gone, you will remember our affairs as a trustworthy partnership!"

Lagubrio, on the other hand, didn't endear himself in any physical way. He wasn't adorable, or cute, or possessed of characteristics that would have made Taalia go "awww!". Instead he was about what she expected were she asked to picture a serious, numbers-driven money-lender: dark cloaked, thin and deathly serious. Although, it did amuse her internally that he thought so highly of Eustace's mere words that all his scepticism of this apparently wealthy, towering farm-girl before him was washed away in an instant and replaced by eager-to-serve awe. That's more like it! Taalia mentally noted to thank Eustace's the next time she saw him, and if she really was to develop and grow in this region, she hoped that she would become a welcome sight for the dwarf in decades to come. 

However, though Eustace's recommendation oiled the wheels of business with Lagubrio a halt was soon encountered when he asked her a simple question. 

*"What is your name, child?"*

"Taalia."

Pause, raised eyebrow. 

*"Yes, dear, we have established that. But what is your last name. From which family do you hail?"*

Taalia should have expected the question, but it had nevertheless caught her off guard. From which family did she hail? In an instant, her intrusive thoughts of apples and orchids rushed back into her mind, a dozen images flashing across her internal eye: apple orchids under a clear blue sky, warm, freshly baked pies on the windowsil, a large home, a towering father, homely mother, the fires of the Norscans. 

She didn't know. She had to make one up. 

At first she thought of offering Gaulfredo's last name as her own...but that was rather presumptuous. Gaulfredo and Ariana were basically her foster parents, but they had not _given_ her permission to use their last name, which had no doubt been passed down to them for generations. She couldn't just take it without asking and assume they'd be fine with it. Besides, what if the surname was used as a means of transference of debt if she couldn't repay a loan? That would be a disaster - to saddle that family with debt to cover her poor actions after they had been so good to her. No, simple out of the question. 

She had to think one up; her own. Her _own_ last name. Her first name had been given to her, but her surname was her own personal decision. 

"Giovanni," she answered. 

_Giovanni_. A common enough first name for men, but a rare surname. A rare surname for a rare person. 

"Taalia Giovanni."

Thus the writ was scribed, as a good a document as any for her official new personhood. The girl handed over a veritable fortune in gold, more than most Tileans would see in their entire lifetimes, into that origination.

_Taalia Giovanni, of Bella Collina, Verezzo._

Taalia held that document in her hands as she gently rode her horse to her next destination, unable to take her eyes away from that simple sentence that contained within it a world of concepts and meaning. If her parents were still alive, somewhere, out there, she wondered what their reaction would be to seeing her now. 


oOo

Taalia smiled as she read the paper together with Amelia, the reward being the thing that concerned her the most. 200 *duro*! That was quite a score, a huge score. In fact, a swift calculation in her head, Taalia believed she could use her half of that money to establish her pig farm completely, present close to town with even its own sty and hovel for which-ever of those four boys seemed the most able to tend to her precious, porcine investment while she expanded her flock. 

Yes..._half_ of that reward money. Taalia would be a liar if she said the thought had not crossed her mind immediately to give that trappers daughter just 50gc or something and claim the reward was 100gc. That was still a huge amount of money for a peasant family, three years pay in fact, and Taalia started off her current flock with less so what could the girl complain about? She was a thief! By all rights she should be thankful she wasn't being clapped in irons and hauled away, where would she find the temerity to whinge about receiving three years worth of pay in a lump sum? *And* being able to rest easy knowing no nobles or bounty hunters were after her? But...Taalia knew the guilt would eat away at her. She had promised half, and she didn't want to lie to the girl. Circumstances and decisions might have conduced the girl into thievery, but Taalia didn't see why she needed to join her in that repulsive profession in the thrall of greed. 

"Thank you Singora," Taalia answered, depositing a few silver into that open palm, more than a few days pay for a clerk. She hoped that was the correct amount. 

"May I?" she asked, as she reached down to remove the gun bounty pamphlet and take it with her. 

"I can use the authority of this to ensure he pays. If he does so, then you have no further need for this as the bounty would have been completed. If he doesn't pay, then I will return it to you when I come to lodge my complaint. Reasonable?"

Assuming the lady acquiesed or needed another silver to nod and smile, Taalia was soon departing the Hall of Hired Blades, untying her horse and dog, mounting the former, attaching the leash of the latter to her saddle, and trotting off in the direction of the Alcatani Fellowship's chapter house.

----------


## MrAbdiel

_"Ah, hah, well, not precisely..."_  Amelia offers a polite and nervous objection, gingerly reaching to retrieve the pamphlet from your grasp.  _"Trust me, it's better that remains with us, in all cases.  If it goes with you, then we don't have the original record of the bounty; and if the poster were to snatch it from you and destroy it, it would become very hard to prove the bounty was legitimate.  Plus, I can't say for sure if the poster himself can read what they signed - brandishing that slip has less authority than we'd all like, but it has best authority here.  But, if you like, I can give you a shingle... Hold on..."_

After a moment, she produces a neat square of hard dark wood, and a piece of chalk with which she marks the details of the bounty.  Rodolfuccio da Viteriano.  200gc.  Alcatani.  Berthilde.  Enough that there should be no question that you've legitimately sought out the bounty, and are seeking to claim it.  _"It'll probably be fine.  Nine times out of ten, people pay up and are happy to have what they lost back.  But our procedures have developed to catch the less than ideal circumstances.  Just, ah, return that shingle, next time you're nearby.  Before you leave town, ideally!"_

But with that shingle tucked away in a saddlebag, you get along to other pressing matters of banking and sales, and before you know it, the day has eroded down to its dark end.  As the early stars take to the sky, you return to the _Lucky Duck_ - after a short stop at one of the local cathouses.

The dandy is delighted to see you; but acts as though he is never met you, and surprised to be receiving mysterious gifts.  He sets five _scellini_ into your palm, laughs generously when you curtsey and assures you that _"Such a lovely young woman needn't curtsey before a slim and ribald devil, as I!"_, which provokes a round of laughter from his assorted bawdy male patrons and tittering harlots.  The harlots, who seem largely to be dressed in bust-promoting corsets, long skirts, and lace-on sleeves with fluted cuffs in the Bretonnian fashion, laugh only with their lips; their eyes watch you with suspicion, a stranger and _competitor_ for attention within their midst, and they seem relieved when you do not linger.

Sapienza is grateful for your token of appreciation.  She's where you left her; at that desk, drawing simple maps of the sitting, letting them dry, rolling them up.  You talk with her a little, as you eat the modest meal of bread and broth from the tavern below across from her; it's the least you can do, as she is the one turning the crank to hoist you and the height-shy Corvo up to the balcony again.  She has a daughter, Amellina, who lives with her sister in one of the farms attached to the huge grainfields outside of town.  Sapienza herself is desperately saving money, trying to buy a good set of cartographer's tools so she can try to get work mapping regions of Tilea - or perhaps some new island or frontier.  But it's very hard; the proprietress downstairs affords her a private room at a discount as long as she assists with the letting down and pulling up of ladders and patrons, so she doesn't have to slum in a cheap common room with the drunks and lechers.  But a sheet of parchment runs her about a silver piece, and she only sells them (usually) for about three silver pieces, and she has a pony in the stable that she _needs_ to get back and forth to see her daughter and supply her sister with money to provide for the girl, and the gate fee in and out of town whenever that happens; and she's making slow progress towards her goal, but there's times when she has to think hard about selling her writing kit and her pony and just giving up the whole thing; finding some old farmer who has gone through a wife or two already to provide for them longterm, for the price of wifehood.  But for now, clawing her way slowly ahead, she likes to imagine a world in which she will encounter an employer who is willing to take a chance on a hardworking young mapmaker - perhaps a mercenary captain who wouldn't mind her and her daughter in the army's follower train. _ "We'll see, I suppose. It's good to be young enough to have such big dreams."_

** * * * **

There is evening, there is morning; and then, a new day.

*Quartiere della Porta - Alcatani Fellowship Chapter House*

The Alcatani Fellowship Chapter House is a remarkably plain building, but large enough to draw attention.  On its wooden facade hangs a shingle with a pair of pikes crossed over two ears of wheat; and beneath it, on a board carved to suggest the appearance of a scroll unfurled, the mercenary company's motto: *"The Cut-Price Cutt-Throats That You Can Afford!"*  A pair of fellows sit on stools at the front, pikes leaning against the walls behind them; both eating their little fried potato portions out of bread rolls.  Neither seems towering in stature sufficient to be Rodolfuccio.  One is a little skinny; the other a little fat; neither has the hard faced, hard bodied, warrior elitism that all the talk and mystique of mercenary life has often suggested, in your time in Tilea.  The fat one finishes chewing a mouthful of potato, sucks the salt and oil off his forefinger then his middle finger, and then gets around to glancing you over and asking:  _"Ciao, signorina.  Are you... Lost?"_

* * * * *

*Quartiere dei Mercanti - The Road of Excellence*

Occuping the interior 'U' shaped road that runs against the castle walls in the centre of the city, and up a little against each of the district-dividing walls for the South Gate and Lion districts either side, is a run of guildhouses, crafter's workshops, artist studios and boutique stores catering to specialized needs.  Most of the traffic here are apprentices running errands for their masters; but a close second are servants running errands for _their_ masters, and third, wealthy looking folk doing their own shopping.  You pull one of the apprentices aside, and beg a moment of his time...

*Spoiler: OOC: Gossip!*
Show

You're in the right place to look, so give me a +20 Gossip roll to seek your physician, and your chemist; one for each of them.  This does not count as your 'endevour' in this area; but it may reveal options as to what that might be!


* * * * *

*En route...*

Passing toward the Gods' quarter involves passing through the poor quarter; the quarter of the Ox.  The quality of life experienced by such people is much lower than the others, in the city; much lower even than yours, on the farm.  Most of those you see live in small, one-room houses crammed into clusters divided by alleys forking off from the main streets passing through the district, which are themselves well patrolled by the city's soldiery.  Just passing through, you are not required to deviate off this circular road that into the heart of the least pleasant district in Verezzo.  Still, you can't help but make breif eye contact with one sorry looking older fellow; a man whose hair might have been ginger once, now faded to rust flecked grey; lying on his front in the shade of an abandoned shack with a lumpen ceramic bowl infront of him.  He seems to be in a position of comfortable prostration initially, but when he sees you, and sees that you see _him_, he perks up a little, offers a smile, and then brings the ceramic bowl to his lips so he can hold it with his teeth while he crawls forward on his hands.  He drags himself forward on a wooden panel held to his body by a large circuit of leather - two belts, buckled to each other to make the big loop.  This way, his calloused-to-blackness hands are free to pull him across the cobbles towards Jezzabella, the board scraping along beneath him and sparing his hips, and the stumps where legs should be that terminate just above the knee, the pain of being dragged along the stone.  But needing his hands for locomotion, he is forced to use his teeth to hold the bowl until he is parallel to the road as you come by him.  Corvo is immediately at the extension of his leash toward the man, interested in this new friend who occupies the same altitude as he, and at once is giving the old timer sniffs about the face, and arms, and sides.  If the man finds this less than dignified, he does not say so; but merely pushes his body up on the heel of one palm and raises the bowl in the other, reaching up to about the stirrup of your left foot.  His voice is a gravelly rumble; a condition that seems unlikely to be connected to his leglessness, but does not sound remarkably healthy either.

_"Ciao, bella signorina; spare a_ rame_ for a lesser man?"_

*Quartiere degli Dei*

The Gods' quarter has the best cross section of the city's inhabitants you've seen so far; poor and rich alike milling into the district whose landscape of modest to fine homes is punctuated by much grander, even fantastically ornate buildings that house the worship of the gods of men and women of Verezzo.  Surely, one of these people, one of these places, must have some use for the near-to-ruined book that you have carted around since you found it in the goblin's stash - but now, to find them...

*Spoiler: OOC: Gossip!*
Show

You're in the right place to look, so give me a +20 Gossip roll to seek a buyer for the book.  This does not count as your 'endeavour' in this area; but it may reveal options as to what that might be!

----------


## BananaPhone

Taalia Giovanni

Taalia genuinely enjoys Sapienza's company, and the two stay up surprisingly late in chat. They have a larger difference in age, with Sapienza being possibly half a decade younger than Ariana, it was nice for the shepardess to just _talk_ normally to other people she wouldn't otherwise have met. Indeed, Taalia felt for the other womans situation and hoped that her hard work would eventually pay off. She also made a mental note to recommend the girl if she ever heard of someone requiring a cartographer of sorts - maybe even Pollo? - while Taalia herself revealed her own past. Or at least..._some_ of it. She spared the woman the details about the Skaven and The Under-Empire, the poor dear had enough to worry about. Instead she just mentioned that she was taken by Norscans very young, and had only managed to escape in the past half year and was fortunate to be taken in by a wonderful family in Bella Collina, and that her first season as a novice shepardess had gone well...and thus she would be travelling to Verezzo every six months or so. There were opportunities in the farmlands if one had a mixture of luck and moxie, but she'd keep an eye out for anyone needing a cartographer. 

oOo
*Alcatani Fellowship Chapter House*

Arriving at the chapter house, Taalia was dressed again in her Good dress, her face lightly decorated with her Good cosmetics kit and her hair done up nicely. Upon her back was the backpack that contained the ornately carved wooden chest within which was the gun and its ensemble of powder and shot, yet this was entirely covered up by the shield that she had strung over her back also. Upon her hip was her sword scabbard, the handle ready to be seized at a moments notice, while her quarterstaff was resting neatly within a sling-pouch affixed to the side of _Jezebella_. Dismounting her horse and tethering it to the station, and taking Corvo's leash in one hand, Taalia approached the two men that were slouched about in the consumption of lunch. 

"Buongiorno, Singore," Taalia said with her characteristically friendly smile. 

"I am seeking one Singore Rodolfuccio da Viteriano. Is he present?"


oOo

*The Quarter of the Ox*


Taalia was not as affected by the squalor as most would be, given her...history. Indeed, places of this quarter, however ramshackle and awful, seemed positively delightful compared to the underground hell she had endured and survived. But such one-up-manship served no one really, nor did it make these people's lot and easier. The stories they could tell...she was sure most of them did not _want_ to be here, though some likely had little thought beyond their next meal. For a second her mind drifted to those four troublemaker boys that had once mocked her, but whom she now actually respected for holding fast against the mutants and working well when paid. Why couldn't people like this simply leave their squalid conditions and find work elsewhere? What was stopping them? Surely most weren't crippled, lame or mentally broken? Was it a lack of ability? Of will to do so? Motivation?

Then the beggar rolled up to her after she had made the mistake of making eye contact. Back in the pits you _never_ made eye contact with those you weren't allied with, as such recognition brought one to anothers potentially aggressive attention. Here, it seemed, the focus was not on physically hammering, but pulling at the heart-strings, but Taalia wasn't made of stone. She flinched seeing the elderly mans condition. 

Reaching to her hip, out of sight of the beggar, where her silver coin purse was stored, she retrieved 1 silver coin and dropped it into the mans bowl.

"Go to one of the churches. It is their divine duty to assist you, should you _want_ it," she spoke down to him, her voice unusually stern, before turning to face right forward and ignore anyone else who might have tried their luck. 

Clicking her tongue at Jezebella, the horse enhanced her pace a little, as the shepardess affected as quick an exit as she could.

----------


## MrAbdiel

*The Quarter of the Ox*

The legless man peers into the bowl, now occupied by silver, and calls up to you, as you hasten away.

"Bless you, signorina!  Bless your kindness!"

A third blessing might have been lined up; but raising his voice to call drags him into a coughing fit; and guarding his luck, he puts the coin away in a fold of his rags, and pulls himself back to his shady spot, puffing from the effort.  You cannot tell if he will heed your firm encouragement to seek help more directly at the churches; but you have given him twelve times as much as he asked for, which is good deed enough.

*Alcatani Fellowship Chapter House*

The soldiers by the door look over you, then look to each other.  They share a look that suggests some silent, mutual recognition of something unstated, before the fat one looks back to you and speaks up.  _"_Chiedo scusa, signorina_; but there's no such man here.  Perhaps you mean one of the one of the guild halls - Viteriano sounds like a crafter's name, to me."_

*Spoiler: If you succeed on a +20 Intelligence Test...*
Show

...You read their little glances back and forth.  They know him; he may even be here.  But for some reason, they are trying to conceal this from you.  To protect him?  The way they looked you over suggests they saw something about you that made them judge you as, in some way, dangerous to him.  If they knew you were trying to return something he'd lost and wanted back badly enough to pay a lot of gold for, they might let you see him; but do you dare reveal that to these two?


*Quarter of the Merchants*

The sulphur smell is rich in _Signore Montaglio's Fine Substances_; even with his young apprentice turning a crank that revolves a bronze construction in the wall; a circular thing that could fit in the loop of your arms, with an appearance something like a flower with six petals overlapping all in the same direction.  A sort of wheel, you think, designed to push the smelly fumes out of the shop - but without something similar pushing more air in, you wonder if it will not become thinned and hard to breathe in here.  But Signore Montaglio doesn't seem to mind, and you are forced to trust his instinct.  A pleasantly straightforward man with the capacity to hold a conversation while performing his work without and sacrifice of his expertise, he pauses in his chemical dabblings from time to time to indulge in an odd habit - washing his fingertips in a basin, and smoothing back the fluffy sides of his dark hair.  The wiry curls there, which have retreated in a ring around the crown of his head leaving him with a crop of dark locks from temple to temple, but an island of staunch holdouts on the top of his noggin, have a habit of crazing out into odd tufts, and he seems very self-concious of this indeed.  He does, however, know his chemicals.

"The smell's part of the nature of the work.  For every person interested in some special chemical concoction, there's nineteen mercenaries looking to secure an order of powderkegs for their brotherhood, or unit, or regiment.  I make good powder now, but the process is a little boring; I like a good puzzle, and making powder that won't blow up someone's expensive rifle is a solved puzzle already.  I like this, though."

The little sample of stained white stone sits on his workbench; the chemist chips a corner off it, and drops that corner in a bubbling blue fluid whose nature is totally alien to you.  He commentates as he goes.  _"Your instincts are right; it's white marble, and a kind that's common enough in pockets and seams throughout the hills of Verezzo.  Troll filth, you say?  Mm...  Part oil based, part organic.  I can probably work you up something.  I can't tell you what it'll cost just yet - I need some answers first - but if you're in the city for a couple of days, if you leave this sample with me and check back, I'll make an estimate for you.  This part, I'll do for free; just to solve the puzzle."_

While you're there, before you leave for your other errands, you have the presence of mind to ask the signore about physicians - they are related disciplines after all, and he might have learned peers.

_"Well, I suppose you've a few options.  The Shallyan sanitorium has the best long term care that money_ can't_ buy.  But unless your friend wants to come to Verezzo and stay in their facility, you're unlikely to get long-term help from them that isn't intermittent visitations and... welcome, but unhelpful prayers.  But Academy of Empirics has a number of very fine minds on very fine subjects; the Senate maintains it to call on their specialists when it's one of the merchant princelings who needs an alienist, or a doktor, or a mechanical solution to a problem.  You could spend as much money as you want, on a physician; but you'll get a very good one for that kind of sum.  For what it's worth, I recommend a younger one; they tend to pay more attention, and become more fascinated by their task.  Older doktors have seen so much; more experienced, but also more jaded, and more loaded with assumptions.  But I'll say a prayer for your friend, either way; Khaine take those wretched mutants, one and all._"  He gives a _so there_ nod, and smoothes his hair again; then becomes wrapped up in the glacially slow chemical changes happening to your sample rock.  Best, then, to leave him to it.

Before you leave the Road of Excellence, you find your way to the Gunsmith's Guildhall, and ask about damaged goods.  They direct you to Leo Campeze, a prolific young smith currently in the business of trying (perhaps failing) to train four apprentices at once.  At the counter of his store, while his apprentices toil away boring, carving, polishing and casting, you speak to the gunsmith himself.  half of his face is scattered with radiating scars from what was probably a backfire from a poorly made gun, early in his career; it's a miracle he's kept both eyes.

_"Something broken..?  Hmm.  Well, weapons with small imperfections, I like to save for my lads to work up to salable.  Blunderbusses, I mean.  Rifles, even muskets, that take significant damage, well.. You're often better scrapping them entirely.  Too much at stake, you know? But I might be able to find something..."_

*Spoiler: An offer.*
Show

Leo will sell you a *Broken Blunderbuss* for 28 _duri_.  With significant work, a gunsmith could turn it into merely a poor quality blunderbuss. With a significantly longer investment of time and effort, it could become a _normal quality_ blunderbuss.


*Quarter of the Gods*

An acolyte of Shallya looks at the book, and tells you she isn't familiar with the work; but directs you to the Academy of Empirics - somewhere you had thought to go anyway, looking for a physician.  But on your way to the Academy, you spot an acolyte of one of the religious orders carrying so many books that she is nearly falling over - a dangerous feat both for her physical wellbeing, and because those books, if badly damaged, become worth much less, as you well know.  Stopping to help her, she thanks you profusely and ends up reaching her destination - the Temple of Clio.  Clio is a goddess you've never heard of; but the Initiate waiting for the acolyte you helped is happy to tell you, even as he takes the books from your arms.

_"Clio the mother of learning; the delver into the past, and what we might glean therefrom.  All knowledge is worth capturing, to her clergy; what doesn't seam useful now may prove crucial later.  As for this book... it's badly damaged.  But who knows when more of it may turn up?  It may take me some months of correspondance with my fellows to determine if there are more complete volumes of this work extant in other places; but considering its condition, and that you've come all this way...  I'd be willing to buy it off you presently for, say, thirty duri.  You're unlikely to get a better offer - no one values knowledge conceptually, as much as Clio."_

When you delicate broach the subject of magical text, the Initiate, whose name you learn is Andruccio, smiles faintly.  "We do, infact.  Magical works are rare, of course.  Sought after; hoarded; controlled in many cases by both mages and those who don't appreciate them.  The temple of Clio in Altdorf has a massive library of text that predate the great -... Oh, well, I'm rambling again.  But I could, perhaps, procure such a text; though..."  He grimaces, and offers an apologetic smile.  "You do not have the look of the normal purchaser of such things, if you don't mind me saying.  At the low end, such a grimoire would cost in the range of _five hundred duri._"

*Spoiler: OOC: Options!*
Show

In addition to _all dat_, you can spend a fifth endeavour for the day to seek out a physician at the Academy; but doing so, as you know, will mean you're hustling back to the Lucky Duck later at night, at the risk of some happenings.

----------


## BananaPhone

Taalia Giovanni

Taalia perked a single eyebrow at the two fellows, the combination of skinny and fat encasements in armour and the...slobbish way in which they ate their meal and stood to attention as guards...this wasn't exactly the highly disciplined, well-oiled mercenary fighting machine she had anticipated. 

Her eyes tracked back and forth between B1 and B2 when they offered their mewling, clearly spontaneously thought up excuses or suggestions as to the supposed absence of Singore Viteriano. Did they think that she was..._dangerous_ to their sire? Her? Ms Unamored (though admittedly carrying a sword and shield), pretty, but scarred girl off the street in nice clothes as a physical _threat_ to a mighty mercenary captain in his own den? What chook raffle was this?

"I am here to see Singore Viteriano. He recently posted a bounty for a lost weapon, and I am here to inquire about it. Look at me, gentlemen," Taalia gestured to herself. Yes, she was unnaturally tall and athletic, but her sunny smile dispelled any imposing facade she might have had. 

"I have travelled from my home in the rural areas and I was attacked by bandits on the road - an assault my companions and I barely survived. That is why I carry these..." she pointed with one hand to her sword and with her other to her shield. 

oOo
Quarter of the Merchants

Signore Montaglio's Fine Substances was a wonderful time for the shepardess, as she found the chemical workshop oddly comforting. Perhaps it exhumed the warmest feelings (or closest approximation to 'warm' feelings one could have) to her recent childhood back in Rashabangs workshop - simply working at her own pace on some contraption or alchemical mixture and seeing success by following rudimentary protocols. Maybe that's why she found the craftsmen so agreeable, why she was able to _click_ with them a little easier than most - the pursuit of knowledge by trial and error, the base scientific method and cataloguing of what worked and didn't work in the world. There was something beautiful about learning more about the mechanics that underlay the surrounding environment and devising and experimenting on methods to turn those mechanics to one advantage. Taalia could still recall a fond memory when she was approximately ten, and she was introduced to the idea of a 'fulcrum' and the ease with which torque could turn an immovable, heavy object into an article that could be hoisted with a simple downward movement of her young arm and shoulder. 

Chemicals, meanwhile, were passable familiar to her - but not intimately. Taalia was still learning the apothecaries trade from Singora Madre, a complex and dizzying array of mixtures, solutions, temperatures, timings and ingredients that all needed to be applied in the correct combination to create a useable, workable potion. But this chemist took things in an alternate direction, and instead of creating liquids that could be imbibed, he crafted ones that could be applied...such as the cleaning detergent she sought. 

While Singore Montalgio took Taalia about his shoppe, the shepardess had several questions lined up as she watched the process, her heterochromia eyes wide as she observed. How do you control exact temperature? How do you aspirate precise volumetric measurements? Does the source of fire, whether alcohol, peat, charcoal or even copper alter the final product? What is your process for new discoveries? Though Taalia lacked the formal training to fully grasp Singore Montalgio's ensuing explanation, her history in Rashabangs workshop and current tutelage under Singora Madre meant that she could at least appreciate the answer, rather than stare blankly with a simple smile and nod. 

That Singore Montalgio wouldn't charge her for the initial consultation was also appreciated, as Taalia gave that winning smile and a little polite bow. "Thank you Singore Montalgio!" She silently pondered what the final product would be worth. Surely it couldn't be more than a few duro, she wondered. Or hoped, even.

She likewise thanked him for the suggestion of a Physician, her face losing its smile and becoming more sombre at the mention of Ernesto and his injury. 

When Taalia departed the chemists workshop, she soon found herself within another small factory, but this time for guns - and Taalia felt like a kid in a candy store. 

Perhaps the Skavens penchant for weaponry rubbed off on her when she was younger. Or maybe she knew what dangers lurked in the world that needed blasting from a safe distance. Or, perhaps as a woman and a human, she had a particular appreciation for guns as the great equaliser. A man could be much bigger and stronger than her, but a 10 gauge lead bullet to the belly would drop him as much as it would a huge greenskin. Taalia knew that firearms had given humans a fighting edge against the monsters of the world, and she could only see this technological advantage expanding in the centuries to come to ensure that there always remained a safe place for her kind within a violent world. 

Thus, Taalia treated Leo Campeze with a noticeable degree of...awe? Appreciation? Whatever it was, she hung on his every word and listened intently. She observed the method of construction and quality control with a glean in her eye, as she wondered whether Cestie could teach her how to do this herself...which lead to the discovery of the broken blunderbuss. 

"28 duro?" Taalia repeated sceptically, her prior prior fangirl-esque attention washing away a little. 

Half price? For a *broken* gun? She could get a poor make of the same type of firearm for that price - and it'd at least be operable. She recalled how difficult it has been to sell her damaged book, half of its pages gone and its uses extremely limited. Singore Campeze was basically selling her a 30 duro club.

"With respect, that seems a little pricey, Singore, for an inoperable weapon that I need to learn a profession to make suitable for use in the defence of my community. We recently endured a troll attack, and a pack of mutants on our roads that left a good young man as a potential cripple for life..."

*Quarter of the Gods*


Taalia's eyes glazed over for a second as she seemed to zone out at the offer for her book. When she came to, the damaged tome was already in her hands and being offered up towards the initiates as if she were presenting a newborn babe for inspection by the village elders. 

"I accept your offer!"

But the mention of the grimoire...*five hundred duro*?! What, was it made of diamonds? Were the words inscribed with liquid gold? Though Taalia currently had an eye-watering amount of money resting within the protective walls of a bank, she could scarcely begin to wonder where five hundred duro would go...well she knew exactly where it would go: more land and livestock! Think of the enormous flock she could purchase! The sales from fleece alone would be...

Taalia came back to the present, offered a pleasant smile. 

"That is out of my budget for now, I am afraid," she laughed.

----------


## MrAbdiel

*The Alcatani Fellowship Chapterhouse*

At this confession of purpose, the men look at each other again, laugh lightly, and seem releived.  _"Oh, certainly, certainly signorina. _ Chiedo scusa_, once again; you looked like you might be one of his bloody daughters come to find him, again.  Happens every now and then.  Here, come on through; he's the big chap at table in the main hall."_

The interior is clean and fair, though not incredibly sophisticated; hardwood surfaces, lightly varnished at most, kept and swept.  A few dozen men might live here, in collegial closeness; but at the moment of morning, too late for breakfast, too early for lunch, the main hall features one long table surrounded by chairs, with a tireless middle ages woman clearing off the last of the wooden plates at the far end; and at the end closest to you, a pair of men.  One is a wiry chap with a large backpack next to him to which is strapped a number of scabbards, holsters, holders and hafts; a sort of _weapon caddy_ of a man, talking quietly to his companion. But his companion is the man you are looking for; the most plainly dangerous man you have ever seen, at least since your hazy memories of the towering warriors from the northlands who took so much from you.  Rodolfuccio might be your height, standing up; but his broad body is leaned forward to the table, propped up on his elbows; a face that is more appreciably sharp than handsome watching the woodgrain in melancholic detail.  Light brown hair matches light brown eyes, and loose light brown leathers hanging off his impressive frame, not yet fastened for engaging the day with any vigor.  A dash of stubble on his chin contrasts the sallowness of his skin, as he looks up to your entry, and that of the rounder mercenary who guided you in.

_"Who's this?"_  He asks without trim or coyness; though his eyes and unmoved expression seem not to indicate genuine immediate interest as much as awareness that you wouldn't be here at all, without some kind of reason. _"A young signorina, Rodolfuccio;"_ the guard replies, supplying no information at all; quickly adding, _"...here about your gun.  The stolen one."_

This does animate him a little; and he sits actually upright in his chair, watching you with expectation.

*Quarter of the Merchants*

Leo Campeze gives you a little shrug.  _"I'm taking food our of these boy's mouths if I sell it to you for less.  I'd go down to twenty six and a half, but that's as far as I can go.  But if you don't mind me asking, signorina... What made you think the best way to learn this trade was to buy a broken weapon and tinker with it yourself?  It's no joke."_  He thumbs up at his own facial scars.  _"Take it from me.  A gunsmith has to become a master of metal and wood, and to an extend, the chemicals of the powder.  If you want a blunderbuss, you're best to buy a good one.  If you want to learn the trade, you'd do best to invest the hours you need on the early end.  Carving wood; heating and hammering metal; importantly, learning the use of the swage block, and the bores, and making your own screws.  It's a lot to learn; and you need to be able to do that reliably if you ever want to make more compact weapons, or to think about putting rifling on something.  It's definately not a skill to learn from first principles by yourself; you'll just lose fingers.    But if you have a pile of spare_ duro_ lying around, you might find an old teacher who knows what he's doing and just pay him to tutor you for a year or two.  Then, once you know what you're doing, you can make a weapon that's not liable to kill you; and you'll have made it all yourself."_

You could probably hire a retired artisan to mentor you, for that kind of money.  But judging from what you know of Signore Cestié, old tinker probably knows how to make simple firearms, atleast; and has the tools to do so in his workshop.  In his younger years, he's been more fascinated by strange creations and mechanical marvels; in his older age, he has seemed possessed of no strong urge to crank out weapons to sell.  Making bells, and locks, and puzzles, and hinges has suited him fine.  But he likes you; it seems likely he'd be happy to teach you a thing or two, whether that begins with restoring this busted musket, or starting from scratch and working up, while the saved gold becomes more pigs in the interim.

*Quarter of the Gods*

The initiate laughs with you.  _"It's out of almost everyone's budget.  That's the kind of money a bored merchant prince's scion will spend hoping to learn some mystical secret to give them an edge over their rivals.  Almost always it ends up sold on when they give up anyway.  Fair roads to you, signorina!"_

----------


## BananaPhone

Taalia Giovanni

One of his daughters? Plural? Coming to accost him?

When the men turned, Taalia smirked. She remembered Rocco...that sly, dirty dog. And when she came face to face with the man, she could see why. He was the first human that matched her height, his impressive physicality fluttering her heart a little as instincts whispered into her brain that he could produce strong children and was reliable to bring home food and provide shelter. The cobbler boy had been sweet, and she had appreciated his advances, but before her was a _man_, a dangerous man, but one constrained by a degree of virtue. That he had sired daughters who were her own age range suggested to her that he had no problems in that avenue of adventure. 

"Singore Rodolfuccio," Taalia smiled and nodded, her sonorous and smoky voice the only thing audible in the hall as all fell silent. 

"You recently posted a bounty for the return of a firearm, yes? With a ravenheads hammer, Blue Berthilda imprinted upon it, yes?" she started, confirming details that he would know, and which verified she had read his pamphlet. But then she went further in description with details that had _not_ been on the pamphlet. 

"In a finely crafted, ornate box? Powder and shot enough for 19, which are contained in an oiled, leather bag?"

She allowed a pregnant pause to linger in the air before continuing. 

"I am a Shepardess from a rural region. On my travel to Caesa di Silo I was accosted by a girl about yay tall," she gave an indication with her right hand, "brown hair. She was carrying a box, claimed to have stolen it from someone in Verezzo and wanted my shelter from bounty hunters. I told her no, and she dropped in flight as she was hotly pursued by an elf on horseback, a bounty hunter. I retrieved the box, opened it, saw what was within it, and remembering the mention of bounty hunters, when I arrived here in Verezzo I checked at the Hall of Hired Blades. Low and behold: an advertisement fitting the description of the pistol, with your name attached to it Singore Rodolfuccio, and the assigned reward for its safe return."

Once again another pause. Nothing she had said was a lie. 

"I have the item nearby, completely intact, not a shot fired nor piece disturbed. I wish to claim the bounty you had on offer, 200 duros."

oOo

Taalia listened to Campeze's question, taking no offence at his inquiry as his reasoning was sound. Perhaps even persuasive. 

Pursing her lips, Taalia couldn't help but smile in confession. 

"I...had a troubled childhood. Many unpleasant events. But I was in a workshop, like this, beneath a...male," her choice was word was unusual, "who showed me the few instances of kindness I ever knew at the time. I worked on his creations, weapons, alchemy. Now that I am in the world at large, a man within my town, Singore Maso Cestié, has promised to educate me on these matters..." she gestured to the weaponry and general devices.

"And...this sounds somewhat romantic, I know...but I have an affinity for broken things that can be made new again. This sounds silly, singore, I admit, but I liked the idea of rescuing a once beautiful device from the scrap-heap and restoring it to former beauty and function. heh..."

She trails off, smiling, shaking her head. 

"But what you say does make sense. What if, could I purchase off you general schematics for a firearm, pistol and blunderbuss? Not your own personal, intellectual property or secrets, but just general designs? Singore Cestie has promised to educate me in this craft, and with those schematics I could, as you say, make them myself one day. Would five duro work for you?

----------


## MrAbdiel

*The Alcatani Fellowship Chapterhouse*

The warrior listens, one eyebrow lifting slightly with acknowledgement of your forthcoming attitude with the details.  Most of them, anyway.

He turns to his companion, murmuring something to him; reaching into his half-laced doublet to produce a fat steel key on a chain.  Lifting the loop of the chain from around his neck, he hands it to the offsider who trots off into another room, from which you can hear the clinking of coin.

_"Do you have it with you?"_

His accent is a little unusual; still within the band of Tilean, but your ear tells you it's not native Verezzan, or Miraglean, or Trantian. 
 But there are many city states, and you ought not be surprised that you can't tell them all by ear.  He asks his question plainly, without ever feeling the need to rise and address you with that level of formality _let alone_ any of the shifty non-payment shenanigans Amelia warned you about.  Inside of a minute, his caddy is back; upending a wash of clinking gold coins onto the table with the minted denominational brands of several different states of Tilea; but in most cases, the lion of Verezzo.  He stacks then neatly with admirable swiftness - five columns, of four rows, of piles of ten; and when you are satisfied with the display, slides them off the table into a leather pouch that is left bulging and barely capable of closing.

_"If you see the elf again, on your way back... it would be polite to let her know the bounty has been filled."_

That was easy.  No attempt to defraud you at all; no hesitation in producing this huge sum of wealth, and even putting it on the table before you without standing to his feet or seeing the pistol's return, yet.  You could grab the pouch of gold and run, probably slipping past the two disinterested mercenaries on duty and out into the street - but your survival instinct, which has never failed you yet, tells you that this man Rodolfuccio is sitting not in a display of radical trust, but in supreme confidence that it is within his power to respond to such events even from this lax position.

*The Quarter of Merchants*

Leo Campeze, master gunsmith, frowns as your tale tugs at his sympathies.  It's hard not to feel for such a story, even with its worst parts excised; or hard, atleast, for a warm-spirited and emotional people, that Tileans seem to be.

"Well.  I'm afraid I don't know the Signore you speak of, so I'll trust your word he knows his business.  As for schematics... Most of my apprentices don't have letters.  They forge and file by comparison to the example pieces I leave them.  But I understand, I think.  Here."

He wanders away from the counter, touring his studio and grabbing some odds and ends, before returning to you and laying them out.  One is a roll of parchment just under four feet long which, when unrolled, has a clearly lined, but abstract outline of a gun - or part of it.  It is marked with some annotations about the straightness of woodgrain, and the depth of the barrel channel.  *"This is a stock template for a standard shoulder-fired blunderbuss.  My advice is you cut a piece of wood to that length, and then in your travels, keep an eye out for maple trees with nice straight limbs and trunks that could fit the length and profile of your example stick.  You won't be able to use it - you need to let the wood dry for a year or so so you'll be buying material until then - but if you're serious about making your own things, that's a start.  Hopefully your signore will know about carving the stock itself."*  The rest are tools - files, callipers, wooden measuring jigs; enough to occupy the small fabric bag he piles them into.  "I can't give you much of what you need, but for five _duri_, these will get you started.  Most of the work is filing, and boring out the interior of the barrel to smooth it.  A blunderbuss doesn't need to be mirror-smooth, but if you want to make an accurate musket later, that's what you'll be looking for. But you're in for a world of minor adjustments, paper-thin alterations, to get everything to fit right.  I have all my boys start by making simple matchlocks, then we work on a serpentine-touch mechanism.  If your fella gets in over his head, well..."  He looks back at his shop, in which his apprentices file and bore and bore and file.  _"Well, maybe I'll kick out the slowest learner and you can take his spot."_ 

This _zinger_ goes unnoticed, all of the lads fitfully trying to accomplish their tasks; but Leo appreciates his own humor, anyway.

*Spoiler: OOC:*
Show

This is sort of a grab-bag of gunsmithing tools.  You can buy it for 5 duri right now; and I'll consider it one tenth of a whole set of Gunsmith's Tools, which is what you need to do things like repair and service weapons on the road (50GC).  When you get around to buying that, you can get it at a 5 GC discount for already possessing these parts.

An actual tradesman needs facilities to make things, which requires a forge (1500GC) and atleast a set of tools (50GC).  Fortunately, you know a guy who has both of those; but getting some of your own tools is a fine step on the way to justifying your own competence and learning in that direction.

----------


## BananaPhone

Taalia Giovanni


Taalia watched with her best poker face as the money was collected, counted and siphoned into a little pouch and then pushed across the table to her. 

At the request of the item, Taalia first reached out towards that sack of coins. She did so at a general pace, nothing swift and fast as if she had the idea of running, but just casually - collecting it up and holding it in her left hand. 

Then, she slid her shield off her shoulder and, with her right hand, put it on the floor leaning against the table. Then she slid her backpack off her shoulders and gently lay it on the table. With her right hand, she opened it, reached inside, and withdrew the the ornately decorated box and lay it on the table. She then unclicked the little hook holding it shut and opened it to reveal the beautiful contents within: the pistol, the shots, the powder and the little oiled bag. The raven-head hammer was there, as was the unmistakable stamp 'Blue Berthilda' upon its side. 

"All present. As I said, not fired once."

Taalia then put the money pouch into her backpack and slung it back over her shoulders, then retrieved her shield. 

She was about to leave, but then hesitated as a thought caught in her mind.

"Singore Rodolfuccio," she asked.

"This was not premeditated, I assure you, but purely a spontaneous thought that I had. But is your company in need of a cartographer to accompany it for your next job?"

oOo

Taalia looked over the tools and the schematic, listening to what the gunsmith had to say in regards to constructing just a single blunderbuss. Drying tree branches for an entire year? No wonder they were so costly, not to mention the precision required to make them. It was scarcely left to the imagination as to why the Skaven technology, though potentially powerful, was fraught with mishaps and catastrophes given their reliance on uncaring labour. Her present company excluded, of course!

"Thank you Singore Campeze," Taalia spoke, holding the schematics and rolling them up to fit into the bag, before shuffling about in her own backpack to retrieve the 5 duro agreed upon and handing it over. 

"I have seen success as a shepardess, which, if I am not being too presumptuous, means I will be regularly visiting Verezzo once every six months. In a years time, I hope you show you finished products of a respectable quality," she beamed.

With her transaction completed and bidding the young Gunsmith a fond farewell, Taalia mounted her steed and clicked her tongue to summon Corvo's attention. 

It was back to the _Lucky Duck_ for another night of sleep. Tomorrow would be the last day of business in the city, by her estimation, complete with buying a few souvenirs for Gaulfredo, Ariana and Vitorio. Then on the morning after, she would depart once again, stopping by The Pigly, then Caesa and then home to Bella Collina. What an adventure!

----------


## MrAbdiel

The champion does not, as you might have feared, interpret your reaching for the coins as the overture to theft, to hurl an axe into your chest.  Rather, he lets you place the box down; his eyes taking on recognition immediately, and some quiet, sadder aspect as he drags the box over infront of him; taking the pistol in hand, thumbing back the hammer, setting it forth again, holding the weapon on the platter of his open hands and regarding it with thought.

It's a few seconds after your parting thought that he emerges from his reverie, blinking as he realizes you're still here, and mentally reads over the stenographic record in his brain of the last few moments in which he was paying no attention.

_"...Don't know yet.  Our chapter here is quite small, so far; life's been good for a long time in Verezzo, so few displacements.  When the orcs make their way down from the mountains, or around the horn, or the pirates break inland, or Pavona starts something, then business will pick up again.  If we know where we're likely to fight, having it charted is a good way to start.  Until then..."_  A detached shrug of broad, powerful shoulders; and his eyes go back to the returned weapon, and whatever melancholy is for him there.  The fat pikeman, who has watched you receive such a massive financial boon without comment, invites you back to the entrance with a directive hand; and off you go, two hundred _duri_ the richer for the price of just a little dishonesty - and to an elf, so it hardly counts at all.

* * * * *

----------


## BananaPhone

Taalia Giovanni

Taalia nods as she listens, clearly able to see that the man had a sentimental allure to that pistol.

"Well, her name is Sapienza, a blonde girl, currently making maps for customers at the Lucky Duck. Good worker, just needs the chance," she states, her words and focus more on the champions Major-Domo whobhad gathered the money than the man himself.

Her message deliveted, Taalia departed, got onto her horse, drew Corvo to her side and headed back to the Lucky Duck. It'd be another night, then out again tomorrow. The days were full, but what stories she'd have to tell when she got home!

----------


## MrAbdiel

The offsider/caddy/majordomo seems to know you're directing this recommendation his way. He gives you a nod, as one creature in the shadow of this gloomy destroyer to another; and seems not to be just _oh-sure_ing you.  Time will tell if that recommendation bears fruit.  For now, you have _so much gold_ that your ambitions have to keep resetting their boundaries; and a little work left, before you can return home.

* * * * *

Another evening, another morning, and a new day, and you strike out first towards the Academy of Empirics.

*En Route...*

Passing through the District of the Ox once more on your way to the Academy, you follow the circular, well patrolled road and glance to the side where the old timer on the skidboard hunkered in the shade previous.  But he is not there - now there is a group of five beggars, sitting together; one missing a foot on a crutch, one bent forward; the other three seemingly suffering a more general wretchedness.  And seeing you and Jezzebella coming down the road, they hustle to the roadside with their begging bowls; the man on the crutch pulling in last in the row.

_"Alms, kind signorina?"
"A coin of kindness?"
"Spare a chip of copper, please!"_

As one disharmonious chorus, they clamour for your attention, and a squib of your money.

*Spoiler: OOC!*
Show

Discounts and shows paused before we resolve this little encounter!

----------


## BananaPhone

Taalia Giovanni

Taalia glared suspiciously at this little crowd that seemes to be waiting for her...

Eyes narrowed, brow furrowed, she nevertheless relented. She had money, and charity was a virtue.

Reaching into her penny purse as she trotted by, she tossed a few pennies to each, not even bothering to direct them to where they could better themselves.

Ooc:
Marking off 15 pennies, or 1 silver and 3 pennies.

----------


## MrAbdiel

_"Bless you, signorina!"
"Gods keep you, signorina!"_

The appreciative gabble dies off as you carry on your way.  Over your shoulder, a scuffle ensues with some disagreement over the ideal distribution of these gained pennies; but you cannot meticulously fix each of these poor individuals behaviours, and police their petty sins.  You put them out of your mind, and carry on your way.

* * * * *

*Quarter of the Gods - The Academy of Empirics*

The Academy would be more grand if it were not in the shadow, sometimes literally so, of the district temples.  Still, wide stone porch behind a smart colonnade of with hanging banners, mostly black with white lions rampant.  This black fabric seems a deliberate choice; a refusal to select one of the senatorial colors.  The colonade runs around a hollow square structure with a wealth of study rooms and laboratories, with the interior of the square hosting more sumptuous buildings in which, presumably, the most important teaching and study takes place.  You ask around for a while for help finding a physician; your decision to dress and present for the occasion seems to help, and most of these bustling book-carriers seem to take you seriously enough; and a sequence of them leads you (after one or two false starts) eventually to an ideal candidate.

Antonuccia de Venze is a woman in her early thirties from a small trade village called "Detrito" in southern Miragliano.  At five foot three, she's tiny beside you; but so is almost everyone, and this can hardly be held against the sensible woman before you.  Blonde hair frames her face in which brown eyes seem to be set, perhaps, a little too close together; but the circular spectacles perched on her nose seem to hide that fact and leave her looking studious, and deeply interested where she is looking.  From what she tells you over a little discussion, while sipping a boiled beverage called _al'qahua_, apparently distilled from roasted beans from far Araby.  But the education radiates from her words; not obnoxious, necessarily; but heavy.

"I was a barber-surgeon here in Verezzo for several years while I studied here, at the Academy; and since I've enjoyed recognition as a learned physician, I've done medical consultations and procedures for six _rampollos_ and one merchant prince; though I've resisted retainer because I've been afforded the chance to teach here.  But Verezzo has been long enough without war that new-monied parents aren't sending their children to study medicine hoping they'll get to pull the bullets from the legs of a great general, someday; they're directing them to more traditional novelties like trade and politics, which are both fine enough.  I could certainly come to see your friend, and perhaps help if help is to be had; or help him make the accommodations to his life he'll need to make, if not.  If you'll have me, I'd certainly take the offer - though I admit I've never had to ride such a distance.  Perhaps... we could charter a coach?"

* * * * *

*Quarter of the Ox - The Seven Signorine Theatre*

When you make your way back through the Quarter of the Ox, you take a chance to go by the _Seven Signorine_ theatre; named for the carved wooden pillars holding up the timber veranda; each depicting a young maiden in an almost scandelously sheer dress; gasping in shock, or reeling with laughter, or wailing melodramatically, or another excessive emotional posture.  They are painted as tan-skinned brunettes; though they have clearly been defaced and repainted so many times that the current job has obscured what was likely beautiful detail and rendered many of the girls almost effigaic of their former selves.  A chirpy young stable hand minds your horse for a penny - and is willing to mind Corvo, too, for another.  If the folk here had a habit of stealing horses while people were at the theatre, they would not long be in business; but you don't feel bad taking the saddlebags and your quarterstaff and other things to a brown uniformed older man serving as a cloakroom warden.  He wears a flat leather cap that seems almost older than he is, and he drags his left foot as he walks; but many of the patrons seem to know him by name - Micci.  Instinct tells you Micci is a good man to be on the good side of - a decent tip for him to make sure your things are kept safe while you are in the theatre may be wise.

You buy a ticket to the now show, and take a seat near an isle where girls and boys scurry up and down the stairs selling plain but warm scones for a penny a pop, and settle in to see what a 'show' is about.

*Spoiler: OOC: Thespian Considerations*
Show

3p for a ticket, 1p for a scone, 2p to mind the animals, plus whatever you want to tip Micci for his troubles.

Also, it's worth considering - this is the first show of any kind Taalia has ever been to; even, the first acted-out story where people play 'parts'.  The closest she's probably seen are the pagan whoop-and-wriggle ceremonies around the Norscan fires where dancers would enact some kind of salutory movements for one of their frostbitten gods.  I wonder how the novelty of this all will effect someone as unworldly as Taalia!


_We Dons Of Bilbali_ is the story of four young 'dons', which you gather are lords of some kind, in the Estalian Kingdom of Bilbali. They wear absurdly broad hats, and pants that are so baggy they seem almost to be skirts that are sewn at the bottom.  The four Dons are Ulises, Lalo, Gerado, and Carlos; and they are friends who have bonded as maritime guards of tradeships, gallantly fighting the pirates in the western ocean.  But the time has come that they are all being pressured by their mothers, all of them widows of the previous dons,  are nagging and pressuring them to find good wives to secure their positions and enhance their wealth.

The fun of the play is trying to figure out what, precisely, the story will be making fun of, because the field is so rich with targets.  Is it Estalians?  Often yes, but that's too easy.  Is it noble frippery?  Sometimes, yes; an agreeable target for these common crowds.  Perhaps sailors?  Verezzo has a coast to its Republic, but the city is quite landlocked, and the crowds are folks of the plains and hills who welcome every stereotype about sailors being mad with superstition and habitually drunk.  Sometimes the target is closer to home - disappointing sons or nagging mothers, or the hot-blooded mentality that both Tilean and Estalian men are know for.  Most often, the mockery is targeted at the instinctive lechery of men; which is a safe target for japes.  The four dons go on a grand tour looking for women to become their wives they find many cantidates: a damsel of Brionne, a buxom dairy maid, an amazon 'diplomat', a moustached Imperial duchess; and finally the most perfectly beautiful and virtuous signorina of Tilea (in this telling, from Verezzo).

At five points in the story, the dons come to blows over one or more of the women they fancy, and they have protracted silly sword duels while trying to downplay the qualities of the woman they most want, while trying to sell the virtues of one of the others they are trying to 'offload' to another of the dons, whose preferences and foibles become clear over the telling.  A recurring gag reveals the reason for the baggy pants - the actors are wearing some kind of devices under their pants that are activated to produce farcical, yard-long erections that tent their pants out in the most baboonish display of masculine interest.  The ultimate form of this joke comes when all four of the dons are dueling each other, both exchanging sword blows and fencing with their phalluses, when Ulises (the hero?) has the brainwave to start suggesting his friends to marry off to each other's mothers.  As Ulises describes in the most purple and romantic prose how each of their mothers deserves the affection of a young lover, his opponents' secondary weapons deflate as they recoil until Ulises stands surpreme over them all; having defeated his friends by the power to maintain sexual readiness in a conversation about his friends' aging mothers.  A small brass section plays this off as a moment of triumph; and the patrons in the stands seem to think it is the funniest thing in the world.

In the end, the dons confess to each other ultimately that each of them is just trying to eliminate the others so that he alone can pursue the beautiful Tilean girl, and they make a pact to confront her together, and then respect her choice from among them.  But it's too late, by then; when they come to meet her and confess their parallel loves, they blunder into her wedding to a dashing young mercenary captain, whose groomsmen (along with the matronly Verenan officiator) chase the Estalians all over the stage kicking them in the backside as they go.  Ulises' phallus fires up when the matron kicks him, causing a pause in the action as he fumbles to press it down against his leg, before they are finally thrown off the stage entirely at the end of the scene.  The dons go home; they pledge renewed friendship, and they swear off ever fighting over women again.

This, you are assured, is _art_; or a kind, thereof.

* * * * *

*Quarter of the Merchants*

With more shopping to do and your blood up for bargains, you navigate the market more naturally the second time and without a cart to manage as you go.

Shopping for your gifts, you spot a merchant of bottles who is particularly busy - and therefore, likely a seller of quality.  Muscling in for some of his time, you make a neat little saving when you buy your two bottles of brandy with five gold _duro_ and can't find change to split the fifth for you, while his other customers clamour for his attention.  Cringing in apology trying to capture the tide of sales to come, he gives you back the fifth coin, and you come out *9 scellini ahead.*

A quality bowyer is happy to supply you with a bow of ash wood, even taking some time to show you how to string it and unstring it when combat is not immanent.  _"Pity I can't talk you into a longbow,"_ he laments; _"with that height, it feels like a shame not to.  But it does take much practice with that harder drawer, regardless; so I cannot blame you."_  Having enjoyed rambling about his craft to you, he gives you arrows with attractive red fletching instead of the plain tawny or white kinds; more distinctive, though perhaps no more deadly.

*Spoiler: OOC: Good Quality Ammo*
Show

Good Quality Ammunition does not normally convey any benefits, but I'm saying it does.  Normally after a fight arrows have a 50% chance to be recoverable or else they're broken or lost. 
 These good arrows have a 66% chance to be recoverable.


Marco's advice was good, and you find a cobbler selling riding boots of just the kind you had hoped to find; though he has a little chuckle when he has to get you a man's size.  He does not, however, budge on the price; and neither do the clothiers and haberdashers you need to visit to complete your ensemble, though you do not come away feeling gouged.   Merely stylish, in your fancy muffin-cap.

You squeeze in time for a fitting at an armorer.  The man has lost two fingers in combat, which seems to have been the catalyst for his move to armouring rather that fighting; and fortunately, his craft doesn't suffer like his swordsmanship must.

_"If you'll beg my pardon, signorina, I pray you become afforded with the prosperity to order my custom wares.  You've a warrioress stature, which neither I nor any armorers I know stock in standard.  I can fit you out; but if you should ever desire to buy a fitted and personalized set, you come back to me - I'll buy back this array at the sale price when you trade it in!"_

*Spoiler: OOC:*
Show

No discount here, exactly - but if you order a Good or Best quality set of Leather when you're in Verezzo, you can trade in your Normal leather without haggling for best price, and take that off the cost.

You might not think so now, but that encumbrance adds up; later on, you might be hurting for it, and Best Leather is my favorite way to cut back on it.

----------


## BananaPhone

Taalia Giovanni

Taalia snuck a look over her shoulder back at the bickering crowd of invalids and beggars that spat with each other over pennies. One of them had an excuse, his foot missing from some calamity in his past. But the others? Able bodied but still begging in the streets? One might think that Taalia would have an affinity and soft-spot for the downtrodden and dispossessed of the world, given her background. However, what her time of slavery had taught her was that able labour was a precious commodity, and what one did was what one earned. If someone was a victim of circumstances and just needed the chance to better themselves, Taalia would help in whatever way she could. But to resign oneself to living off the labour of others, indeed even feeling entitled to it, and doing so via the compulsion of guilt and heart-strings rather than the lash of a whip...well, Taalia had little sympathy there. 

oOo
*Quarter of the Gods - The Academy of Empirics
*
The talk with Antonuccia de Venze was quite stimulating for Taalia. Much like the chemist and gunsmith, there was something in the profession that Taalia recognised and appreciated, but _this time_ she had the adequate skill to probe and question and did so from a position of experience and knowledge. Though Taalia lacked the academic training that Antonuccia possessed, and was indeed a little jealous of, she was able to hold her own for the most part.

"I don't know how to thank you in words, Singora Antonuccia," Taalia spoke with gratitude, reaching both her hands forward to hold Antonuccia's between them affectionately, almost like a hand-shake. 

"Ernesto and his brother were so brave to hold at bay that many bandits. If they had not held the line like that, Myrmidia forgive me for thinking so, but I don't think I would be here talking to you right now," she insisted gently, a clear little fear in her eyes but also admiration. 

"He deserves the best I can find him. They have granted me 25 *duro* worth to secure a skilled physician, such as yourself. I have stored 20 duro of your pay with the Dwarves here in Verezzo, with an access token that ensures you can withdraw it on your return to this city. I can also offer you the other 5 *duro* as an upfront. Does this work for you, Singora?"

At the suggestion of a coach, Taalia nodded. 

"Of course, I think we could. I have a mount, borrowed from the brothers. We should stop at The Pigly along the way, it is a day out from Verezzo."

oOo
If Taalia had seemed an educated and intelligent young lady with her discussion on the finer points of surgery with Antonuccia de Venze, she was an utter hollering guffaw whose chortling at the raucous play hardly ceased.

Though most of the more..."subtle" implications of the play were lost on Taalia, mostly because she wasn't as aware of the regional and ethnic rivalries between Tilea and its neighbours, she was laughing multiple times a minute nonetheless. Though the Norscan re-enactments of battles and ballads had been the last time she had seen a 'play', the nature of the even being a comedy was disarming of any mistaken beliefs for reality. At no point did Taalia yell out to an actor to 'look out behind you!' or some such, thankfully, as the absurdity of the play assured even someone as ignorant and unworldly as Taalia that this was all make-believe. If such a revelation had not dawned on her by the time the true purpose of those voluminous trousers was revealed, then maybe Taalia wasn't as mentally competent as some thought.

Thus, laughter, laughter and more laughter. By the end of the play, Taalia might even need a physician herself as her sides ached and her belly felt like it had been kicked by a horse she had been laughing so hard. Wiping tears from her eyes, clapping loudly with the crowd, Taalia threw up cheers and applause and praises with those around her, uncaring to the social graces she was normally so conscious of adhering to, as she simply gave her heart over to the play to chortle her body into aching pains and loving every second of it. 

oOo

The market was as profitable as the day before, but rather than taking in money she had spent it in order to acquire goods - excellent goods. The bow was a wonderful ashwood design, feeling light and familiar to Taalia's hands as she recalled the weapon she had used for most of the time she had engaged the troll with Bella Collina's militia. What a difference a bow would have made during the battle with the mutants - getting to loose an arrow at that leader the moment he attempted his intimidation, or taking a shot at a mutant in the treeline and taking one down. It would have changed the entire psychological landscape. Taalia would prefer to keep most threats at range, and in lieu of a firearm, a bow was her next best bet. 

Meanwhile, the boots she bought felt _fantastic_! Not only did they feel amazing, they looked incredible! They complimented her travelers outfit quite spectacularly, as the towering girl beheld herself in that polished metal mirror with her spiffy new boots, outfit, weapons and leather armor, and the black muffin-hat with the feather upon her white-haired crown - she cut quite the dashing figure! If she did say so herself. 

But, Taalia had one more errand to run for the day, and then she would retire to the _Lucky Duck_. Traveling back to the the *Quarter of the Merchants* and _Signore Montaglio's Fine Substances_ to see if he had devised what she needed...

----------


## MrAbdiel

*Signore Montaglio's Fine Substances*

You watch as Signore Montaglio tips a few drops of the caustic smelling, yellowish gel onto the discolored stone chunk.  It doesn't hiss with acidic hunger, thankfully; but the chemical smell is strong, and nostril searing.  The signore holds up a brush: a U shaped curl of polished wood, with one end tapering into a grip for a fist, and the other presenting a flat face with a grid of bored holes, each flush with hard clusters of bristles.

_"This is the best scrubbing brush you'll find.  Most use horse hair or if you're lucky, badger or boar hair.  But there's an outfit of makers in Remas who source this incredibly glue from Nuln, and bristles from the giant, awful hogs the orcs use out in the Border Princes.  You don't have to use one of these - they cost five_ duro_, which is ten times more than a normal scrubbing brush - but for a job like this, you're likely to go through a few lower quality brushes anyway, so I'd consider it. _ Bambino's Brushes_; Saliarmo sells them, in the grand market most days."_

He lets the gel settle on the stone for a full minute, and then puts his shoulder to scrubbing.  A minute of effort shows a significant decrease in the stone's staining.  Another five minutes, and it's a chalky, grey white after a rinse.

_"There's a big of drop of result for time invested, as you can see.  If you want to get it all the way back to the sharp white of the old marble, you'll be putting in an hour or so per square foot, more for corners and crevices.  But this'll do it.  It's a little acidic; but not madly so.  If you wash your hands in water within a few minutes of direct skin contact, you shouldn't see any blistering.  I've enough for a little of it to get you started now; if you wanted a larger batch, I'd have to get some large glazed vessels full made up for you.  Delivered, if you like."_

It certainly seems like this'll do the job.  At a guess, there may be five hundred square feet of wall and floor that needs scrubbing, with some allowance given to extra effort on the grimy floor and the tapering off of the staining as it goes up the wall.  That represents _five hundred hours_ of labor for this project, not including time set aside to wash hands and breathe clean air. Signore Montaglio pops the wax stopper into the ceramic jug beside him; about three pints of sloppy yellow acrid gel within it.  "This jar would get you through about ten square feet of problem stone.  For the mixing it and sourcing the elements to compose it, this is a gold piece.  But if you're only out past Caesa di Silo, if you pay for a bulk order now, I'll see it shipped to you in batches at no extra charge, as I make it."

Fifty gold _duro_ worth of cleaning chemical.  An astonishing investment, in the fane of an unknown god.  _Is it worth it?_, you wonder.

Is it?

** * * * **

That evening, you jot down a letter asking Polo's immediate response concerning your hopes to secure land; bidding that a swift reply might allow you to make purchases in Caesa di Silo on your way back to Bella Collina.  Sapienza, who has finished mapmaking her tourist-maps for now, and spends time meticulously copying the details of a jagged coastline for some rare custom order for now, gives you a recommendation of a good courier she trusts.  "There are pigeons that go from here to Caesa di Silo; but a letter with more than a small sentence will not go with them.  Best to  just pay a young man with a good horse enough to make it worth his while."

*Spoiler: OOC: Another Night In Verezzo!*
Show

And another *13 silver, 2 copper for board and Good meal!*


And the following morning, as you tie up loose ends and prepare to go, you find just such a courier, as you are scouring the gate district for coaches bound southward.  A rosy cheeked young man, a little younger than yourself and just as bright eyed and world-hungry, trots in little circles on an energetic steed, calling his willingness to run letters ahead, or to go make arrangements for important persons at stops on their way.  "Trust not the Road Wardens to deliver your messages; for they are burdened enough, and oft distracted!  Trust me!  Bartomar, man of the roads!"  His Imperial accent is funny, curled around those Tilean words; but he seems honest enough to your best judgement.  To take your message, leave right away, and bring a response as fast as possible back hopefully catching you at Caesa di Silo, he'll require *2 Duro*, since it represents a little under a week's work including the time he'll need to travel back to Verezzo for his next job.

Finding a coach heading south, and not being extorted for the pleasure, will require some devoted cunning...

*Spoiler: OOC: Put me in the coach, game!*
Show

Give me a flat gossip test to look for transport for your doctor companion, and a charm test while you're at it to try to schmooze discounted passage for her.  This is distinct from haggle, which is used in specific market negotiations.  Trying to convince a coach driver to let your hirling ride along while you trot alongside to provide a modicum of extra protection is charm!

----------


## BananaPhone

Taalia Giovanni

Taalia was genuinely impressed with the resulting detergent, her eyes widening at the resulting cleansing the chemists brew scoured across the marbled face of the sample she had brought. 

"Incredible, singore!" the shepardess complimented, taking a step forward and peering at the chemical reaction with wide-eyed wonder. 

But if there was something that could deflate her it was the mention of the cost..._fifty duros!_ It took the wind out of Taalia's sails as her mouth gaped slightly. She had not become so wealthy that such a princely sum was but mere pocket change to her, and so as that cost was spoken her eyes swivelled from the effects to the creator. 

"That is...quite a price, Singore!" she smiled, quickly recovering to her usual sunny self. 

"I intend for this to be used in the cleansing of a former site of worship, one long forgotten and buried. If you will...consider a lower upfront cost, for helping cleanse and restore a former place of worship?"

oOo
Taalia smiled at the young male close to her age, his moxie drawing up an endearment in her that she rarely felt for others. There was something about his keen spirit and willingness to ride across dangerous lands and at night to ensure her words got through that drew a thread of appreciation out of her, as she stood before him with a letter in her hand, already enclosed and sealed. 

"Two duro seems fair," Taalia smiled, her growing confidence in the past week emerging as she had her arms folded over her abdomen and her head tilted to one side as she wore that friendly grin. She had come a long way from the nervous, shy girl milling awkwardly on the perimeter of a town festival dance.

"Though how do I know you won't take it and immediately ride your horse over to the cat houses or to buy a necklace for some pretty thing that's caught your eye, hmmm?" she spoke, a clear coy and playful tease in her tone as she considered him. 

"I will give you 10 Scellini  now," she held up in her hand the 10 glittering coins, holding it over so that they could drop into his waiting hands. 

"And there'll be 1 Duri and 10 more Scellini waiting for you at the _Leaping Vixen House_ in Caesa di Silo, where I will meet you in two days time. Agreeable?" her hand presented the single gold coin and accompany 10 silver ones to show the proof of possessed payment.

Should he agree, Taalia would hand over her sealed document, the contents within reading thus...

*Spoiler*
Show

Dear Polo, 
I hope this letter finds you well, and the young man who delivered it in good health. 
I also wish to thank you again for all of your assistance in administrative matters of Bella Collinas local authority. 
By now you have doubtless heard of the event that took place on the road between Bella Collina and Caesa di Silo, the dire injury sustained by brave Ernesto and the troubling possibility that our dear Bertuccio has fallen beneath a foul influence. On the latter, you would by now know more than I, and I can only offer my prayers to Myrdimia and sincerest hope from my heart that the man in custody is just a doppleganger and not our brave Roadwarden. 
I am sorry to open with grim discussion, but I offer a malady to one trouble. Ernesto, who valorously held back twice his number in bandits alongside his brother, may soon receive relief as I have secured the services of a skilled physician in Verezzo. She will be accompanying me back to Bella Collina, and we should be among you very soon. 
This also brings me to the main proposition of this letter in that I recall several months ago in which you offered potential acreage for rent close to Bella Collina itself. I do not wish to brag nor impress the idea of flowing rivers of gold, but I have done well from the trade of fleece and lambs and I feel myself secure and able in ability to fully utilise your invitation. If you are so able, please set aside a single acre of land for my almost immediate employment, with potential expansion to a further fifteen early next year. 
I have more to discuss with you on the matter, but my recent efforts have stirred the spirit of enterprise within me and I am fully seized of its direction and momentum. I must also foretell that I plan to establish a small lodging for workers, a sty for swine and a fenced area for livestock on the acre that you may so graciously allocate to my name. I adhere to the adage that one should not count all their chickens before they have hatched, but I grow excited with future ambitions for industrious work and the benefits it will bring to both myself and Bella Collina as a whole, the village that has been so good to me.

Thank you for your time and expertise in this matter Polo. Please give my warmest regards to your beautiful wife, Fenicia. I look forward to seeing you both again!

I have instructed the deliverer of this letter to carry your reply to the Leaping Vixen House in Caesa di Silo where I will supply him with the rest of his pay for services warranted.

Sincerely, 
Taalia Giovanni

----------


## MrAbdiel

*Signore Montaglio's Fine Substances*

Signore Montaglio smiles faintly; he's not unaware, it seems, of the significant heft of that sum.

_"Signorina Taalia, I beg your forgiveness; but I cannot lower the price.  Near to seventy percent of that sum goes straight to the purchase of the elements, their transport from afar and the tolls to get them here.  I do you the best kindness I can, which is offer to ship them to you at no cost; but with the trading drive for the year almost past, I shall be paying not only the wagoneers, but also the leg-tolls on each batch on each stretch of road, which undoubtedly will be in function again.  My skills, and network of contacts, are highly specialized; I must insist the profit margin here is..."_  He opens his hands a little, as if opening a book of disappointing facts before you, to reveal its sad contents. _ "...Is fair.  But you needn't order all you should need at once, if the money is a problem.  Here; I will pay the transport charges even if you order only half now, and again later.  There will just be a delay of a few additional weeks past each increment of pay."_

*Quarter of the South Gate*

_"In two days, signorina, you would have me get to Bella Collina and back to  Caesa di Silo?  I shall have to change horses and ride all day.  If the road tolls were up, I should make no value at all on such a run.  Here; give me one corona now, and two at the Leaping Vixen House in two days, and I will accomplish this for you; or three days, at your initially proposed rate.  But with the changing of horses for such a hurry, it is the best I can offer."_

Strange, that he asks for 'crowns'; Imperial currency, no doubt, but you suspect that is just habit, and he is talking about _duri._

*Quarter of the Ox*

Deep in the poor quarter are the worst smelling businesses; the tanneries, the dyehouses, the slaughterhouses.  You find some of the latter and, with some probing and moxie, find yourself speaking to Donaldo, a member of the guild of Slaughtermen and a purchaser for the large, unpleasantly fragrant building behind him; a great flat building in the shade of the massive exterior wall in which beasts are condemned to being butchered; then potted, or salted, or smoked; or in the cases of those that can afford it, purchased immediately for serving that night.

_"From Bella Collina?"_

He looks at you, a little puzzled.  _"It seems a long way to bring swine.  All our suppliers for hogs come from farms immediately around Verezzo.  But I suppose I don't mind how far they come, so long as they get here.  Tell you what - you bring me ten hogs from Bella Collina, and if they pass muster, we can talk about some kind of long term deal.  I'll buy those ten at market rate; and we'll see how they come out after they're slit and drained."_

----------


## BananaPhone

Taalia Giovanni

Taalia brought a gloved hand up to her chin, half covering her mouth, and exhaled in thought. Her blue-green eyes were clearly hiding the calculations going on within her mind as she pursed her lips. 

Nodding, "Very well, Singore," she spoke. Her tone was not that of dejected resignation, but rather that of one who had weighed the pro's and con's and just came out on the side of the 'pro' side, which was in Signore Montaglio's favour. 

"Twenty five duro now. In the future I will send an equal amount with a rider," she spoke, reaching over to her slingbag to retrieve a fat, fist-sized purse from which she counted the agreed upon currency down to the coin. 

Placing the golden discs down on the bench before them in five neat little stacks of four, Taalia offered a sincere smile and extended her hand to shake that of the master chemist in a deal agreed.

oOo
Raising an eyebrow, unsure what the lad meant by crowns, Taalia decided to err on the side of caution. 

"Yes, three days, I will see you at the _Leaping Vixen Inn_..." she nodded with an awkward smile that quickly melted away to be replaced by a confident one.

"Ten silver now, one gold and ten silver then!"

oOo
Just 10 pigs? Did this man not know how many squealing little piglets each sow produced? 

Once again the cogs of Taalia's mind whirred to life as she head-mathed the possibilities and pitfalls. What if she invested in too many swine and this man rejected her produce for some reason - what would she do with potentially _hundreds_ of pigs without a profitable destination? But what if she _under-invested_ and this fellow demanded numbers that she could not satisfy and thus potential duro was lost due to inadequate supply on her behalf?

Inhaling slowly and exhaling, and then nodded, Taalia reached forward to grasp the mans hand and shake.

"Thank you, Singore. I will send messengers should my farm produce adequate numbers for your enterprise. I will endeavour to do so at the earliest convenience so that appropriate preparations can be made," she smiled and nodded. 

'My farm'. 'I will send messengers'.

One might think the lass, not even yet eighteen, as biting off more than she could chew, as she only _really_ had 6 sheep to her name as the extent of her livestock experience, and from a certain point of view this was a reasonable apprehension of her ambition and ability to deliver. But on the other hand, she had defied greater odds before, so whether she was the real deal or another fake-it-till-one-made-it wannabe would be an image decided in the coming months.

OOC:
*Spoiler*
Show

I think we can move to departure from Verezzo now and the return journey to Bella Collina. Farewell, Verezzo, you were a wonderful little adventure of wheeling and dealing!

----------


## MrAbdiel

Jezzabella trots alongside the smart-looking, polished wooden coach.  Its owners are a quite well-to-do master mason named _Petruccio_ and his wife _Mila_.  Petruccio made a pretty penny years ago when the Duke of Verezzo was thrown down and the senate rose to take his place, riding high on the policy of building silos and stocking up on grains so never to face such a famine as that time had suffered again.  He tells you that he oversaw the construction of much of Caesa di Silo and additional 'silo towns' like it elsewhere in Verezzo; and now he travels from town to town meeting with the men who were once his apprentices and workers, checking to see if they need anything or if they need his advice for another project in the places they've settled.  You had successfully negotiated that you and Antonuccia would ride with them up to Caesa di Silo; Antonuccia first expecting to ride on the board at the front with the coachman and his lad, but soon cutting her own deal to ride inside the coach, away from the dust of the road, in exchange for being willing to _have a look at this thing on my ankle and tell me if I should be worried._  You chat with Antonnucia, Petruccio and Mila through the coach's windows sometimes, but more often you are in the laconic company of the coachman, Desmondo, and his nephew Graciano.  Graciano is just on the younger side of puberty, and rides with a crossbow in his lap and his eyes scanning the mountains and trees.  Desmondo, in one of his moments of talkativity, tells you that the boy was struck mute; when he was half his present age, he was trapped outside his home for one _Mystery Night_, and has not spoken a word since.

As you wind through the narrow streets towards the South Gate, you are forced to pull over to permit an unusual procession to go past - a quartet of mercenaries escorting a pair of ragged looking men in clothes that might have been neat enough to be merchant class, before they'd been slept in for a week or so on the road.

_"Them's those two who was gluing white wood-chips to the teeth of old nags and selling them as young draughts, they are.  It ain't quite horse-stealing, but it's damn close."_  Desmondo informs you of that fragment of gossip around them; Mila warmly warbles even more. _ "Oh yes, I know the story of those two.  They say it's been going on for two years - who knows what they've made in fraud, so far?  Only caught because one of the beasts dropped dead and the young fellow who bought it happened to have his father on hand at the time; those rascals were careful only to sell to the kind of gleam-eyed young hands who wouldn't know to look hard for such fraud.  But I hear they managed to scrounge up a litigant, and that it's been elevated to a senatorial matter to give the Reds a chance to pontificate about being concerned for the state of the working farmers."_

It's clear that Mila and Petruccio, not being born to money but having made it themselves, are very suspicious of the merchant classes and their senate, despite technically being in that class themselves now.

The procession passes by to a slowly accruing assembly of hooting and shouting peasants, but you're past at that point; and you pass through the grand gate of the city for a modest toll, out to the South Road and beyond.

*Spoiler: OOC:*
Show


I presume you've crossed off the 25GC for the first half of the stone-cleaning gel.  You gain 1*Bottle of Stone Cleaning Solution, plus the promise of much more.  It's about 5lbs.

The gate fee is a leg tax again; 12p in total for you, Antonuccia, Corvo and Jezzabella.

Also... roll me a D1000.  That's right; a D1000.

----------


## BananaPhone

Taalia Giovanni

Taalia enjoyed the company of the strangers, and visibly too an interest and delight in talking to each of them - even Desmondo. Though wealth had come her way, the girl was still veritably a foreigner in these lands, her Tilean, though fluent and articulate, marked with an unique accent that few outside of former Skaven slaves developing with Queekish as their 'mother tongue' could muster. 

But, despite her newly acquired material finery, Taalia was still at her heart a cheerful and affectionate girl, however much the bums of the Oxen quarter may have jaded her.

So if Desmond wanted a partner to babble on to, Taalia was it. Should Petruccio or Mila desire an young ear into which to espouse what was on their mind, Taalia was it. And if Antonuccia wanted to open the window and chatter out of its frame to a stranger whom she just met, Taalia was it.

When they encountered the procession of shamed charlatans, Taalia was at first mystified as to the procedure. Seeing two men publicly humiliated in such a way didn't sit right with the girl - but then she found out the reason _why_ they endured such a communal ritual, and her visage hardened. 

That lad whom they had fleeced (haha!) with flim-flam livestock goods? There but for the grace of Myrmidia goes I, Taalia thought. That could have been _her_ who had been defrauded of her hard-earned money by scrubby, two-faced greedy little thieves. Even the mere thought of having just one fruit of her labour being stolen by another who lazily looked upon her works with covetous envy was enough to redden the girls face and tempt the dark recesses of her mind with vengeful fantasies. 

Though but a second had passed since Taalia had been informed of the con artists deceptions, the girl pursed her lips and mimicked an action she had seen older Tilean men take when confronted by an object of disgust. 

She mock spat onto the floor. 

"Pooh! You bastard..." she uttered in their direction, eyes narrowed.

Paying the toll-men their due, Taalia remained alongside the coach and lent her ear and words to any who desired conversation.

----------


## MrAbdiel

As the hours while away, as you near the crossroads where you know the familiar shape of the _Pigly_ will soon rise, you pass the occasional cart driver or lone horseman.  Only one such encounter warrants detail, however.  Two young men with matching shortcropped beards - brothers? - share a saddle on a plodding horse heading back towards Verezzo.  The one with the reigns tips his hat to you as they approach, and you salute back; though it seems to you strange that they should be going that way, as it's certainly late enough in the day that they're going to be riding into the night before they get to the city.  As they come within a few yards of you, your eyes are drawn to Graciano, who reaches suddenly to grab and squeeze his father's knee.  Desmondo looks, and barks out an inarticulate _"AY!"_, which is all the warning you need to validate your sense of suspicion - these men have gone for weapons on the side of their horse out of your eyeline, and they mean you harm; but the boy has spotted it, giving you a chance to prepare.

*Spoiler: OOC: Initiative!*
Show

*HighwaymanRider* - (1d10+4)[*13*]
*HighwaymanPassenger* - (1d10+4)[*5*].

Roll initiative!

----------


## MrAbdiel

Suddenly, the rider reveals his intention; pivoting at the waist, he snaps his wrist into the air and slings a great hoop of rope up into the air, spinning it for a half-second before lashing it toward you, attempting to ensnare you and, perhaps shortly after, drag you from the saddle!

*Spoiler: OOC:*
Show

Actions: Aim, and attack!

*Vs50* - (1d100)[*25*] to ensnare poor Taalia!


The rope sails through the air, and you instinctively lift your arm to protect yourself - just as well, because the loop that snaps tight just above your elbow might have closed on your neck.  The rider doesn't appear to have the sadism in him to enjoy the victory; just desperation and determination in his eyes as he  kicks his heels into his horse's side.

*Spoiler: OOC:*
Show

You are lasso'd!  Make an agility test to pull free before it's too tight!  Then, on your turn, if you failed, you can spend your action taking an Agility or Strength test to try to get free as a Full Action.

----------


## BananaPhone

Taalia Giovanni


A breath caught in Taalia's throat as the warning was thrown out, her head spinning around to see the two dastardly brothers atop their horse reaching for weapons.

Her eyes widening and reactions kicking in, Taalia reached for her sword with one hand and slung her shield off her back to bring it about before her with the other - but her reactions were too slow. Instead, the lasso of the horse rider spiraled towards her like some flying snake, the rope coiling itself about her left arm as the girls eyes widened and she yanked back out of reflex. 

Dropping her arm, shaking her shoulder, she managed to unsling the worst of it in time, as she pressed her heels against the sides of her horse to get the thing to move forward and get her out of range of the next lasso - while she instead drew her bow and let loose an arrow.

However, her aim was clearly off from the abrupt explosion of action, as the first arrow sliced through the air a foot away from her target.

----------


## MrAbdiel

Jezzabella plonks along unaware of the severity of the action going on above her.  Your arrow whistles by one of the brigands; but in an impressive display of horsemanship, he wheels his steed around with his knees, trots it up to within five yards again, and both brothers fling their loops of rope at you - but this time, you're ready; and flattening yourself to the saddle you feel them slap loosely against your back -

*Spoiler: Instrusive Thoughts:*
Show

...Her maternal instincts, and her resentment for her condition, were alternately vented upon you. And when you returned after your abortive flight into the freezing wilderness, she visited upon your back a fury transmuted from the sum of both...


- before they are drawn back, with no prize for the rope slingers, and you close and ready for another shot.  Careful not to get in your way, Desmondo turns the coach off the road and fumbles for weapons of his own.

*Spoiler: Taalia's Turn!*
Show

Both lassos miss this turn.  ;_; no road haul today.  Your turn!

----------


## MrAbdiel

You knock and loose another arrow, your shot made wide by the move to dodge their snares.  That's enough failure for them - they are pulling their ropes up, preparing to cut their losses and run.  This is made complicated as the mute boy fires his crossbow at the pair; the passenger riding pillion leaning away, but horrified to see that by moving he has enabled the shaft to nail into his brother's shoulderblade.  Crying out in pain, bleeding, punished, the rider kicks his steed into action, turning around and racing back toward Verezzo.

*Spoiler: OOC:*
Show

Taalia's turn - the enemy is in flight, with a bolt in one's back.  They are now about 30 yards away, and carrying on!

----------


## BananaPhone

Taalia Giovanni


Taalia glares angrily, drawing her bow up once more, taking careful aim and loosing an arrow...

But of course she missed, like she had every shot she'd taken. 

Swearing a litany under her breath, her face reddening as she notched her bow away and then _Punched!_ her own palm in anger and frustration at her own utter incompetence, Taalia watched as the brothers fled before she spat onto the ground. 

"I hope you bleed out!" she yelled at them, before slowly calming down, her nostrils flaring as her simmering rage boiled down from an 8 to about a 1 to 2. 

Pursing her lips, turning and looking over at the coachman and his son, the girl nodded at the boy.

"I'm lucky I've got you around to protect me," she nodded with a gentle, sincere smile of thanks to the lad, her disturbing anger clearly having been directed at the highwaymen and herself.

----------


## MrAbdiel

The boy gives a faint smile in return, even as he continues to reload; but Desmondo stays his hand.  _"Don't waste the bolt at this range, lad.  A good hit as you did, though.  Might likely have pulled the signorina off her saddle, and taken off with her horse.  Pay all these road tolls and there's no damn road wardens when you need them."_

All this commotion unfolding rather rapidly, the windows of the coach open and its refined occupants peer out to receive the update; but with no harm done, they join in congratulating the boy for his shot and you for your fortune.

Another hour on the road, and the sun dips low on the crossroads with the familiar porcine art display, and a refuge from the road's dangers.

*Spoiler: OOC: Back at the Pigly*
Show

A very mild ambush; but you may have 80XP for thwarting it.  And you can recover some arrows...

*Vs66* - (1d100)[*13*]
*Vs66* - (1d100)[*64*]
*Vs66* - (1d100)[*97*]

Two!  Two arrows!  Ah, ah, ah!

Back at the Pigly!  10s for a private room as normal, and they'll throw in the stabling of Jezzabella for free.  Is there anything you were hoping to find/do at this coaching inn, or are you happy to zoom on to the next ambush stop, which is Caesa di Silo?

----------


## MrAbdiel

Bolo Hempfire is happy to see you again; and happy to have Rumpold run you another bath, if you want.  At your story about the boy's shot, Bolo plays to the celebration of it; the halfling calling out to the crowd of half-soused mercenaries and travellers to give three cheers for Graciano, who must certainly become Verezzo's answer to Miragliano's marksmen.  And they are playful enough of a crowd to honor it, cheering thrice indeed.  Bolo makes the best treat he can for a lad of that age - a cool mug of cow's milk with honey and cinnamon, which the unspeaking boy seems pleased to receive (if no more verbose as a result.)

After another sleep in the very same room you rented once before (the mason and his wife in a superior suite in one of the other buildings, Antonuccia two doors down from you), your road party sets off again to Caesa di Silo; and gratifyingly, there are no additional ambushes or attacks.

As you approach the silo town, passing stone and wood towers containing grains stockpiled from the land around, like Gaulfredo's corn, you remember how a week ago this little town of several hundred people was the largest human settlement you'd ever seen.  Now it seems so small, compared to Verezzo's towering old walls and tight-packed many-floored buildings; the intricate shuffle of mercenaries and merchants having street food flung to them from balconies while reprobates scurry up ladders to meet their pay-for paramours.

_"Oof.  I'd not look out the windows, signoras; we pass a grisly thing, on the right."_  Desmondo's warning inevitably draws your eyes directly there, while those inside the coach heed the warning.  A gibbet has been erected outside this northern gate, and swinging from it in the evening breeze is the body of some unfortunate fellow.  His body is pallid, except the bare feet which are purple and bloated from the sinking, unpumped blood; and the crows have gotten at his eyes, so he must have been there atleast the day's length.  A sheet of parchment is nailed to his sternum.  In big painted letters, the word "SPIA" declares his crime, and a warning to others.

_"Hope he deserved it."_ Desmondo's remark is his last word on the subject.  You might hope he deserved it, too; it's Blasio, the shifty fellow who tried to glom onto you to get past the gate guards on your way through last time.  In the interim since you drew away from him and left him fleeing the militiamen, they must have caught him, decided he was a spy, and hanged him... perhaps with painful steps in between.  You imagine a spy might traditionally be more skilled than he seemed to be; but he's dead now.  Whatever secrets he carried are with him in Morr's garden; or else some worse place, if he indeed has earned this execution.

*Spoiler: Tolls and Agendas!*
Show

Another 10cp gate fee, and you're back in Caesa di Silo!  What's your agenda for your time in the town?

1. Meet with the courier at the Leaping Vixen House, and get Polo's return correspondence.
2. ???

If there's any more things you'd like to do, I can set them up, too.

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## BananaPhone

Taalia Giovanni

Taalia was happy to partake in the wonderful luxury of _The Pigly_ once again - a private room, another bath and one more of those amazing meat pies. After the hustle and bustle of Verezzo and the variety of characters she had met there, it felt cleansing and relaxing to the girl to sink her figure down into a hot bath, the warm waters enveloping her skin and the beautiful beef-stuffed pastry of another pie resting by her side. Corvo loved it too! Or at least she thought he did, as the growing, large dog rested quietly in against a wall, the warm bask of the charcoals enough to foster an easy relaxation within the young adult hound.

Seeing the young lad receiving his dues helped ease Taalia's nerves further, as she pictured herself at that age and where she had been. The kids smile was cute to her, even though his actions had wrought violence - possibly even killing a man - and when he was handed a mixture of milk and honey Taalia giggled gently into her hand as now _she_ felt like the old adult next to the young babe who was receiving a warm glass of milk and a sweet for being a good boy. It was adorable, really, and peculiar juxtoposition that this kid was being celebrated and rewarded for putting a crossbow bolt into a mans shoulder. 

But...Taalia shrugged. It wasn't some random fellow off the street whom he had shot while riding past. No no, he had acted with bravery against a pair of highwaymen that had deceived and ambushed them, and it had been his actions that had prevented further violence and seen the two miscreants off. Yes - he deserved every bit of praise he received, Taalia decided, as she raised her own glass and cheered along with the rest of the tavern.

This jovial mood was not to last for the rest of the journey, however. When the group had departed the warm cheer of _The Pigly_, none of them had been expecting the grisly sight of Blasio's desecrated corpse hanging from a tree, his supposed crime for all to see as his clearly painful demise acted as a deterrent to any one else who would attempt such folly. As the group passed the grim spectacle, Taalia closed her eyes for a moment and looked away, exhaling and shaking her head. Though she had become far more desensitised to death than any one her age should, having seen dozens, maybe hundreds, of fellow slaves die in servitude to the vile rat-men, that did not remove the sting of witnessing such a display as the personalised touch of having spoken to him before his apprehension made such a disconnect rather difficult.

If she had acted along with his ruse, would this man have lived? 

It's quite possible. But if really had been a spy, her kindness could have incurred terrible consequences that could have perhaps gotten other people killed. After all, assuming he _was_ a spy, would he have been hung in such a swift manner if he had not been such a hidden danger to the community? Would he have received the death penalty if he had merely been spying on livestock numbers or crop yields for rival farmers? No, by virtue of the punishment the man had served some wicked motive that she would never know.

Some time later, and in more comfortable conditions, Taalia was seated in the public dining/drinking area of the _Leaping Vixen Tavern_. To her right was a flagon of cold ale that she had been slowly enjoying as a side-drink, while before her were a few pieces of parchment upon which she had been compiling her notes from her first foray into the potentially lucrative world of livestock trading. To her left was a writing kit that she had learned to use thanks to the education of Singora Madre. In the different columns and rows she had designation such as the sex of her sheep, the number of lambs produced and whether they were rams or ewes, the 'quality' of the offspring and their parents (which she designated in an A-C grading range), the volume of milk produced by each ewe and any particular health concerns such as a difficult birth etc In other columns were numbers that denoted how much each individual sheep had been purchased for, while another was how much fleece they had produced, the price she had gained for said material at market and how much each sheep or lamb had been sold for, if anything, how much with a running total for how productive each sheep was. In general, she had bought each sheep for 2gc and received 9.5gc in return for the ensuing fleece and lamb, while the overall income had been *57gc*, which was a return of 11.4gc for each of her 5 ewes. But, with the addition of the cottage cheese sales to Gaulfredo and Ariana brought that total up to *61.95gc*, for an average per ewe of *12.39gc* per season, or a 6.2gc return per gold duro invested, or 4.43gc if one also considered the initial pen construction costs. Ah! But she had also gained an A-grade ram lamb that she had not sold. Another 6gc worth of stock. But...he was in the inventory. It was a valuable asset, but she had not made any income from that fellow yet. Next year she could potentially stud him out to others in need of a good rams services, with a potential flat sum payment plus a 10% commission for each successful lamb he produced.

That each sheep required almost no feeding 'costs' due to their grazing nature, and the transport of most of their produced goods was a relatively easy affair due to the inert and non-perishable nature of fleece, Taalia could see that her sheep flock had been an excellent choice for her initial investment and entry into livestock. 

Taalia tapped the feather of her quill against her chin as she pondered the future. Of course there were taxes to pay, ten percent of her yearly revenue, but she had set aside that required allotment to give the authorities their due, however painful it was to part with funds that could secure a few more sheep.

Cattle had a soft spot with the girl, as she thought cows were rather adorable. Just the blank, dumb and trusting look they had and their affectionate nature when bonding with their human owners was endearing. Buuuuut, each unit was, as she observed in the Caesa di Silo livestock market, approximately *10gc*, only had one calf a year and the secondary source of productivity, their milk, was perishable and needed to be sold quickly. Bella Collina had a carrying capacity for milk, as nutritious as it could be, while Taalia also lacked access to a cheese cave, natural or artificial, to fully exploit the potential transformation of milk into cheese, which had so frustrated her in the utilization of her sheeps milk. So if she spent 100gc on 9 cows and 1 bull, the following season she could expect an investment return of 90gc _at best_, which would actually require 2 years to acquire because the calves would have to mature. Given the huge amount of acreage such an operation would require, it was simply a poor investment. Any males could be castrated early and be trained into oxen, but after talking with Ernesto and his brother about the procedure, Taalia could see that it was a huge time investment. Potentially very profitable, but required a bit under half a decade to mature. There were better options. 

Pigs on the other hand...each sow could produce approximately 10 piglets twice a year, twenty in total. Each piglet could go for 1.5 to almost 4gc at market, Taalia had observed, creating a huge potential spread of 30gc to 80gc _per sow_ a year. Even just a few pigs could be an incredible secondary income stream, though establishing a piggery with a sty and fencing, not to mention the enormous amounts of food she would have to acquire for _that many pigs_, of which she had little experience, made such a venture uncertain to her. 

Alternatively...Taalia tapped that feather against her chin again, lips pursed in thought as her eyes drifted down to the smaller entry she had made for her chickens. *6gc* they had so far made her from four dozen eggs sold at market per week, or predictably *12gc* a year. A nice little emergency income, a decent wage for a single person on their own, but that was purely sales of the eggs. It meant that each chicken produced about 16 silver worth of income each year. Howver, she knew that mature chickens could go for five pennies each, and even her small flock of 15 birds produced a dozen eggs a day...seven dozen a week...if she allowed them all to mature and sell those instead, in an expanded coop...Taalia shook her head. Chickens didn't graze, the amount of food to grow each one to maturity would out-weigh the costs for selling it, and she'd have bloody thousands of the things after six months. They'd eat her out of house and home. Shaking her head, she returned her thoughts to sheep and pigs.

Taalia started to write on her second parchment two ideas for her expansion, using her powers of prediction for both an expanded sheep flock or acquisition of a group of sows and a boar. Or both! If she truly was going to settle in this village that had been so good to her and become a long-term fixture of its social climate, this would be her legacy.

It all depended on Polo's words.



ooc:
*Spoiler*
Show


1. That's about it. Her further agenda would depend upon the return correspondence. If Polo had gone ahead and secured the acre, she would start haggling the local market for pigs. If he shows apprehension, however, then she would meet him later in town.

So the length of stay really depends on Polo's response, which you've hinted at will be more counselling caution than thumbs-up full-speed-ahead.

Alternatively, Polo could rock up himself in person.

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## MrAbdiel

The courier from the far lands of Sigmar's tribes has arrived at the Leaping Vixen House shortly before you did; cursing his luck mildly.  "Ah, if I had known we'd arrive so well timed, I would not have booked a room; just hit the road and tried my luck at one of the farmhouses.  Here you are, signorina."  He presents you a return slip of parchment, which turns out indeed to have been Polo's response.

*Spoiler: Polo Correspondo*
Show

My young friend Taalia,

Fenicia and I are glad to hear from you.  The accounts we have received about the combat on the Silo Road were very fierce but the reports of your valor, and that of all the other Bella Collinans involved for that matter, do fill me with pride.  Ernesto is resting and we will all be glad when you have escorted this physician to his side.  Until then, the Madre Angeletta will continue to check on him, and the rest of us pray to Shallya.  I do not mind whether a miracle comes from the goddess, or the Madre's wisdom, or a Verezzan sophisticate's books.  Any miracle that does the job is fine, by me.

To the meat of your letter, so I do not over-delay your courier who even now struggles to restrain himself from touching every loose object in my home and talking about what they have instead back in the Empire: yes, there is still opportunity to rent land near to the north of Bella Collina.  Given your rise to local fame and service to the other Bella Collinans, I don't think the Rampollo will have difficulty approving your tenancy.  I do recall the last time we spoke, you seemed more partial to the land south, nearer to Gaulfredo's farm; and you must forgive my nature as a man averse to sharp changes and sudden movements.  I congratulate you on your earnings, but I wonder if you would permit Fenicia and I to have you at our home for dinner when you return, at which time we can discuss your business ambitions.  I might be able to help you mitigate some of the risks involved.

Affectionate yours,

Polo.


The tone of the letter, like the man itself, is a little tense and nervous, averse to adventurism; but what you notice sharply is the lack of any mention of Bertuccio despite you bringing him up directly in your last letter.  You can't imagine he simply forgot - he must be electing not to mention the matter, which leaves you wondering if there is any advance on that issue.. and how dire it might be.

_"You know, in the Empire, there are great, monsterously powerful and swift creatures called 'gryphons', half eagle, half great cat."_

You blink up at the courier, who gazes out the window of the Leaping Vixen House's common room at an eagle perched on the cone point of a silo; smiling in benign wonderment of his own, adventurous life._  "I wonder how many deliveries I could make, on such a soaring creature.  And no bandit in the world would try to rope me off; he'd need a mile of rope to even reach me, in the sky!"_

*Spoiler: OOC:*
Show

It would be polite to pay this man!

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## BananaPhone

Taalia Giovanni


Taalia read the letter with the eagerness of a child who had written to Santa Claus and received a response, her eyes darting back and forth across the lines as her enthusiasm slowly drained. Perhaps she was just overly-keen, as her excitable youth had fostered in her mind a more conducive response from the foster-family friend. Instead his reply seemed tepid, perhaps even overly cautious yet gentle in his wait-and-see attitude. 

Into this slight disappoint was, of course, her note that Bertuccio had not been mentioned. 

Two worrying elements indeed. 

Looking up from her letter as the messenger spoke, Taalia perked a slender, white eyebrow. 

"Hmmm?" she asked softly, before realisation opened her mouth and eyes. 

"Oh, yes!" Taalia said, nodding as she reached for one of her pouches to retrieve the designated *one duri and ten silver* she had promised the lad. Counting it out on the table before her, she gestured with her hand 'here it all is!' with a polite smile.

When that little business was conducted, Taalia read the letter again, almost in the fleeting hope that she had either missed a crucial sentence of acquiescence or mention of their Roadwarden, but alas, no such overlooked text existed. Sighing gently, leaning back in her seat and letting the parchment fall onto the table before her atop the home-made records and ledger she had been pouring her mind into, the girl exhaled once again in despondence before gingerly picking up her flagon and taking another sip. 

No new pigs. No new sheep. No haggling with the local markets. It was a little bit of a disappointing conclusion to an otherwise fantastic run of luck and circumstance, but soon Taalia's optimism stirred from its sleep once more as she remembered something else: the bounty on the mutants!

ooc:

*Spoiler*
Show

Alas, Polo urges caution.

Taalia will try and collect the bounty for the bandits that the Watch Marshal hinted at during her last time in the town, before heading back to Bella Collina with the lovely Antonuccia.

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