Warhammer Fantasy: Bloody Gold

[Gunther]

Bretonnia, the land of the Grail Knights, was a place oft spoken of in all manner of places. From the great cathedrals of Altdorf to the noble-laden tavernas of Tilea, it is a land spoken of in many ways, but in a fashion there is only one way to describe the ocean-hugging land and its people: A place for every person, and every person in their place.

In this way, every man knows his lot in life- a nobleman knows that he will become a Knight, for his father was a Knight, and his father before him. In this way, a farmer's son knows he will farm, and a boatswain's son will boat. As foreigners, the fine band of intrepid heroes were- in fact- somewhere outside of this rule. Neither nobles nor peasants, they were treated with a measure of respect by all, if only in the interest of amicable relations with men able to bear arms outside of militias or nobility. The only exception to this is daughters, who rarely serve as more than ornaments.

Well, ornaments and objects of value. Especially in the case of a noble's daughter, which was- in fact- one of several jobs having been presented to this fine band of mercenaries. They were currently housed within a small inn, which had been bought out by the Marquis of Couronne in a militaristic fashion. The spacious site, a two-floor stone building that had doubtlessly been the pride and joy of a wealthy mercantile family, had been converted into a makeshift barracks for the port town it resided in. Nestled along the River Sannez on its way to Castle Couronne, the port town- named "Reolus" after the acclaimed Grail Knight now fighting the hordes of Chaos in Lyonesse- was plagued by a terrible blight. One that originated from across the fast-flowing river, which saw usually saw overly laden barges pass through on a weekly basis, and land caravans monthly.

The Forests of Arden, often host to entire cities of Beastmen according to the locals, ("If such a term could be used for such brutish creatures") now played patsy to bandit and beastman attacks alike. Of the pile of requests and pleas, those two subjects were a likely underlying cause of them all. Normally issues would be handled by the local Marquis and his militia- but with bandit and beastman raids stepping up with a war going on, such a thing was unlikely at best. Even now, Reolus had closed its gates, bags of grain, piles of lumber, and countless barrels of ale being stored within the cool dirt basement of the mighty inn-turned-fort. The River Sannez provided fresh water to the community in the event of a siege, but none dared think upon the longevity of the village should they ever actually fall under siege without their noble lieges to defend them and the virtue of their women.

So, with the usual conservative form of Bretonnians, they had turned to outsiders. Mercenaries. The vagabonds of the Empire, they had been drawn here by the lure of gold- a precious resource tightly controlled by the King and his various Barons and- in turn- Lords. A dozen mercenary companies had mobilized to capitalize on the strife of Bretonnia, and this one was no different. Composed of three Humans, a Dwarf, and an Elf, it was so unlikely an assortment that one might think that it was a walking joke. Indeed, were it not for the seemingly infinite politeness bred into the peasants (Who, for the most part, seemed to regard the party as nobles by order of the Marquis), they would likely have received a few snide remarks as to their general appearance. Speaking of which, the Marquis himself had not yet deigned to meet the group in person. His location had been made abundantly clear by the runners to and fro the walls, the man no doubt fashioning himself some sort of Elector Count in his running of the town's militia. The man, spending almost all of his time within the "Strategic Chambers" of the inn's second-floor commons room had ensured that uniforms were kept clean, their crude weapons (Mostly bows and the rare halberd or sword kept amongst the family or within the storehouses) kept washed and as sharp as decency allowed. Even the seedier elements of the militia, those with a more worldly look to their visage, had been kept to this standard. Not without cost, however- men had been hung from the "Keep" walls in gibbets as an example to those that were derelict in their duty. The two-faced devotion and oppressiveness of Bretonnia was resolute as ever.

But enough of this talk, the midday sun had arrived, high overhead with its pleasant warmth. A cool breeze swept through the village, providing comfort through the barred windows of the fairly sizable room. double-bunks laid out for four and a bedroll for the fifth, it had just enough room for a table and a small fireplace. Obviously having once been a nobleman's chamber, a chandelier hung over the table, as well as a pair of lanterns near the door for any late-night "Assignments" the Knight may have had with a local lady of virtue.

The table was currently laden with the usual exotic cuisine of the Bretonnians, a battered fish with a side of cabbage with a pitcher of unusually water-free ale, as a gesture of good will to the adventurers. Along the wall, a number of requests had been posted overnight, each one tacked in place with a nail or some similarly utilitarian object.

Ye Jobbes Available(y)

Ingest Stool And Rejoice, Ye Of Little Decency
It has been noted that there are several consorts of His Majesty's royal court that do not find much respect for the position of Footman of the Stool forthcoming. These young sirs have taken up temporary residence in their countryside retreat for a doubtlessly lewd and improper festival. It is the desire of Farabus, Grail Knight and Footman of the Stool, that these nobles fully comprehend the enormity of his task in service to our King by all due means. If acceptance is met to the sum of sixty-four gold crowns, meet with Knight Errant Vedrian in the gardens outside of the barracks.
Loyal Unto Death,
Chamberlain Unwerth, of Sir Farabus's Royal Consortium

Requited Virtue
Dear Sirs, it has comee to my attentione that my daughter may hath been unvirtuous in her duties as bethroede. I have severale suspiciones of who culprits of her possible deflowering, and will paye a handsum amount of fifty crownes (And Discountes!) should you accept. If thise is so, meet me at my smithe.
Hopeful Yet Humble,
Bartholomew, Proprieterey of the Lady's Blade Smithy
Notarized,
Scribe Helmscrest

A Crooked Affair
To whomever has been befuddled of their livelihood before, I beseech thee to seek down a dishonest fraud that has swept both my household and my family! A corrupt monster of the lowest order, he has robbed me of my goods through fraud and has since fled by wagon (Which he has also taken from myself and my property). In exchange for hunting down this vagabond, I will part with thirty gold crowns (Eache) to whomever brings me the head of this fiend and returns the wagon to my possession. If you are interested, please meet the consort waiting outside of the barracks. He is wearing dark purple livery, and answers to the name "Dog".
Thankful Upon Return,
Dockmaster Fitzgodric

An Urgent Matter
Kind Sires,
I have need of you within my planning chambers. The matter of the beastmen must be solved, and I have urgent need of your service. Please come with all due haste.
Marquis Bastond, of the Great Port Reolus
Notarized,
Scribe Helmscrest Sr.

My Neighbor is Assuredly A Cultist
Dear gentle folk, though I have little coin to offer, I must warn you of a great threat! Chaos looms within this very village, and my neighbor is most assuredly a cultist! Even now he is doubtlessly plotting my death, knowing I have written this via foul magic! My reasons of knowing this are complex, but know that if you were to hunt him down on one of his nightly meetings with the Dark Powers I would gladly pay whatever I can spare, though I own little. The reward is in spiritual fulfillment! (And whatever you can find in his pockets or wherever he meets, the sneaky little truffle-eater).

If you accept, please meet me at my house down by the docks. It's the house in front of the pier to the farthest right, with a purple symbol of the Lady painted on it.
Please Act With Haste,
Fishmonger Founderson

[lowlevelowl]

Helmot eyed his companions with something between scorn and acceptance. He resented being thrown in with this motley crew, uncomfortable in the presence of non-humans. Still, it was something he was used to. He had spent most of his waking years in mercenarial jobs, forced to work with complete strangers. He had learned to tell the incompetent from the competent. This lot...they were competent. Except for the elf and the dwarf. They were earning human gold, crowns that could have gone to better humans.

He turned to face the requests, squinting to read, struggling with the fanciful curviform of the Brettonian script. Unlike most of his brethren, Helmot Ostfrunt could read. He wasn't great at it, and wasn't a man to carry around novels with him, but it assuredly helped him find and get jobs, which he excelled at doing.

He scoffed at the fishmonger's paranoia. That wasn't a real job, and there was no pay in it. The three before that piqued his interest - the matter of the blacksmith's daughter would be easy enough to resolve, and the discount at the blacksmith would be valuable, though that mattered not if they weren't planning on staying in town. The dockmaster's thievery offered good pay and seemed like a solid enough job. The Marquis' request for help against the beastmen was surely the most dangerous, and the pay had not been mentioned yet, but it ought to offer the highest pay.

For Helmot, it was a choice between the dockmaster's thievery and the request for help against the beastmen.

[-Sentinel-]

Kaspar let out a deep sigh of resignation when he read the jobs offered. The thugs who travelled with him would no doubt opt for the dangerous, high-paying jobs, following their detestable habit of trying to get themselves (and, as a result, him) brutally killed.

I could help out this Bartholomew fellow, the physician thought. There are ways to check if a woman has truly been deflowered. If I can prove her a virgin, his father will surely reward me for saving his daughter's reputation. And if she is no virgin, I can probably brew a contraceptive potion, just to be on the safe side. As for finding the culprits, though, I'm far from sure I'm able or willing to do this.

[Guardsman]

Berthold stared at the several notes moved across the wooden table, the candle light flickering every so often. He scratched at his beard for a moment while pondering over the amount of coin being given between all the certain jobs offered. He pointed to the job offering 64 golden crowns and the one involving a Grail Knight. Looking to his companions he offered his two pence.

"While we're in Bretonnia it'd be in our best interest to get in with the royal court, even if it involves the guy who takes the Kings...stool. It pays well and if we keep getting recognized by the damned King then we'll have a chance for more coin. That or attempting to find the mans daughter because we require discounts in a land where our names mean little. That's all I got lads so speak up."

[-Sentinel-]

"While we're in Bretonnia it'd be in our best interest to get in with the royal court, even if it involves the guy who takes the Kings...stool. It pays well and if we keep getting recognized by the damned King then we'll have a chance for more coin.

"Indeed," Kaspar agreed. "I'm sure we can solve this one diplomatically, and it pays enough to make it worth our time."



"That or attempting to find the mans daughter because we require discounts in a land where our names mean little."

Kaspar stared at Berthold quizzically. "I'm not sure I'm following you. Which job are you talking about?"

[Guardsman]

Kaspar stared at Berthold quizzically. "I'm not sure I'm following you. Which job are you talking about?"

Berthold looks at his fellow companion Kaspar and points to the note involving the Blacksmiths daughter being deflowered by ruffians. The Marienburg Soldier often got ahead of himself when speaking so it wasn't to be blamed.

"We have to find the Blacksmith and his Daughter before we go on a hunt for rapists, if she even was deflowered as the Blacksmith so eloquently put. I'm not going on a witch hunt if the information she gave her father was entirely false or if proving what happened wasn't from a band of ruffians and keeps us from the coin and discount then it'd be for the best if we falsify evidence. A workers fee if you wish to call it."

[-Sentinel-]

"I'll be able to tell whether she's a virgin," said Kaspar confidently. "This is, I think, the job I am the most suited for. But if it involves killing the ones who deflowered her, though, count me out."

[Guardsman]

"I'll be able to tell whether she's a virgin," said Kaspar confidently. "This is, I think, the job I am the most suited for. But if it involves killing the ones who deflowered her, though, count me out."

Berthold looked at Kaspar for a moment and took a swig of Bretonnian ale...to soon spit it on the floor and wiped his mouth with a red cloth in his pocket. Bretonnian ale was disgusting..always disgusting.

"Kaspar if there needs to be killing done make no mistake I expect you to pull your weight. You joined the company and if blood needs to be spilled then I expect you to be spilling it. You could think of it as..brutal surgery. I haven't seen you in combat yet so it'll give you some experience for the inevitable in the future."

[ZeltArruin]

Indulin carefully read over the letters, digesting each one, in order. As he read the final one, his eyes narrowed. Chaos worshipers were dangerous, and if left alone, they could bring doom to the entire town, and that the humans did not recognize the danger that Chaos threatened was equally disturbing to the elf.

"We must find the cultist. To allow a servant of the four to live for a moment longer in this town threatens us all. And if the peasant is wrong, then take comfort knowing this town is safe. Gold means little if you are not alive to spend it," Indulin said grimly, in opposition to how he normally acted, implying that he found the situation dangerous indeed.

[-Sentinel-]

"Oh, please, Elf," scoffed Kaspar, "this fishmonger is obviously a paranoid fool. Anyone can accuse his neighbor of being a cultist. I've once known a man who thought his brother had been turned into a vampire. He staked him through the heart, only to find out that he was wrong after all. We can't take those people seriously."

[lowlevelowl]

Helmot, facing the corner of the room, smiled to himself. He had a good group going here, minus the Chaos-fearing forest lamb with the bow strapped to his back. He turned, facing the group.

"We have a barber-surgeon with us. He'll easily be able to tell whether or not a simple girl has been "deflowered" or not. Where I come from, that's a common bar skill." he said, chuckling gruffly. "Berthold and I will be able to deal with hunting down the girl's lover, if that is what he wants. I say we do whatever makes us more coin. I've generally found that the more blood is shed the more I get paid." Pausing briefly, Helmot continues. "In any case, let's get a move-on. I don't want to stay in Brettonia for long, I'm sure better money could be made in the south. War is good for money - a beastman invasion is not."

[Liquidcore]

"Do not be so quick to judge" Magnus spoke up, the man having stayed silent for a long time, he didn't particularly care about any of those jobs.
"Chaos is no laughing matter, and you would be wise not to underestimate it."

He spoke to Kaspar, nodding. "It's attitudes like yours that have caused more unnecessary deaths than there is need for."

[ZeltArruin]

"Either the 'cultist' or the smith's daughter. Should we choose the latter, it would be best if we dealt with the other matter immeadiatly following," Indulin said, offering his last bit of input on the decision, deciding to let the humans choose where to go first, his fingers getting itchy to loose a few arrows into cultist flesh. "Besides," he added after a moment of silence. "Killing chaos worshipers is still fun," he finished, grinning.

[lowlevelowl]

Helmot took an immediate disliking to Magnus, who to him seemed judgemental and on a moral high horse. This was unusual. Usually soldiers were crude folk, or at least the ones Helmot was used to encountering. He spoke up.

"This is absolutely ridiculous. I refuse to search for cultists on the whim of a paranoid fisherman, who, may I remind you, has no means to pay us, unless you care for a belly full of trout. We did not come to this despicably knightly land to save it from the Ruinous Powers, we came for crowns. None of this are Brettonian, none of us have any loyalty to this land!"

[-Sentinel-]

Kaspar nodded at Helmot's words.

"Some people see Chaos everywhere," he added. "Meet this fisherman if you want to, but don't start burning witches unless he gives you some kind of proof of his assertions. Proof, by the way, I doubt he has."

He turned to go to the Lady's Blade Smithy. "Anyone's coming with me?"

[Guardsman]

Berthold couldn't believe his bloody ears, did this lot not hear him about getting in with the Kings Court? Whelp the lads seem to be thinking this is some form of money making vacation in Bretonnia so it's time to settle some thoughts once and for all.

The Marienburg Mercenary turned to Kaspar and raised a gloved hand his way, attempting to halt the man with a gesture.

"Hold on there Kaspar we still got some things to damned discuss, the man'll be waiting on us for the moment so there's no rush. I know you think this Chaos matter is rubbish and I'm agreeing with you, the peasantry here are a rather superstitious lot and they'll scream Chaos at the slightest inkling of a sign. However most of these jobs are in the same location so we can get both the job involving the blacksmith and checking on the paranoid peasant in an easy fashion."

Berthold finding this certainly not over turned to the rest of the lads, they were all a good sort and he liked their company but the lot of them were getting the idea they were some Witch Hunters for hire who were staying for the damned weekend to get a good laugh. That wasn't the way at all.

"Alright you lot I got some news since it seems to be that most of you aren't catching on. We're not going to be here for three weeks or a damned month no sir we are not, we're probably going to be in this rainy pisshole for about at least three months to half a year to the latest being a single year. Now before you give me your belly aching and getting your knickers in a damned knot let me tell you that I didn't join this company to get a handful of damned crowns just to leave thinking we did a job well done. I want to leave here with enough crowns and Bretonnian goods to make a Marienburg Merchant soil himself thrice over!"

With said speech he lifted up the job involving the Royal Dung Keeper and unsheathed his dagger where he pointed specifically to the word "King".

"You see this lads? If you can damned read it says King. Do you know who rules these lands with a fist made entirely of iron so heavy that it could go through the damned Old World, come out the other side and fall through the same hole? The damned King that's who! His man wants our help and since we're here we should get all buddy damned buddy with the nobility because if we got friends in high places what does that do? Make us bleeding rich that's what it damned does! Do not disregard this damned job for the love of the damned Gods do not disregard it, you lot get that? Because you don't seem clear on it. We help these lot, get in their courts, make friends with the kings subjects and whisper in his ear of our deeds and I promise you on my family's grave we'll be stinking rich."

He sighed and slammed the note on the table, wasting a great deal of breath trying to get these men to understand what is going on.

"Since there's suspicion of Chaos we'll work in two teams to get both jobs done. The two most suspicious, no offense to you two but Magnus and Indulin will come with me. Helmot and Kaspar you go talk with the Blacksmith and figure this business out. If you need me give a silver to a peasant and we'll keep a network of running messengers through this pisshole."

[Liquidcore]

"Oh, I don't disagree with you Berthold, in fact, I couldn't agree more, a mission for royalty is the best way to get a real footing in this land. I was merely pointing out that we should always be on our guard, lest we be caught in the back by suprise." Magnus explained, shooting a smile at Helmot. "Greed has driven better men than you to destruction." He merely said, standing up.

"Now then Berthold, we have some nobles to attend to."

[ZeltArruin]

"A fine compromise, my friend," Indulin commented as he followed Magnus and Berthold. "And one that will no doubt get us to the more important duties with haste," he added, his fingers running along the bottom end of his bow.

[Guardsman]

"Oh, I don't disagree with you Berthold, in fact, I couldn't agree more, a mission for royalty is the best way to get a real footing in this land. I was merely pointing out that we should always be on our guard, lest we be caught in the back by suprise." Magnus explained, shooting a smile at Helmot. "Greed has driven better men than you to destruction." He merely said, standing up.

"Now then Berthold, we have some nobles to attend to."

Berthold clasped Magnus's shoulder to halt him since all the lads seemed giddy. First jobs always got people giddy for some reason.

"Lad we're going to see the skeptic peasant first and just see if it's a big hoax and the elf is accompanying us. We ask what's all the business about, kick down the neighbors door and check if there's any sign of chaos. No signs we ask for our pay and carry on to see the Knight Errant. Simple question and muscle work. Plus I won't hear more grumbling about Chaos which'll keep me in good spirits."

He got his things, sheathed his dagger and lifted his rifle while putting his arm through the resting strap.

"Our group is heading out lads so you get yourself a drink, some food and a wench or three when your done. Also don't forget about the damned network of running messengers from the peasantry. I need you to send word to me as much as possible, you hear me?"

He knocked on the table twice and took the notes pertaining to the job of chaos and the Royal Poop Holder and slowly made his way out of the room so the two other blokes could catch up. Marienburg bred men for making gold and Berthold was no exception.

[Gunther]

With Berthold, Magnus, and Indulin departing from the room, that left the Barber and Helmot to settle what they will with the room. With the three of them gone, it seemed quite a bit more spacious, though it did little for the sounds of hard-at-work Bretonnians creeping in through the barred windows. Even now, the sounds of chopping lumber, creaking ship timbers, and the cacophony of voices that made up everyday life in the fortified village could be heard.

Cults!
For the trio now departing, the inside of the inn-turned-barracks was as familiar as it had been on their way up the night before. Granted, some of them had been liquored up quite powerfully, so it was an experience all the same. Built with the standard in Bretonnian fashion, torches were hung from iron holsters every handful of meters, dripping the odd ember upon the stone floor. Long carpets made from linen ran along the floors, though the usual standard of cleanliness- with the abrupt abundance of militiamen now inhabiting the former inn- had slouched a bit. Wash basins, filled with slightly dirtied water or unwashed clothing, were still present outside of a few doors. The wooden floors, normally kept scrubbed clean by maids, had been left to accumulate a bit of dust and dirt. Marching along, the various men roaming the halls- mainly scullery maids or off-duty militiamen- quickly stepped aside. The mercenaries were foreigners, and that made them a certain mix of untouchable and pariah. You treated them with respect, but avoided them when you could.

Not that it stopped a few stray swoons from the scullery maids, one of which batted her eyelashes at Indulin before resuming the tantalizingly-too-messy work of lathering up a suit of muddy chainmail against a washboard.

Marching down the stairs, the group entered into the Barracks-Inn's former commons room. The various tables that had once occupied the area had mostly been removed, pardoning a few mess benches that were occupied by militiamen hard at wolfing down a snack. Sausage, boiled water with some spice thrown in to make it manageable, and a bit of black bread (So named because it was burnt to "Keep it lastin'", especially in the aftertaste) consisting of the men's meal. A few bobbed their heads in respect to the mercenaries on a mission, and even the runners coming to and fro paused a moment to give some small acknowledgement of thanks to the foreigners. Peasants, one and all, such servitude was bred into them. And none of them stood upright, neither- they all hunched over the food protectively, or ensured that the foreigners stood a solid head taller than they would. They were all so...malnourished. Years of Bretonnian breeding, apparently.

What remained of the commons had been converted into a makeshift armory, the scant weapons still stored within the town- mostly bows, pikes, and swords- kept in some form of usable condition by a peg-legged man that had doubtlessly once been an innkeeper in some past life from his broad shoulders and the thick shadow along his neck. Barely paying them attention, the group moved out of the inn's iron-reinforced door and into the village itself.

It was a refreshing sight, really, to emerge in the open air. With the town below visible from the hilltop the inn was situated on, the nearby series of hills could also be seen, running along the grassy hillside like the all-too-pleasant bumps of a woman's shapely form. The port's freshwater river also brought up the smell of freshly caught fish and...

Tannery. Great. The Barracks-Inn, situated so close to the riverside (And, in turn, the monster-laden woodlands across from the forest), put it well within the reeking distance of the tanners and filthy fish-mongers along the dockside. Which, in truth, wasn't even a legitimate dock as the Marienburg-hailing Berthold knew it. They were puny little piers, which stretched barely a handful of meters into the riverside. Enough for a lone barge to dock at and unload it's goods, as well as a handful of rowboats along the fast-moving river, but certainly no port. No caravels, no massive first-rate frigates, no Tilean sloops! It was a sad state, but it would manage for a backwards town like this.

Marching down the paved dirt roads of the town, the lean-toes and wooden homes of the town welcomed them quite well. Chimneys made from clay bricks produced smoke, even at this time of day. Housewives dressed in simple wool dresses baked pies, children learned their respective parent's trade or played in the streets with sticks and stones (And, as they observed, they even played a game where they would toss a large and heavy object, like a pail, into the sky and attempt to run away. From the looks of things, the Apothecary in town would be quite busy).

Speaking of which, there was a small Apothecary's hut visible. Well, perhaps not small, but the two-story home was clearly the residence of a village healer- a line of patients a metaphorical mile long stretched out the doorway, each one afflicted with a number of ailments. But the building, with its fancy gilded sign, was not the concern of the party. Rather, the portside- now fast approaching- was. Muscular porters worked bareback under the watch of a man that was doubtlessly one of the pier masters. A small boy with a ledger worked beside him, writing down everything that came in, was stamped, and appropriately paid for in either copper or silver.

Counting the piers along the riverside of the Sannez, they found the house in question. A simple two-floor home, the purple Symbol of the Grail Lady (Or whatever these heathen locals worshiped) prominently displayed on the wooden front door. It was as gaudy a piece of religious paraphernalia as one could get, and several houses along the way had sported the same purple-stained iron symbol. The windows of the house were plastered in the curvy writing of the Bretonnians, and one could easily tell- by the fire and brimstone of the large letters- that they were parts of a religious document. Faith, it seemed, was no small concern of their employer.

To the left of the house was what appeared to be a fairly decent-sized warehouse. Several of the porters now walked into it, hefting large, stamped crates brought off from the barge heading downriver. More goods were being taken out of it by the same muscular, bare-chested workers, each of which bore various brandings or tattoos to indicate a saltier tide of life. The warehouse, aptly titled "Storeman's Porting", actually seemed fairly well-to-do from the bricks that composed of its walls and the thatch roof.

To the right was what looked like another regular house. Except, of course, for the fact that its windows were boarded up, its front door had apparently been reinforced with iron, and its chimney had- apparently- collapsed in on itself. It was hardly the ideal home for a peasant, but apparently someone had done so for a reason- several holes had been broken into the window, and apparently someone had attacked the tiles of the roof quite viciously.

Whelp. Home sweet home for Bretonnia, one might suppose.

[lowlevelowl]

Helmot didn't immediately like Berthold, but he respected the man for what he was. An innate leader, decisive and smart. He looked at Kaspar, relaxing with the elf and dwarf gone. "To be honest, I don't quite understand what that 'stool' posting is trying to tell me. Sixty-four crowns and an in with the royals sounds nice, though." After a long sigh and a brief pause, Helmot makes for the door. "Come on, let's go find this blacksmith and his whore of a daughter."

[-Sentinel-]

"Watch your tongue," said Kaspar with a pained voice, his middle-class-intellectual sensibilities disapproving of this exaggerated concern for female virginity. He hoped he could prove the girl a virgin... and if not, he hoped he could smooth things out.

"Okay, where's the blacksmith?"

[Gunther]

Forging A Solution
It only took a quick peek out the window to locate where the smithy is- situated amongst the tight cluster of homes both recent and old. There were countless wooden huts and clay brick households, occasionally broken up by the odd warehouse, treasury, or lordly household (Since vacated alongside the rest of the town's petty nobility with the recent conflicts).These very huts and households made locating the smithy- primarily visible as a large plume of dark peat-produced smoke conjoined by the sound of heavy hammering that managed to ring all across the town- all the easier.

Through the window view, the "forward" area of the town was clear- the river-flanked port having constructed a thick wooden palisade in its own defense against bandits and beastmen. The former being too smart to attack across the river, and the latter being unable to cross the fast-moving streams safely, it was relatively secure with most of its militia now posted along the walls (Though certainly not at full muster during peacetime). Even now, though, through the barred window a handful of souls could be seen patrolling the walls, and both of them could imagine the conditions there. Buckets of pitch and filth left about for arrows, piles of food and water left for the defenders to maintain extended vigils with a minimum need for rotation, and whatever weapons that could be managed being distributed amongst the men there. Needless to say, every weapon to defend the walls mattered, and the blacksmith was an important part in providing those weapons and keeping them in working condition.

Opening up the doorway to vacate, the various servants and militiamen roaming the halls paused. The mercenary chambers had been somewhat of a curiosity for them, the question about the blacksmith causing them all to look towards the second emerging troupe with keen eyes. The maids carrying wash basins and pitchers, as ever, gave short gestures of appeal to the men. With their short-cropped hair hidden behind simple headbands and veils, they seemed the utmost image of "Don't even look, let alone touch". Yet the looks being given towards Helmet certainly indicated otherwise amongst the women.

Intents that could only lead to trouble, especially since a few of the women traveling around- primarily the ones giving sultry looks- were wearing the dyed iron symbols of the Lady about their necks. As sure a sign of trouble if there ever was one.

In either case, they were now left to track down the smith, or any other concerns, as they so willed. Time was coin, and they had all the time they could ask for.

[ZeltArruin]

The smell of the docks was horrible, though the elf did well to keep from commenting or crinkling his nose at it, it was easy to see his disapproval of the stench. "Here we are," he said, looking upon the house dubiously. With a shrug, he knocked on the door, then stood back, next to his companions, crossing his arms as he remained alert, glancing around at the many people walking up and down the docks.

[lowlevelowl]

Helmot eyed the women back, but not with lust. He was used to the company of women and had laid with many - as whores and payment, though. Consensual company, even romance, were strange and foreign ideas to him.

He stood behind Kaspar. Best let the doctor do the talking. The blacksmith seemed important of out necessity to the locals, best not to piss him off...though there was still money to be made. Standing behind the barber-surgeon, Helmot leaned slightly forward to whisper in his companion's ear. "Tell him the more profitable truth."

[Guardsman]

The smell of the docks was horrible, though the elf did well to keep from commenting or crinkling his nose at it, it was easy to see his disapproval of the stench. "Here we are," he said, looking upon the house dubiously. With a shrug, he knocked on the door, then stood back, next to his companions, crossing his arms as he remained alert, glancing around at the many people walking up and down the docks.

With his fellow Elf knocking on the door he decided the next approach, the one which would get things rather moving along. Berthold decided to beat his hand against the door three times. A rather loud noise attracts attention inside someones household.

"This is the local help, open the door! If you do not comply in the next thirty seconds I will use physical force to enter your home and check on your well being!"

It was rather good to look like a man of good will when invading someones home. No one takes well to brutish behavior but with being played out as the good Samaritan who only wishes to check if your alive was a good thing.

[Gunther]

As the two knocked at the iron-reinforced wooden door, the peasants- true to form- simply went about their business. It was one of several perks of having an utter void of a proletariat in your society- either you had the authority to freely beat and rob and otherwise discomfort people as you pleased, or you were the person being beaten and robbed and discomforted and simply learned to not do anything that made that happen.

Regardless, there were a few interesting characters roaming the streets. A one-eyed fishmonger prominently displaying a freshwater shark he had somehow caught (And was selling for two silver a pound), a young pair of nursemaids escorting a group of starry-eyed school children as they marched about the town, their clean-pressed dark uniforms striking Indulin like little...cultists. Such a notion was preposterous, really, but the matching clothes, the surreal looks on their faces...it wasn't hard to see how country folk could be easily deceived by something otherwise harmless.

There was a sharp clicking sound as several locks disengaged on the doorway, which swiftly swung open. Inside stood a pale little man, his head bowed as he swiftly retreated from the doorway, arms raised as he saw the weapons of the people knocking at his broken-down home. The interior of the home was actually fairly well made, considering it was a peasant's house. The walls were made of (albeit broken in some places) plaster, with plenty of candles lit throughout the interior of the home. Candlejacks made of everything from bronze to plaster lit the house up like a chapel, though the somewhat-eerie lighting was nothing compared to the resident.

Dressed like a scholar, the white-skinned young man had beady little eyes, breath afflicted with halitosis, and a reedy, almost shrill voice. His head, covered in a wool cap, was freshly bandaged. He took another step back, "M-may I help you, good sirs?" He inquired, "I-I'm quite alright! It was just another loose brick that came through my window...and into my head..."

[-Sentinel-]

Kaspar smiled back at the young women as he passed, but their seduction attempts were lost on him. Virtually everything he knew about females, he had learned during his medicine classes at university.


Standing behind the barber-surgeon, Helmot leaned slightly forward to whisper in his companion's ear. "Tell him the more profitable truth."

"There's only one truth," replied Kaspar with dripping contempt. "Don't you think of anything other than money?"

He knocked at the smithy's door and put on his best professional face.

[lowlevelowl]

Helmot grinned, unfazed by his companion's moralism. If only he knew...

Quickly he rechecked the position of all the weapons on his body, pulling the handles out a bit more to make sure that they would not go unnoticed. Freshly sharpened, a heavy short axe hung at his waist and a short but weighty boar-hunting spear lay loosely strapped to his back, along with a simple shield.

[Gunther]

Forging A Solution
The smithy was situated along what one might consider the "thoroughfare" of the town, especially since someone had taken the sense of placing cobbles along the road leading almost directly to the front gate. Reaching it had not been a difficult task- hitching a ride on the back of a passing wagon alongside several peasants had brought them there quite quickly compared to foot traffic, with barely any discomfort to even mention compared to the crowds moving about the streets.

As they disembarked before the smoke-spewing smithy, they finally had a good look at the place: It was actually fairly well built by even the Empire's standards, but doubtlessly passed for "par" to any Bretonnian aristocrat. With solid stone for its foundations, the building was crafted from a mixture of brick with a terracotta rooftop. Such a strangely foreign design was a sure indicator of wealth, or- more likely- the wealth of the smith's patron lord. There were barred windows along the smithy, as well as- a rarity in Bretonnia- a trapdoor towards a basement below the smithy. Comprised of two floors, the building's tenants likely lived upon the second one, with smoke from the workshop below- if it were ever in use at the same time that someone were upstairs- being diverted by the large chimney vent jutting from the roof.

Over the front door, the iconic purple-dyed iron symbol of the Lady had been hung, easily measuring two meters in diameter. It was a positively massive construction, better fit for a statue than a storefront. Regardless, whatever sign that had once hung in place of the symbol had since been taken down or lost. Knocking on the doorway, large enough for two men to walk through abreast, the sounds of heavy hammering on metal could be heard. Thus, it was quite surprising to have someone quickly open the door.

A fair girl, no older than sixteen summers, stood in the doorway. Blessed with a rather well-wrought form, albeit sturdy as most Bretonnian women were, the young girl was dressed in a relatively nice one-piece gown of faded green linen. Her hair was kept hidden under a simple cloth caul. Seeing Helmet's weaponry, and the professional look of Kaspar, she let out a short yelp. The hammering stopped as she took a step back, the two getting a better look of the smith's abode.

With a stone floor, the interior looked like an ideal place for a smith to ply his trade. The mostly-vacant racks of weapons were visible along the hallway, with only priceless ornamental weapons- primarily things like gold-encrusted warhammers, silver-tipped bolts and the like- left. Not that any would be foolish enough to steal in Bretonnia, let alone from a smith so clearly favored by his lord. Speaking of which, the smith was quick to greet them, his presence...concerning to say the least.

To be blunt, the man was blind. He had the powerful muscles of a lumberjack, the broad shoulders of an ox, and an unbraided soot-laden brown beard that stretched down to his chest. His head was bald and shined with fresh sweat, but that didn't stop a look of parental concern from forming on his face. Or from him keeping a very large, very hot-looking hammer in his right hand. He was dressed in a heavy leather apron, a pair of thick horse-leather gloves around his meaty hands. Two equally thick boots, steel-toed, bore the sign of a master shoemaker's work. In addition, he bore one of the numerous icons of faith they had seen a handful of others wearing. It was hardly a common sight, but one could suppose that a blind man needed all the faith he could get. Standing at perhaps half a dozen feet, he looked fit to take on even Helmot without breaking a sweat. Except for the fact that he had a thin cloth wrapped around his eyes as he unsteadily walked towards the duo.

"Abigail? Abigail! Who is it? Did the Marquis send the guards as I asked?" He asked, looking towards the doorway. It was slightly strange, but it was also one-part humorous.

"It's...the mercenaries, father." The girl said, taking another step back, as though Kaspar or Helmet might leap forward even with their father so close.

"They came? Praise be!" The man shouted, a smile creasing his face. "Come in! Do come in!"

[-Sentinel-]

Kaspar entered the house and bowed his head politely.

"Good morning, sir. I am Kaspar Braun, physician." He pointed at his tools, briefly forgetting that the man was blind. "I'm here to, um, verify your allegations before any actions are taken. We don't want innocents to be disgraced or punished without proof, do we?"

He smiled briefly at the girl to show her that she had nothing to fear.

[Gunther]

Forging A Solution
The smith shook his head, "Ain't got need of that. I full well know that there's someone that's been sneakin' around my house in the middle of the night. I may be blind, but I ain't dumb." He said, pointing to his head. "Whoever it is, they've moved my tools once or twice, same goes for my furniture."

"But, father-" Abigail spoke up, looking defensively towards the large man.

"If you want to take a look at her, so be it, but I doubt there's anything your fancy medicine can do to replace a wilted lady." He stated, his head turning sharply to the young girl, "I'm more interested in finding out who's done this to my baby, and seeing he gets what's his."

The pun about sight didn't exactly go unnoticed, but the large man continued, "I'll give you six crowns right if you can prove what I'm almost certain of in regards to my darling Abigail, but finding the culprit and fixing him is what I'm more interested in. You can do that with your fancy medicine, yes?"

[Guardsman]

Berthold looks around for a moment and raises his hand, the well dressed Mercenary taking a step into the mans house. He motioned for the lads to follow him inside without a word.

Turning to Indulin he decided to place the first order. "Indulin close the door behind us and keep it watched for any sort of intrusion while business is conducted."

The next order was to be issued to his Ostlander friend Magnus. "Magnus keep an eye on the man for you if you would be so kind and do keep a finger on the trigger."

The Marienburger looked to the old frightened man and gave him a calm smile to ease him out of any unease. It would be best to seem rather friendly for the time being before he'd demand payment.

"I am Berthold Visser a very honest and good man. I do my business well and in turn I get paid well, however there have been some...allegations that you have done some rather questionable things sir. You will not resist me searching your home and your person as the Morquis has deemed me right to do so. However, I will not destroy or break any of your belongings lest the suspicion is understandable. If you resist I will take it as physical confrontation and be forced to harm you, bind you and call upon the Watch or the Morquis's personal guards to hold you for the time being. Are we clear?"

His hands were not on a weapon, his stance was not threatening and an honest smile was on his face. All he needed was for the old man to give in, let him conduct business and simply leave. No need to burn an old man because someone thinks he is a cultist, that would be foolish.

[Gunther]

Cults!
The pale young man, even with a head injury, was smart enough to go along with this. Perhaps because of the odd assortment of weapons and the odd-Elf-out, or perhaps just because the mention of the Marquis, he quickly stepped back.

"I, err, I don't suppose I see the harm." He yielded eventually, stepping aside. The household looked simple enough, built from cheap lumber and built by even cheaper labor yet. The wooden walls, given a now-peeling layer of white paint, were adorned with very little. Though the men had never really been inside of a Bretonnian peasant's home in such stunning detail, a few things struck them outright- for one, the bareness of the walls. As far as they could tell, devotional symbols- or cheap effigies of their lords- were usually strewn about the average peasant's home. If not to appease their master should he ever feel mad enough to visit, then to serve as a constant reminder of their servitude and the person whom they served.

However, this young man's home was devoid of such effigies. Occasionally a cheaply framed block-print could be seen, nailed in place as if to somehow appease a cursory glance. Though a cursory glance this was not! The home consisted of, as far as they could tell, a bare minimum to survive in. A simple kitchen with a table that had three legs (The balance of the table being preserved by using a short backhoe as the fourth leg), a stove with creaky hinges, a cord of wood waiting to feed an unprepared meal currently left out in the candlelight. From the looks of things, the man had just been about to cook himself up a meal, kindling and balled-up parchment having been tossed into the oven to help the day's feast- a side of ham and some potatoes- get on its way to being complete. There was a large candelabra on top of the table, the six prongs each occupied by a brightly shining candle.

Really, even without windows, the house was amazingly well lit. It was practically like walking in a regular sun-lit home, pardoning the massive planks boarding up the windows and the candles in place of sunlight. Speaking of which, it wasn't just candles- lanterns also were prominently displayed, as well as small candlesnuffs filled with tiny little pools of burning oil. Peeking throughout the one-floor home, they peeked into the man's bedroom. A straw-mattress bed, practically hugging the floor and topped with a chicken-feather pillow, was the main component of the accused's house. A one-drawer nightstand had a few pence left on it, as well as a half-eaten turnip covered in mold. A number of farming tools were scattered along the wall opposite the bed, with spades, rakes, and other such devices haphazardly piled up for the long haul of the siege.

The only area left was a small shrine to the Lady. Rather than the usual purple-dyed symbol, a simple brass idol of the Lady had been set around a small circle of scented candles. The idol, standing half a meter tall and a full meter at its base, appeared to be made from solid brass. It was the sort of idol that any peasant would need were he in very severe need of religious help- just as this man needed for his candle obsession.

Awareness to spot anything subtly amiss, otherwise: Feel free to tear up the place!

[-Sentinel-]

"I'll give you six crowns right if you can prove what I'm almost certain of in regards to my darling Abigail, but finding the culprit and fixing him is what I'm more interested in. You can do that with your fancy medicine, yes?"

Kaspar rolled his eyes in annoyance. Bretonnians, he thought.

"What if it were still possible to save your daughter's reputation, and yours too in the process?" he offered. "Wouldn't that be better than punishing the culprits, if indeed there are culprits? I'll sort this out for you, this will only take a minute or two."

[Gunther]

Forging A Solution
The smith paused, looking towards Kaspar's general direction, "Your voice sounds sincere enough, lad, but men can honey words for pence. You have some sort of fancy spell in that bag of medicine that'll fix my daughter?" He slowly began to stumble towards the surgeon, pausing as his daughter laid a reassuring hand on his chest.

"I'm not broken, father! I swear it! I'd never betray that nice boy from the ranch! Sure, he's got a stray eye, but we all have our flaws! I'd never ruin our family, father! I swear it!" She whined, looking to her father, even though he could never look back.

"Enough. If you can somehow save our reputation, and my daughter's marriage, I'll smith something for you- provided you can give me a good enough idea of what it is- in addition. It's not often a foreigner helps me, let alone one who can- apparently- do something normally attributed to holy ladies or..." He paused, lost in thought, "But go on."

[-Sentinel-]

"Yes... alright." Kaspar threw a sideways glance at Helmot. "Could you please, uh, go outside? This is a delicate matter."

(Assuming Helmot does:)

Kaspar put on a thin silken glove.

"Please forgive this inconvenience," he apologized to Abigail. "But if you're still a virgin, it'll be worth it." He leaned towards her. "I believe you," he whispered in her ear.


Okay, we certainly won't get into the details of what follows. Just tell me what kind of skill test it is. Would Heal represent my medical knowledge? I presume my Surgery talent has no effect on this test?

If it's a secret test (after all I could get it wrong and still think I got it right), I'll spend a Fortune point to re-roll a failure. Of course, in this case, I'm aware that you can't tell me if the Fortune point was necessary, but I accept its loss.

[lowlevelowl]

Helmot looks at Kaspar and the blacksmith before meeting the daughter's eyes with a sly, knowing smile. He silently leaves the room, standing outside the door.

As he stands, he watches the hustle and bustle of the village life. Even though he was most likely conceived in a village, Helmot did not like them. His earliest memories were of orphanages in Wolfenburg and backway alleys in Bechafen, and as such he was only truly comfortable when surrounded by monoliths of wood and stone, though he spent a fair part of his life on roads, guarding caravans, and scavenging through ruins on the outskirts of civilization.

He was quite sure that the blacksmith's daughter was not a virgin. Even if she was, someone had been tampering inside the blacksmith's shop. He was fairly sure they would have someone's knees to break by the end of the day. Helmot was disgruntled that he had read Kaspar, his companion, wrongly. All the doctors and barber-surgeons he had known were swindlers and thieves, coming up with such deviant schemes as to inflict lasting harm on a patient just so they had to come back to pay for more medicine. Many sold coloured water and catpiss as miracle tonics and elixirs. Kaspar seemed like an honest sort.

Helmot Ostfrunt did not like honest sorts.

[Gunther]

Forging a Solution
With Helmot's departure, the matter of the girl was quickly- and quietly- resolved. The smith's suspicions were indeed confirmed, the girl saying nothing as the father simply stood there, hammer in hand as he waited expectantly for what the doctor had to say about the whole matter- as well as what he could do.

Outside, the street before the smithy was as busy as ever. Even though the town had closed its gates for the most part, there was still steady intra-town traffic, the people riding about on horseback. It was an interesting aspect of the Couronne territory, that so many of the people here- peasants included- had an interest in horsemanship. Women rode aback large destriers, horses normally fit for war, simply to go to market and back. It would seem almost wasteful if it were not for the abundance of horses, all of them of reasonably high quality. Even them, the town's limited supplies put a hamper on the usage of horses for anything beyond transporting goods- without the farmers to work the fields and cut the grass for fodder, the massive bales of hay were left to deplete for the most part. Thankfully water was not an issue, for the fast-flowing River Sannez provided an unlimited source of clean water for the horses and the people alike.

As Kaspar's investigation concluded, Helmot saw that- though this town was seemingly perfect- that was not always the case. A man in a stockade had been tied to the ass of a mule, the animal heedlessly strolling on as the peasants made catcalls to the offender being dragged along behind it. A few stones were thrown, but- unlike the Empire- the people here valued their food too much to toss even rotten cabbage. Either a sign of just how precious food was, or of the discipline of Couronne's people. Likely both.

[ZeltArruin]

Indulin nodded and stood by the door, closing it and taking equal time monitoring the outside as he did the in. Perhaps it was just the situation that gave him an uneasy feeling about the place, rather than something actually being off, but he could not shake the feeling. As Berthold walked about the room, Indulin carefully studied the walls, floors and cieling as best he could from his stationary position. He wanted to draw his bow, but knew better than to agitate the situation, so he remained his vigil with his hand upon the bottom of his elven bow.

Is this a perception roll to see if I can see anything? Do I roll or do you?

[roll0] vs 32+10

[-Sentinel-]

Kaspar grimaced. He had the duty of telling the blacksmith the truth, but did not like this at all. He suspected the girl had something important to say, perhaps something that would explain it all.

"Looks like she no longer has her maidenhead," he said reluctantly. "But then again, it can rip of its own in a myriad of other situations. It doesn't mean she was unfaithful. In any case, perhaps I could brew a contraceptive potion for her, just to be on the safe side."

He turned towards the door. "You can come in, Helmot," he shouted.

[lowlevelowl]

Helmot slipped in and stood next to the wall of weapons. Finely crafted, but fanciful and ineffective. Why would you use the world's softest metal as the first layer on a warhammer? Brettonians...

[Gunther]

Cults!
Rolls for stuff like awareness and attacks are done by you, naturally. I'll just roll the secret stuff like the platoon of Bloodthirsters hiding in the basement.

Looking about, Indulin noticed little out of the ordinary besides the standard facts. Granted, from the doorway, the most suspicious thing to come into sight was the large out-of-place statue in the shrine room, especially considering that a peasant's home- which generally only consisted of three rooms- would have an entire area dedicated to the Lady. Immense faith, that.

The man looked over the Elf, then the two Humans now within his home. He gave a wide-eyed look to the guns carried by the latter, "Those are, err, interesting tools you have there, sires. Never seen a tube so thin before, let alone with a fancy brace like that." He commented gingerly, "Mighty fine tubes they are though, sirs."

Forging A Solution
The smith's face turned into a deep frown at the absolute revelation, before mellowing out somewhat. He placed the massive hammer, with a heavy thud, upon the floor. Feeling his way back into the unseen forge, he called out to his rosy-faced daughter.

"Abigail! Pay the doctor for his work thus far. As for his counter-elixer, no, we'll not be mighty thankful for it." The smith stated, the sound of clasps being undone echoing throughout the entrance hallway. "The doctor in town has his own ether for this sort of thing, I've found, but it never hurts to go the extra assurance. On that matter, I don't suppose you have something that can put the lass to sleep? She's likely scared as can be over this whole affair. Either way, the thing that concerns me the most right now..."

There was a heavy slamming sound as something was forced open violently, "Is the dignity of my family. The Lady hath not seen fit to give me hands and a skill to shoe any beast, or to make any form with metal, simply for my name to be besmirched by some cretin. To have my daughter called a harlot, which she inevitably will be when word spreads, is a slight I cannot suffer. If you care to stay the night, and help catch this culprit, I'll be much obliged. If not, Abigail will pay you your dues and let you go on your way. Ain't that right, Abigail?"

The girl gave a quick look towards Helmot and Kaspar before turning back to the smithy, "Yes, father!" She cried back, reaching for a purse on the back of her dress.

It was at this point that Helmot, standing so close to the weapons, felt an odd tingle along the back of his spine. A cold breeze seemed to travel up and down along his shirt, particularly as he looked at the warhammer. It had all the inlaid grace of an ancient weapon, though the soft metal for its head was an obvious detractor. Looking at his reflection in the polished metal, he could almost-

The jingle of coins drew his attention as the girl withdrew the first of the gold coins from her purse, the shapely little bits of precious coinage ringing in the ears of the fateful duo.

[-Sentinel-]

"If you were so concerned with the honor of your family," Kaspar pointed out, "perhaps you should have kept the whole matter quiet. But it's not too late... I can lie for you, declare that I found your daughter a virgin. And we can quietly track down and punish the culprits all the same, just to teach them a lesson."

He was far from sure there were any culprits to be punished, but it was clear that nothing less would satisfy the blacksmith.

"And if you don't mind," Kaspar added, "your daughter's version of the facts would help us greatly, I believe."

[lowlevelowl]

Helmot turned around again, glanced quickly at the warhammer, before striding over beside Kaspar and placing himself, once again, in the centre of the situation.

"The blacksmith will not lie to keep safe his family's reputation. The only way through this is retribution through cold steel and hot blood. Girl, who inflicted this on you?", Helmot asked, his tone harsh but not malevolent, turning on the girl.

I was tempted to roll Evaluate on the warhammer, but that would only tell me it's approximate price, not any important info, correct?

[Guardsman]

Perception testing versus 26 lest he could calculate anything from searching then it would be 36

[roll0]

Fate just incase
[roll1]


Berthold would look around the peasants room with great gusto involving his belongings. Table legs would be knocked on to check if they were hollow, books if any were checked for pockets, peasantry beds involving hay would be searched thoroughly, any form of box would be opened, desks if any would be checked, if this peasant had any place for plates or cutlery that would be checked too.

If nothing was found Berthold would check the place of worship of the lady. He would look for any sort of opening, checked for any hollow points and the Marienburger would look especially to the idol and checked if it was hollow as well.

[Gunther]

Forging A Solution
Evaluate is for determining market price, but Awareness might leave some hints about the object.

Abigail looked at the sudden curiosity of the duo with no small measure of horror, her father continuing whatever task he had taken upon himself in the forge. She looked between the two, before continuing, "He...he was a Halfling, a handsome man! He said he hailed from Tilea, and that...and that they had ways of preventing things like this from h-happening!" Her face became rosy, "I...I've never met a Tilean before, and he...he was such a gentleman! He smelled like the...the perfumed cloth father gave me once. I didn't know this was going to happen! I swear on the Lady's honor!"

"You shall not speak of the Lady, Abigail!" The smith roared, his voice echoing across the walls as another thundering crash could be heard. The sound of crackling bricks followed in the wake, a dull hum filling the air before quickly subsiding.

"He's visited me every other night...and tonight he promised me he'd bring me Tilean chocolates! I don't even know what those are, but they sound wonderful! Now...now I'm used property! I'll be with the dock harlots in no time!" She fretted, "The baker's son will know, and he'll tell his friends, and it'll be common knowledge! I-I-"

"Was raped." The smith said, eventually returning. He carried with him a small, masterfully made snuff box. It had a golden lock inlaid on the oak frame, the tiny case etched masterfully with the heraldry of some lord. "I'll pay good coin if you can attest to that, doctor. And I'll throw an extra ten crowns in if you bring me the Halfling. Alive. Dead, you get the pay I promised in that fancy letter. You can shoe a horse any way you like, so long as it can walk, after all. Either way, I'd appreciate you staying the night. Abigail can get you whatever you need when I get to forging...what was it you wanted?"

Cults!
As Berthold began to tear up the household, his abrupt invasion brought a world of panic to the young man. He flinched as the table legs were knocked on, the drawers were opened and false holds checked for. None were revealed, though the contents of the drawers- mostly strange odds-and-ends like a merchant's scale or a loose assortment of unlit candles and tinder- were nothing to be alarmed at. However, as Berthold began to tear up the bedding, he heard a yelp from the young man at his heels.

"Please! Stop that! The hay might catch-"

There. Grabbing ahold of an edge, Berthold realized that the bed's straw was actually simply a guise. Pulling upwards, a small, iron-bound book was revealed. Its surface was faded and the binding slightly wrinkled, but the illuminated tome had raised lettering along the front in curvy script. The tiny man let out a particularly girlish yelp as Berthold examined the book, flipping it open. The inside, made of leathery parchment, was covered in tightly-bound script. Diagrams of circles, strange scribblings and- Gott In Himmel! There, halfway into the book, was a picture of a skeleton. Small lines stretched from parts of the shaded diagram, the curvy writing running along it. Whatever this book was, it was certainly illegal- for a peasant to even read, let alone write, was a grave sin unless otherwise permitted by his lord. Obviously, this peasant was not likely to be such a permitted one.

"It's...I...Please!" He begged, "Please, show mercy! It's...it's harmless reading! I-I-I can explain! It's not as it looks!

INT check to try and get a vague understanding of the book. Every degree of success equals a further degree of comprehension.

[lowlevelowl]

"You could forge a weapon of Kaspar's choice...but I was wondering if you had any experience forging animal traps? I could use some of those, especially in a situation like this. Halflings are rather difficult to take alive. Such fragile creatures...", mused Helmot.

[-Sentinel-]

Kaspar liked this job less and less. He was starting to think he should have lied to the blacksmith after all.

But maybe the halfling deserves to pay, he decided. Must have been a manipulative little bastard, to take advantage of a young girl.

"The halfling said he'd come back tonight, eh?" said Kaspar quietly. "That's interesting. Maybe we won't need traps after all."

Halflings had a big flaw: they were always hungry and could not refuse food. Anaesthetic potion, slipped into something the girl would give her would-be lover to eat or drink, might do the trick. This solution suited him, since it did not involve violence on his part.

[ZeltArruin]

Indulin's eyes narrowed as he walked meaningfully up to the peasant. "Then tell me," he said, his voice even, but full of anger. "What exactly is it? Your life may depend upon the answer," he continued, sounding absolutely certain of himself as he stared down at the scared little man.

intimidate check
[roll0]

[lowlevelowl]

Helmot looked at Kaspar, knowing he was devising a plan in his mind. "Come he or not, I would still like some animal traps forged for me, if you could. I'd be willing to pay, in favours if not in crowns. And if the halfling does indeed come tonight, a trap could seize his ankles. Halflings love food...perhaps we can bait something for him."

By Awareness, I'll assume you mean Perception, so I'm rolling Perception to see what's up with that warhammer.

[roll0] vs 33

[Guardsman]

Intilligence check

[roll0]

Fate if possible
[roll1]


Berthold looked at the book for a moment as he attempted to discern the contents of the skeleton page. He looked at it from all angles as if an artist was to look at a beautiful woman in the ability of breaking down the image from all possibilities. It could be a diagram of a body or a diagram of how to perform chaos rituals. He couldn't be certain as it was rather confusing.

"My good peasant if you would be kind to explain this book from top to bottom that would be of excellent use to us. Comply with me completely or I will use this "tube" of mine to send a ball of iron through your gut and watch you bleed a slow and undeniably painful death or I can give you to the Marquis for his splendid dungeons of torture. I am only a good man doing things for the good of the people of Bretonnia so there is no need to hold back from any explanation of this Tome."

[Gunther]

Forging A Solution

The blind man, Bartholomew, simply nodded. Looking about, he patted the snuffbox in his hands as Abigail led him by the arm back into the smithy. "I can forge practically anything, my friend." He stated, his large hands feeling along the wall, occasionally drifting over the weapons mounted there but not touching them. Such precious pieces of art needn't be besmirched by fingerprints.

"If it's basic footcatchers you want, with springs and pressure plates and the like, I will be able to forge four of them for you overnight. And they shall be of great quality, as well- all my products are of the finest make!" He boasted, holding his hands up before the duo. "For as the Lady robbed me of my sight, the Grail hath restored it in my hands."

Abigail tugged at her father's shirt, but the man's face split in a smile as he continued, "Indeed, four traps in a single night's smithing! After peak hours! It would take a regular blacksmith an entire day to craft a single trap, let alone a quartet. I-"

"Father...I wouldn't dare interrupt praise of the most holy Grail, but I believe the bellows are overheating." Abigail cut in, guiding her father's hands back towards the distant archway of the smithy and sending him on his way. As the man departed, she withdrew fifteen crowns, the golden coins clinking in her hand as she offered the large bounty to the two men.

"Here, for your...work so far. Now, if you could please leave, I'm sure my father and I could settle this ourselves." She insisted, giving a pleading look between the two.

Cults!
The small man recoiled as he saw the Elf approach, the possibility of violence- and abrupt murder- causing him to stumble against the bedframe and crash into the wood floor revealed by the removal of the hay. Wood. That was a rarity for a bit of flooring, though the man had obviously had money to spare, what with witchcraft (Supposedly) as his power!

"It...It's a book!" He pleaded, "There! I said it! It's a book! I...I know how to read, and learn!" He reasoned, continuing on with a small amount of courage, "If the Marquis wants to burn me in a pyre for learning harmless things about how the world works, then he's welcome to do so! But I won't regret learning about the applications of silver nitrium, or gold foil's applications! I..." He continued, looking at the mercenaries. Realizing that the secret was out, he pointed to the book, and the drawing of the vicious-looking skeleton, "It's meant to detail things about Empire learnings! I...I plan to flee there, you see." He said eventually, doubtlessly trying to appeal to their nature as foreigners.

To Berthold, the book very well could have been an arcane lore detailing Chaos rituals- there were images of animal skulls, complex diagrams of things like pentagrams, swirling shapes that formed figure eights across entire pages, and more besides. It was practically anathema to him, even with his vague self-taught literacy.

"It's...it's the Liber Vic, written by an Empire Magister...I...I don't know what that is, but the things he writes about! He's named Horstmann...a very enlightening fellow, if I do say so myself!" The floored criminal said, giving a semi-hysterical laugh. "It...it's supposedly a big piece of learning in the Empire! The White Pyramid, it's titled, I believe. I've learned so much in just a few months of learning...I...I can make you healing poultices, or, or, manufacture ethers that can dissolve away injuries! I- Please, please give it back!" He begged, "It's the only way I'll ever make my own beyond this wretched farmer's life! I can't, I can't take another damned pig or another morning's crow!"

[Guardsman]

Berthold stared at the illuminated tome for several moments as he regarded the facts the peasant had given him. These could be falsehoods or well said lies for the sake of keeping the young mans hide in tact from the obviously well equipped mercenaries in his home. He decided to ask several well placed questions.

"First where did you get this book, this type of thing is very expensive and someone like you could not get the funds. Second if anything you say is true then what could you offer me to spare your life and instead fake your death? There is much to regard in turn of the information you presented to myself and the lads but do remember that your life hangs in the balance this very second, you only have the choices of giving me something of great value to give you the chance to escape or you will be killed by me."

The Marienburger had a book in his hand and his other hand on the hilt of his sword, he was making a deal that could change the balance of things for him this instance. One payment of whatever this peasant could offer and the second being from the person who hired the mercenaries could prove greatly beneficial.

[-Sentinel-]

Kaspar nodded.
"Ah, yes. Come, Helmot, we have preparations to make."

He left the building.



As soon as we're outside, I'll try to find a herbalist or, really, anyone who can sell me potion ingredients.

Gossip 34: [roll0]

[Gunther]

The man looked at Berthold with no small amount of terror at the prospect of suddenly being killed over simply learning. Shaking uncontrollably, the foul-smelling peasant looked towards the book. It was quite weighty in the Marienburger's hand, weighing almost as much as his sword. If it was a tome of foul sorcery, then it was a miracle that the young man didn't glow with the power of witchery or have terrible mutations by now.

"I...I...I took it." He said eventually, "From a...a merchant. He gave it to me in exchange for some food and a place in my barn, right before the Beastmen came! It was a blessing of the Lady, it was! I couldn't read a smart before that book, but I can read so much now! And, err..." He stared at Berthold as the hand went to the hilt of the sword, his peasant upbringing causing a reflex deference to the man, "My lord, I have learned a fair bit of, err, alchemy, you see." He stated, "My neighbors doubtlessly took the sheep's blood and the reek of death for withcraft!" He stated, giving a slightly hysterical laugh once more.

"If you'd, err, like, I could see about brewing some fine, sealed vapors for yourself and your, err, companions. Sure to make a man thrice as strong as an ox! I was preparing just such a draught for my..."

He looked at Berthold, before realizing that- literally- his life was on the line. "I can perform other alchemical feats as well, sire! Why, I could make elixers to use against your foes, or aid you in producing healing draughts for any ails, I can also, err, help you, uhh, uhh..."

He looked at Berthold's sword tearfully, "I can pull a cart very well?" He said at last.

Forging A Solution
As Kaspar departed the building, the local peasants were either too cowed by the presence of the foreign "Witch-doctor" or too busy to really provide too much aid. The streets were still bustling about the docks, though this time with people attempting to load cargo aboard the barge. Pulling a few aside, he saw that the crates being loaded were packed with the one thing a besieged village could spare- luxury goods like furs and timber from the woods across the Sannez.

However, as they poked about a tad, speaking with the odd peasant, the word "Alchemy" elicits a similar set of responses:
1) Making a sign of warding and biding them good day.
2) "Wot, like the doctor 'ere does?"
3) "Wizards, ya mean? Don't know any horse-shaggin' wizards, but there's probably one up inna hills."

Of those three, the middle one is the only one that actually yields something concrete. The apothecary's den, which they had passed on their way to the docks, was actually a bustling business. Doubtlessly, in a small town like this, the man was sure to have any number of draughts for the victims of everyday maladies here. Sleeplessness likely being one the man carried in abundance, especially in the racket of the day.

[-Sentinel-]

Kaspar decided to pay the apothecary a visit. He was very dubious about Bretonnian medicine, but contraceptive and soporific potions were almost universally used.

[lowlevelowl]

Helmot followed Kaspar silently, resigned to his thoughts.

[Liquidcore]

Magnus had stayed silent all this time, leaving the talking up to Berthold, deciding to...observe his new comrade.

"Would this cart you pull be full of ****? Like you?" He finally spoke up, a hand on his pistol. "Perhaps you could give me one good reason to not shoot you right here?"

With a smile he looked at the peasant. It was almost poetic really...or it would have been if Magnus knew anything of poetry.

[Gunther]

Forging A Solution

Moving back to the apothecary's manor, the two were taken in by the fact that it was, indeed, quite fancy- and the fact that it was actually more befitting of a lord than a doctor. After all, any Bretonnian resident was bound to a lord, and that meant that said resident also had nothing of their own, and that left them to live in makeshift hovels and huts whilst their masters bestrode in large households.

Households such as this.

Set atop a solid rock foundation, the home was built from wooden planks and covered in ceramic siding. The tile rooftop had been painted black, though several glass windows- an exotic rarity even for an accomplished man in Bretonnia. The building easily breached six hundred square meters in space, its two floors bedecked in all manner of windows and decorations. Curiously enough, it also bore the holy symbol of the Lady from above its doorway. Though by no means a commonplace symbol, most of the important shelters in the town had the cast-iron purple symbol hanging from a doorway or the side of the building.

As well as a sign of faith, there were signs of wealth. A stone fountain a few meters in diameter was situated outside of the front door, surrounded by a clean-cut grass yard with a paved stone path. Injured and sickly peasants lined up before the doorway, a constant stream of people coming in and...walking out almost perfectly healthy. It was hardly a constant stream in and out, but people were steadily emerging from the household with smiles on their faces and no obvious sign of injury or illness. This apothecary must have truly been a skilled artisan, for he even had a pair of militia men standing watch at the front door with halberds in hand. New halberds, as well as chainmail armor outside of their uniforms.

The peasants coming in moved aside, or were carried aside where able when the mercenaries approached. Broken arms, warts, and tumors were the standard of the day. The usual ailments- as well as a few men being carried on stretchers. The most notable stretcher-injury was a man who had been caught between the barge and the pier, his lower legs being crushed to a pulp. The man was catatonic, and likely to die soon, but his friends dragged him aside to allow the two mercenaries access.

Their entrance at the doorway was barred momentarily, but with one look at Helmot's weapons and Kaspar's medicine bag had the crossed halberds retracted. Ugly militiamen, those two- one of them covered in warts, and the other having a snaggletooth mouth. A bit of dentistry never hurt anyone...

The inside of the house was filled with orderlies and even a few apprentices. It was no doubt that these were the sons of merchants, having been assigned- with a dowry- to the apothecary so they could learn an even greater trade than their fathers. Yet there was no glory to be had at the moment, with young men lancing pus-spewing boils, mixing salves in crude stone mortars, and all the other dirty work that a town's apothecary had to do day-to-day.

The apothecary himself, easily spotted by the white leather cap and red-stained smock he wore, was quickly found. The inside of the house, with wooden floors covered in sawdust and its plaster-coated walls, was befitting of both a lord and an Empire hospital. The ill were put to rest in straw-mattress beds with chicken feather pillows, white sheets and hot broth a standard for those within. This was not the uncultured care of a witch-doctor, but a civilized man's health care. Granted, as the men walked through the rows of occupied beds, that still didn't indicate this was the perfect place to be interned- men had been tied to their beds in some places, others having their mouths gagged simply to stop the screaming from gangrenous flesh.

The apothecary was amongst one of those screaming men now, a pair of orderlies holding the man down as a vial of greenish-purple paste was produced. The man's entire left arm was consumed in black-blue flesh, in obvious need of amputation. His screams were muffled by a leather belt in his mouth, and swiftly ceased as the doctor- carrying the open vial with gloves and a pair of tongs- splashed the fluid over the afflicted area.

The medicine man himself was a balding, elderly fellow- his face relatively unmarked by age besides a few wrinkles. His gray hair was matched by the large, wide-rim glasses he wore. His clothes under the bloodstained smock were made from fine linen, as well as cured leather boots. He was obviously a man of wealth, as indicated by the silver wristguards around his forearms.

"May I help you, gentlemen?" He asked, as the struggling man slowed, then stilled. The area where the fluid was applied sizzled slightly, the liquid turning into black foam and sloughing off...leaving red, but healthy, skin behind.

Cults!

"I..." The tiny bookworm let out a yelp, and it was obvious- from the tears flowing along his face- that he was absolutely terrified. "I can perform medicine! I...I'll pledge myself to your group, here and now!" He said at last, "I'll be your worker, I'll, I'll do whatever you want! Just please...please don't take my book away from me! I'll make healing draughts! I'll make solstices and, and, cure whatever you want cured! Please, just...don't take it away!" He bawled, "I can't stand this life anymore! I can't stand these ignorant peasants! I...I just want to do what I want! No more lords! No more nobles!"

[Guardsman]

Berthold stared at the pleading man for a moment, considering his words carefully. There was coin to be made in the mans desperation, he was sure of it. He looked for a moment out a window and then to the desperate peasant once more as he found a solution that could be good enough.

"If I let you live then you will be a servant to the lads and do as I order you to, understand? I will have to make some sacrifices for your freedom from this life but make no mistake that this is not because of pity. I'll need an alchemist in the future and if I order you to do something in the name of coin you do it or I will have you shot and I will sell that bloody tome."

He adjusted his hat fashioned to Marienburgs finest and adjusted it, looking to the lads with a frown. Time to get things moving along it seems.

"Alright boys we're going out the back and we're going to burn down the house with the candles. We're taking the peasant because we got ourselves a follower who won't ask questions lest he want a gunpowder surprise. Don't let any witness's catch wind of us and when the Peasant moves out of sight we show up in the streets and make a scene of our heroics in killing a worshiper of chaos. When we're done we get our pay and we move on to the Knight Errants location."

The stage set, the orders given, and a lackey gained out of this. Worth it? Possibly. Coin could come from the strangest places.

[ZeltArruin]

edit: ninja'd
"Hmm, he make speak the truth," Indulin said, after all his hatred for chaos, this certainly did not seem like it to him. "Perhaps we could hold him in our custody until we are certain that this book is indeed dark magic or the like. Then we can hand him over to the witch hunters, or what ever it is they have here in Bretonnia. As such, we would retain his useful skills, and still be able to dispose of him, should his true colours show," he offered, perhaps out of pity for the miserable wretch.

"A fine plan, one I too was about to offer. Ah, we shall still collect pay from the accuser next door no doubt?" Indulin inquired with a small grin. Though he certainly did not trust the little peasant, this seemed the best way to deal with such a situation, keep your foes closer, so the saying went in the human lands.

[Liquidcore]

Magnus smiled. "Sounds fair enough, but at the first sign of any funny business..." He said, quickly drawing his pistol and aiming it at the peasant. "Bang" he shouted. And with that he holstered the gun again, laughing.

"Now then, let's burn this to hovel to the ground."

[-Sentinel-]

"May I help you, gentlemen?" [the physician] asked, as the struggling man slowed, then stilled.

Kaspar did not like to ask medical help from a Bretonnian, but he had little choice. The man did not look too inefficient... Educated in the Empire, maybe? Only the Empire, and possibly Araby, had good physicians.

"Yes, please. We need some potions. A contraceptive and an anaesthetic. We can pay well."

He jingled his purse.

[Gunther]

Cults!

The man gives a happy nod as he follows Berthold's instructions, quickly leaving the room as he gives plenty of bows and thanks to the mercenaries before him. Inside of the house, the abundance of candles would make the task of burning the house down quite simple- though controlling the flames would be left to the local fire brigades.

It's simple enough to get everything needed for a good fire ready- collecting the oil from the lanterns, which is doused about the floor on your way out, you catch the peasant as he slips through a door into a shed. Doubtlessly, it was a secret way out of the household in the event of a situation just like this. Thankfully the heroes had caught him off-guard!

It takes only a few minutes to prepare the house for combustion, and as a candle is liberated to apply the finishing touches on the way out, the heroes spot a large man standing on the street before the home. Good thing the lad had left the back way...

The man in question had a crown of brown hair, his bald crown disfigured with an unshapely plate insertion deforming the skin. His left eye was a bit slighter than his right, which tended to roll as he spoke. The man's plain brown clothing, consisting of a brown robe and some worn leather shoes, would have made him easily mistaken for a priest in the Empire...provided, of course, he never spoke a word.

"Bup, bup, bup," He began, his double chin wobbling as he made the odd quasi-belch sound, the tiny iron symbol of the Lady over his breast jingling in resonance, "Going to put the wizard to the torch, are you? Bup, bup, bup. About time! I thought nobody would see the curse this man puts upon the Lady's name! Bup, bup, bup."

Forging A Solution

The apothecary gave a wide smile, his full set of teeth unsettling for a land where dentistry was reserved for lords and ladies. "Ah! I have the ingredients for both right on me!" He stated, giving a wide, brimming smile. "But...woman!" He said, smacking one of the nearby orderlies upside the head. "Fetch me the pheasant and minotaur elixers!"

Looking over the two men as the woman scurried off, he gave a small smile, "You're the mercenaries, aren't you? Well, normally I'd be forbidden to sell my ethers to anyone but a noble, especially a contraceptive potion. One has to keep the peasant population up, you see." He stated, giving an airy look at the two, "But I suppose that, as foreigners, you're entitled to a bit of leeway- perhaps even a bit of a select venue?" He inquired, "Seeing as you're working with the Marquis and the like."

[-Sentinel-]

The marquis? thought Kaspar with puzzlement, before remembering the job offer about beastmen. He decided to play along.

"Thank you, kind sir. We're just doing our job. How much will it be?"

[lowlevelowl]

Helmot seized up the man, wondering if he had a chance to intimidate the apothecary into a bargain. On one hand, this was a man whose daily work involved plenty of blood and pain. On the other hand, this was a wealthy man with the audacity to flaunt it, judging by the silver wristguards he wore. He had not amputated that man's arm...did he have it in him?

Helmot's mind lingered over the halberds and chainmail of the militia. He had fought with similar equipment before, and fondly recalled the ability to kill from two arm's-lengths away, protected by rings of steel. Now he had a tattered leather jack and simple weapons of iron and wood. Oh, how wealth fluctuated...

[Guardsman]

Berthold finding the rather heavy set man to be a tad bit draining decided to end this rather quickly. Crossing his arms upon his leather chestguard he began to obtain the fee he deemed worthy for the Company.

"Alright sir the deal is done, the witch's arms broken and his limbs tied with his mouth gagged. I'm sure you will take great pride in not hearing his screams as it is said the scream of a burning witch can curse the soul. In combating a witch there was much materials used to combat his hexes and curses so there will be a bonus fee and an extra fee for workman's compensation upon such grueling pay on top of the fee you promised. I expect the full amount immediately. If you do not comply I will take the fee of the job and begin repossessing anything you have of worth in your homestead. Are we clear?"

Ruthless and to the point was his strategy for the moment as it should be, this job was completely a big fake and getting pocket change was not in his line of work.

[ZeltArruin]

Indulin merely stood to the side as his comrade 'negotiated' the price for their work done here. He was rutheless in his business, and though it was understandable, it was still quite impressive. This human he was speaking with, on the other hand, was not beyond the elf's suspicions, as such, Indulin eyed him warily as they spoke. The flabby man invoked the name of the petty goddess the people of this area worshipped readily enough, but it easily could be a rouse. But, even if that was the case, their task was complete, and as long as the shiner's switched hands, he had little to worry about. A crazed Breton was normal, it seemed.

[Liquidcore]

Magnus simply stood back with a grin that was usually carried by serial killers who had just skinned another maiden.

"Nothing like a good witch-hunt to clear the mind." He said, quite content with his little pun. He did decide however to leave the rest of the talking to Berthold.

[Gunther]

Forging A Solution

As Helmot assessed the man, he noted that the apothecary- though seemingly frail by himself- was surrounded by orderlies, as well as the two militia men outside. If he were to call Helmot's threats, should the mercenary dare make one, there would certainly be a quick response to aid the town's only fully-capable healer beyond the militia medics. Not that such a thing would stop a man as powerful as him, but it was something to consider.

His next words actually negated the entire concern, "Price? Not at all!" He stated, giving a chipper smile, "Provided, of course, you're willing to do me a small favor in exchange! You see, I have a fresh batch of healing draughts- very valuable things for the militia, you see- I'm currently brewing up. Now, I've made do, but as far as I've heard the Marquis wants you to hunt after some beastmen or another- wretched business, really. Now, if you should fight beastmen in the near future, I would very much appreciate whatever horns, teeth, tongues, toes, or the like you can bring back. It's a tad nasty work, so I'd suggest wearing gloves to avoid ill humors."

He gave another smile, revealing that set of pearly white teeth once more, "And pardon my forthrightness, sirs, but I'd rather not dilly-dally on verbal foreplay when there's men to be helped."

It was at this point that the woman, sufficiently cowed, returned with a pair of large alembics with parchment gummed on.

"But if you'd rather not serve the work of morticians, it'll be five silvers apiece- you're quite fortunate that I haven't had much use for anesthesia as of late! Fortified ether does wonders in its place." He continued on, pointing towards the arm of the now-unconscious man. The dead flesh had been almost entirely transformed into raw, living flesh- albeit quite vulnerable to infection unless it was properly tended to.

Cults!
The man, seemingly simple in the head, gave a satisfied nod with a concerned look on his face. "Curse the soul? Bup, bup, bup. Wouldn't want that to happen! Mighty glad I hired some knowledgeable folks to save our souls. Bup, bup, bup." He looked into the house before touching the tiny amulet about his neck, "How much is fair for three kind sirs as yourselves? I don't have much coin to spare, but I have plenty of food I can provide, an' fresh potted water. Bup, bup, bup."

He looked the men up and down before making his offer, "Is fifteen crowns an' all the fish you can handle enough? Bup, bup, bup."

[-Sentinel-]

"Now, if you should fight beastmen in the near future, I would very much appreciate whatever horns, teeth, tongues, toes, or the like you can bring back. It's a tad nasty work, so I'd suggest wearing gloves to avoid ill humors."

"That shouldn't be too much trouble," smiled Kaspar. "But allow me to pay you 5 shillings all the same, in advance."

He dug into his purse and put five silver coins on the nearest table.

[Guardsman]

Berthold couldn't believe his ears from the damned disgusting peasant. Fifteen crowns and fish?! What type of fool does he take him for? He decided to grab him by the obese mans robes and look him straight in the face.

"If you dare think 15 crowns and fish will get you off the hook then make no mistake it will not do, not one single bit. I expect 20 to 25 gold crowns and enough fish to feed each mercenary for two life times! Two you hear me! Two life times! Next time when you hire professionals remember that this isn't a charity business, these are men who are trained to kill! Twenty gold crowns and...you know what? Twenty gold crowns and I partially own half your catch every time you go to sea."

Berthold let go of the man in a light shove while giving a large **** eating grin, as of course the grin was so devious it was spewing from the cracks with brown liquid.

"Twenty crowns by tonight and one of my men will write up a writ signed in blood that I, Berthold Visser own half of your catch and have the rights to do with it as I please. You're damned lucky I don't take the whole thing myself and make you regret it each and every day. Do you understand me my good man? You don't pay a high price without the funds for it."

[lowlevelowl]

Helmot liked the apothecary. A favour now in return for various body-parts in the future, not unlike some deals he had brokered in the past. He let Kaspar hold the draughts and made for the door, uncomfortable in the room full of sick and wounded.

[Gunther]

Forging A Solution

With a wide smile, the apothecary bid them farewell. With a five silver downpayment, the two were now suitably laden with potion. As Kaspar held the two sloshing alembics on his way out, he noticed that the fluid within was actually quite curious- it was of a far darker color than most potions of its sort. In addition, the containers were far lighter- and seemingly sturdier- than what he generally worked with. For a village apothecary, the man seemed to have plenty of lightweight and road-worthy goods.

Emerging from the apothecary's household, the two were left with a good amount of daylight time to spend. They had made a fair bit of coin for their effort...and it would be several hours before the Halfling was due to visit the lass that night. This, of course, left the duo with a fair amount of time to kill...and, likely, a group of friends at least mildly concerned for their more handsome and intellectual half.

+300 XP apiece
Gained fourteen crowns and fifteen silver pieces
1 dose of "anesthesia ether"
1 dose of "contraceptive ether"
4 Mancatcher traps (Animal traps) currently being smithed at no personal cost

Cults!

"S' a year's pay it is..." The Fishmonger grumbled, "But you'll be burnin' the witch. Bup, bup, bup." His face split into a smile at this, obviously unknowing of the alchemist-in-training's flight. He turned to the people now moving betwixt the barge and the warehouse only a few dozen meters away.

"Oi! Bup, bup, bup. These are the heroes that are burnin' the warlock!" He shouted to the masses, "Get yer buckets ready, bup, bup, bup, and some sausage for the fire!"

The announcement drew a few cheers from the peasants, who were allowed this small sign of celebration with a minimum of filthy looks from their taskmasters. Even those harsh men, with their cudgels and their dockets, gave approving nods- for the most part- to the mercenaries standing outside of the soon-to-be-blaze. One or two of the passing peasants even "Accidentally dropped" a smattering of copper and even a silver or two.

The fishmonger withdrew a purse hanging from around his wide neck, the filthy leather bag being upended into Berthold's hand as the rest of the people prepared for the raging inferno. Buckets of water were withdrawn from the Sannez river nearby, ready to douse any flames that caught on the adjacent homes as the gold coins clinked beautifully into the man's hand, threatening to spill over in a pile of precious gold pieces. Gold. Real gold!

"Burn the warlock!" One of the bystanders said, a slow crowd forming with bucket-wielding peasants.

"He poisoned my crops! Burn the whole place down!" Shouted one disgruntled farmer, his cocked eye swiveling slightly as he tried to muster a hateful look at the home.

"He made my wife have a brown-haired boy!" A blonde-haired peasant shouted, jeering at the abandoned home that- supposedly- had a pacified rogue spellcaster inside of it.

This house was a symbol of the woes of the peasants. It deserved to burn.

Tossing the candlestick into the mouth of the household, the lantern oil caught instantly. Flames streaked through the home in mere seconds, the man's lifehood going up in flames as the fires spread across every room in the household, causing plaster to spew off deadly smoke and cheap wood to ignite almost instantly.

The oven, in particular, made a particularly nice bang when something within it exploded. The chimney collapsed as Berthold counted up the gold coins- sure enough, there was all twenty, plus the loose change at their feet. A nice haul, but it was like plucking coin from a wee babe- the peasants had no idea with whom they are dealing. The moment a more clever and wily prey came about...

Well, that was a concern for later, and more an issue for the mercenary's musket! Not a shot fired...a good day for making coin!

+300 XP
+20 gold karls, one silver, and six copper
One herbalist follower, currently residing/returning to the Inn-Barracks

[lowlevelowl]

Helmot laughed out loud in the middle of the busy road. For little more than a knock at the door at the blacksmith's, a quick peek into a woman's parts, and a stroll up to the local apothecary, they had made a little more than a handful of crowns, had received two expertly crafted potions, and he was now having animal traps personally forged for him by an artisan smith!

Such a day. He supposed they should probably head back to their quarters to await news from the others, though he had wanted to take a chance to visit the local markets to look for some items...most notably a small rabid animal of some sort, perhaps a tamed dog or badger. He had also heard of foreign rat-catchers using larger rats, which they called possumes, or such hunting aids as large flightless hawks or pygmy boars, every bit as vicious as their larger counterparts. This was all depending on how the gold was split between his party, however.

Baiting dogs and mechanized traps were instruments which had always intrigued Helmot Ostfrunt's interests. The possibilities were endless. Though often employed in rat-catching and similar tasks, with some ingenuity Helmot believed that hidden traps could play a huge role in combat as well. Also, begrudgingly, Helmot had a fondness for animals, especially those in the state of half-domestication, foraging off refuse on the borders of cities but owned by no-one.

[Liquidcore]

Magnus simply smiled as he pocketed his coinage and watched the fire consume the building. It had a certain charm, that much was certain.

"Cozy." He commented, looking over at Berthold. "Well, now that we've dealt with the witch, perhaps we should finally head over to this royalty that required our help." He said, before smiling. "Actually, maybe we should get back to the inn first, have a drink to celebrate." He suggested, rattling his coinpurse. "I'll buy."

[Guardsman]

Berthold looked over at Magnus for a moment with the flickering light of the burning house in the distance. The Marienburger was all about business and the time he wasted gallivanting with women and very terrible ale then he would rather conduct business and then gallivant with women and very terrible ale.

"Magnus we'll first speak with the mouth of the employer and then call it a day. Simple meet and speak scenario so we can set the damned grounds to any sort of rise in pay and additional information for the hired work."

Berthold turned to the very fat man still bupping about like the idiot he was. He was quite happy knowing that the bottom of the barrel would be turning into an overweight bupping fool.

"Get the fish owed to me at the tavern I am staying in, the Holy Lady. After every catch I expect my fair share and I will need to know a thing or two about the fish market of Bretonnia."

Coin could be made anywhere, especially in the mercantile business. A mercenary sometimes must learn to use hostile negotiations and learn some trades along the way. If one could edge their way into all the trades and keep them running without the person however...a mercenary could be swimming in crowns.

[Gunther]

A Crossroads
As Helmot enjoyed the fresh jingle of coins, he realized that there was a choice of venues here- the markets, or returning to the Inn-Barracks. It was by this time that the sun had begun to near its zenith, the townsfolk of the makeshift fort just now starting to trickle into the various stalls and shops in the market district that formed a semi-circle about the docks. The same docks the rest of the group was now present.

The markets were, needless to say, a place where a man could buy almost anything. With goods going down the River Sannez throughout all of Bretonnia, there was an abundance of Empire-produced (And even a fair number of Dwarvencraft) materials siphoning towards the war effort against Chaos. It was quite possible that there were a number of vicious animals, currently kenneled up, waiting to be put to use against the beastmen plaguing Reolus. After all, it was much cheaper to buy an attack hound to fight a monster than to buy immensely talented mercenaries like Helmot!

As he traversed the streets, Helmot could see smoke rise up in the distance. Black smoke. The rattle of a distant fire bell was abruptly silenced as the black smoke wafted in the air, word traveling like lightning throughout the crowd. The massive steeds that seemed to be so commonly used here paid no heed to the distant smoke, but their riders were quick to point out and- in a few cases- loudly declare their joy at such a sight.

"Another witch has been found!" One gossip said, her gaggle of fellow loose-tongued hags all chuckling amongst themselves, "He must have burned like a stuck pig!"

"I hear we have an Elf in town..." Another could be overheard saying, "Why, I's told my grandboy to stay inna house, I did. No need to have the Fey taking him, makin' him one of their summerborn or what-have-you."

On the other hand, the Inn-Barracks had plenty of warm beds, warm women, and- if the Marquis's generosity was in fact an actuality- plenty of freshly minted gold from the river trade.

Booze and Brats!

As Magnus suggested celebration, the peasants were already working on extinguishing the quick-burning household. Lamp oil did wonders for a fire, and as his coinpurse gave a happy little jingle of gold crowns, there was a crack of timbers as the rooftop collapsed inwards. Gods, in an Empire city, such a spectacle would have drawn doomsayers and agitators looking for a good soapbox platform. Here, in Bretonnia? It was simply another daily surpise that had to be addressed with buckets and fresh water.

Traveling back through the city streets, the group found themselves making their way through the midday traffic. With the town's gates closed up and the farmers unable to return to their homesteads for fear of beastmen, this consisted of those with coin exchanging it alongside precious luxury goods brought in from the barge, or paying to load more product unto said barge.

At the moment, hawkers were calling unto the crowd for what little they could afford, whilst militia men- bearing large sacks of grain and cheese upon wooden carts- began to dole out rations. Peasants patiently waited in line as the pecking order once more asserted itself, the largest and most vicious of the peasant caste arming their way to the front of the line for what little handfuls and pieces they could be spared. Seeing the mercenaries, and Magnus's proud bearing drew a few lustful glances from the men. Jealousy was a powerful force to wield- either for yourself, or against yourself.

With this thought in mind, the Inn- as well as the herald for the knight- were up ahead. The markets weren't too far off from here, but with the sun at it's zenith, more people could be seen trickling towards those very markets. With the Inn now a "military structure", people had to go elsewhere for their fixes. On the upside, that meant that the Inn always had room for drinking men. Provided, of course, those drinking men were in the Marquis's uniform and bearing the Marquis's gold.

Currently, the door to the Inn is open and unbarred, a pair of militiamen in light scale armor standing watch. Contrary to most of the guards, these men were actually trained soldiers, likely men granted to the Marquis when he came to the village and began to fortify it against the beastmen so tantalizingly close to the town. The Footman of the Stool's herald was supposedly in the gardens behind the Inn. If he had remained there after the two or so hours since they departed was another question entirely.

[ZeltArruin]

"Perhaps it would be best if we regroup before we set out on another task? As we have but three remaining, and all of those three seem rather important, it would be better if all five of us were there for those tasks," Indulin said to their man in charge, Berthold. Indulin felt that the situation with the supposed cultist had gotten slightly out of hand near the end. What in the world were they going to do with fish? No matter, the task was behind them and there was always more to do.

[Liquidcore]

"Excuse me gents." Magnus called out, walking up to the guards. "Is The Footman of the Stool's herald here? We're here to talk to him." He said, standing upright facing the guards.

Actual trained soldiers, Magnus was impressed, this inn was well-protected.

[Gunther]

As Indulin made his suggestion, one of the guards gave a short grunt. Shouldering his halberd, he pointed a mailed glove towards the corner of the Inn. "Th' herald-boy? He's 'round the corner." The ever-so-talkative man said, "Fer a ha'silver I'll tell the Marquis yer back." He offered, "To get the preparations an' suchlike made."

The man's companion just continued to look dead ahead, his eyes obscured by an armored visor. Either he was an extremely devoted soldier, or he was extremely good at sleeping upright and in the at-attention position.

There seemed to be a small path, lightly trod, around the outside of the building. Doubtlessly it was a path towards the gardens in the back, where the produce was freshly grown. Or, at least, where it was freshly grown until recently. It was perhaps a small measure of fortune that, as the guard pointed out where the Herald was, the young man himself actually showed up.

The fact that he was the herald in question was quite obvious- he was the only man in the entire town likely to ever wear armor such as that. It was obviously plate armor, made for a Bretonnian knight- not a boy just out of his youth and blooming into manhood. Yet even though it clanked a bit, it was obviously a fit piece of armor for the young man, joined by the bulky longsword kept at his hip. The sword had an engraved guard to it, a guard that spoke of high breeding and a long past to Indulin. To Magnus and Berthold, it just spoke of a very expensive hunk of metal that could probably cut a man in half quite rapidly.

The young boy had a full head of golden curls, and when he spoke, it was actually with a voice that held a fair bit of authority in it. Not the complete confidence of a Bretonnian aristocrat in his prime, but someone on the way to being that much of a pompous jackass.

"Are you the mercenaries Lord Farabus wanted?" He asked, as though to say, 'Is this all he's paying for?'.

[lowlevelowl]

Helmot made his way back to the barracks-inn to await the others, having lost Kaspar in the marketplace crowds. There would be plenty of time to shop later, with more crowns in his pocket.

[Guardsman]

Berthold wasn't amused by the boys tone and especially not amused by thinking him some lower Telian mercenary. He made a small grumble and snapped his fingers at some tavern goers that were obviously of the peasantry cast.

"One of you go find my comrades. One's a raggety looking fellow with leathery skin, looks like a damned foreigner too. Other's a bloody gaunt looking fellow who is clean compared to the lot around here. Find them or ask the damned blacksmith where they be and don't ask more questions. It's better for your damned health. " He said flipping one a silver crown.

"You, get me a pipe and whatever you Bretonnian's smoke around here. I'm certain I am going to need it." And another silver crown for the other peasant, time to get things moving.

Time to conduct business, motioning for Magnus and Indulin to sit. Time for the lads to show their stuff to this noble brat in armour worthy of a better warrior. But he knew that in these lands young nobles had to prove they had the stuff to be knights.

"Alright Sir Knight lets' get down the business shall we? And to answer the rather haughty question you asked boy, yes we're the best the humble man can find in your entire kingdom. We're not some damned Tilean mercenaries with bad accents and poor fighting skills, we're a mix match of especially skilled individuals who can get a great deal done in these lands. So next time you believe in insulting the lads to their face remember you could hire Tileans and those bastards will make you be known as Sir Knight the Incompetant."

After the much needed speech he drummed his fingers on the table to move things along.

"Now on to pay and how we'll conduct the much needed work. If we're required to muscle those that are bad mouthing your client then there will be a charge of a workers fee of 6 extra gold. Regarding a materials fee for used for this bit of work will be up to debate later. But for now the bill will be 68 gold crowns till the work is done. Also when this bit of work is done I'd like to see the man paying us, personally."

[Gunther]

Reunion
As Helmot made his way back to the Inn, he saw his three other companions meeting a knight. Or, at least, someone with close ties to a knight for the permission to wear plate armor in public. Making the climb up the hill, he heard the Marienuburger- obvious from his ridiculously bright clothing compared to that of the peasants- spewing out his usual assuage of verbose and vulgar words.

"-workers fee of six extra gold. Regarding a materials fee," He could be heard rattling off. Prittle-prattle, prittle-prattle. Helmot knew that the man was just doing his usual task of trying to bargain his way into some ridiculous sum of gold. Climbing up the hill, and receiving curt nods from the militiamen scattered around the random piles of goods placed there, Helmot noticed a few workers hefting wooden planks and nailing them in place. Scaffolding was being erected...and only a stone's throw away from the Inn. Odd.

Seeing the knight up close as he came within proper earshot, Helmot saw that the knight was- in fact- a young man. A young man with a fair face and golden curls, not to mention armor and a sword on him worth enough- combined- to likely buy Helmot the finest whores in all of Tilea and the wine to go with them!

For Berthold on the other hand, the young Knight was not exactly keen to hear him work his mercantile trade. Rather, when he spoke of things like workers fees and material charges, he looked at the mercenary as though he had grown a second head and a third eye on each head.

"Material...charges?" He asked, before shaking his head, "I was pensioned sixty four of your 'crownes' for this nasty business by the Great Lord Farabus. Who, might I add, could not be taken from his duties at the King's castle to handle this unsightly affair himself."

The young man's voice had a streak of pride to it, the authority of a noble-born speaking to peasants asserting itself. Being Empire folk, such a voice did not cow them as it would any regular peasant who- at hearing the raised voice- would likely go, "Yessir, coin, sir? No, sir, just glad to be servin' you, Praise Be The Lady!"

To mercenaries, that voice just meant a temperamental young man with the title of nobility to protect his outbusts. "Now, as you are here to work for your coin," He continued, as if to imply that work was some gravely sinful thing done by necessity with the lower classes, "I have been told to show you the coin in question and give you the instructions."

He unhooked a small pouch from his hip, quickly opening the hooked bag to show a small fortune of glittering gold coins that jangled with every movement. Quickly re-sealing the bag, he put it back onto his waist before producing a sealed scroll case from some unseen clasp at his back. Whilst those present may have felt inclined to make an "Out of his arse crack" at the boy, as he unsealed the wax stopper and produced the parchment within, they found their eyes drawn to...

A map. It was a finely made piece of cartography, indicating the village of Reolus in its center, the River Sannez marked with flowing scratches of ink. To the northeast, according to the map's cartographer, the "Den of Foul Inquity" was located.

"This," The young knight replied, "Is the place my fair master wishes for you to voyage. It is a foul place of revelry, located at great expense, that those who besmirch his name now attend. They doubtlessly indulge within lewd excess at the retreat they are said to have there. If you can find evidence of this lewd excess, we may yet speak of...additional favors." The young man grated out with great difficulty, "But otherwise, you are expected to give these upstarts a sound thrashing, without once making reference or incidence upon the great man they besmirch. Should you fail to accomplish this, I can make no guarantees as to what form my master's displeasure may take." The faint glimmer of a vindictive frown was replaced with a bright smile as the boy took a short breath and smiled,

"Any questions?"

[-Sentinel-]

(OOC: Seems like I didn't post in a while... During this time, Kaspar went back to the armorer's house with the potions. If the GM is okay with this, the following can take place some time earlier, and we will assume Kaspar has now reunited with the others.)


Kaspar knocked at the armorer's door again.

"I went to the apothecary," he declared. "This," he pointed at the first potion, "is a contraceptive for Abigail. I will declare your daughter a virgin and we can pretend this whole thing never happened. And this," he pointed at the other potion, "is an anaesthetic that can easily be put into food. When the halfling comes back, as he promised to, Abigail will offer him something to eat... Simple as that."

[lowlevelowl]

"How sound a thrashing?", Helmot yelled back at the shiny but likely ineffectual noble.

[Gunther]

The Smithy

As Kaspar returned to the blind smith, his knocks at the door were greeted by Abigal, her dress having a bit of soot stains along the hem. She cracked it open only by a few scant inches, nodding to the barber-surgeon as he presented the two elixers and laid out his plan.

"I...thank you." She said quietly, holding out a small purse of coin in exchange for the potions "It's a handful of crowns I've saved up over the years. It's the least I can do for your kindness, Herr Braun."

Inside, Kaspar could hear the sounds of repeated hammering, the smith now in full boom. A few horses had been hitched up outside of the home, waiting to have new shoes made for their hooves. A tempting target for any horse thieves, but not many were dim enough to try and take the horse from a Couronne native.

Reunion

The young knight turned towards Helmot as he finally reached the conversation, the good doctor a short distance away, visible amongst the mingling crowds below. "Sound enough that these curs think twice before disrespecting a sacred position as that held by Lord Farabus. Do not slay them, but give them enough of a belting that their hides are raw and their spirits are broken. Humiliation is the intent here- physical injury is just the preferred means of achieving it. As I said before, anything else you can provide that might damage their reputations will be greatly... appreciated." He said, before nodding towards the distant walls, "How you reach their isolated little homestead is your own issue. I am certain that you are all clever enough to find some way of getting there unmolested." He stated eventually, giving a dismissive wave, "But I would suggest being aware of beastmen- their raids, as well as the efforts of the wretched Herrimaults, have made road travel an extremely rare activity."

[-Sentinel-]

Kaspar

"Keep your money," Kaspar told the girl. "You need it more than I do. And from now on, be wary of halflings. Cunning little buggers, each and every one of them." He gave her a kindly smile. "The contraceptive may not be necessary. Drink it just to be on the safe side, but I don't think a halfling can make a human woman pregnant."

[Gunther]

The Smithy

The girl gave a faint, happy smile as the sound of hammering began to die down. She took the coin back, alongside the potions, "I can't thank you enough." She said, the quiet tone of her voice conveying a whole range of thanks. It was improper for women to speak to a man unescorted, and that in itself was likely another sign of just how deeply thankful she was about Kaspar's hand in the whole ordeal.

It was strange, really, to see how Bretonnian society functioned on matters such as this. As the door to the smithy closed, he was left to follow after that speedy little bugger Helmot. Doubtlessly the man had made himself get knee-deep in dung by this point, and if there were complications whilst he was away from the group...

Well, a good pace might not hurt.

Assume that Kaspar arrives at about the same time as Helmot, minus a dozen seconds or so. Just for the sake of everybody being rounded back up in a timely fashion.

[ZeltArruin]

"So now we are taking to being common thugs? This is not exactly what I had in mind," Indulin said with a sigh after the knight left, fearing that this petty squabble between the humans would not be worth his time. Then again, perhaps one of his more violent comrades would take this possible chance to talk out the situation and turn it into a brawl, something Indulin would enjoy a little more than he should.

[lowlevelowl]

Helmot stood, arms crossed, waiting for his companions to make the decisions. He was just a sword arm - he had not yet built up a loyalty to his compatriots here.

[-Sentinel-]

(assuming Kaspar joined the others in time for the new assignment)



"So now we are taking to being common thugs? This is not exactly what I had in mind," Indulin said with a sigh after the knight left...

"My thought exactly," said Kaspar, folding his arms over his chest. "I'll come, but don't expect me to have any part in the fight itself. I'll act only if someone's life is in danger."

[Gunther]

The young man couldn't help but smile at the Elf and the Doctor as the latter joined them, "Ah! An Elf and a Surgeon...well, I'd understand your reluctance to join in such a righteous tension-letting: The fey and the witch-doctors hardly have much ado about Bretonnia's matters. I do hope your reluctance to fight wanes when there are actual Beastmen about. Contrary to the naysayers, they are here to murder us all, and I doubt that the Elves- or the healers- will be exempt from the murderous impulses of such creatures!" He declared, his golden locks bobbing slightly as he bit his thumb at the two.

"Now, I have matters to attend to with the Marquis. If you mercenaries would not mind, there are some of us that have to actually fight these foul beasts."

And with that, the young man left the group with the map, heading back to the door of the Inn-Barracks where the previously slouching eavesdropper guards abruptly stood at attention.