[WFRP] Ill Tidings

[Thragka]

Ill Tidings
OOC thread (http://www.giantitp.com/forums/showthread.php?t=214070)

With the shriek of metal against metal, a sewer grate rose out of the ground, thrust to the side of the lane by the pale hands that emerged from the shadows. The thin hands with their long fingers twisted about the wrists, one palm going to each side of the hole in the earth, and, with a huff, Valdaríon Aeshil pushed himself out of the sewer and into the bright light of day.

It took the elf a minute to compose himself – shaking the dust and drier bits of muck from his leathers was a slow process for his tired limbs. When he was done, he pulled the grate over the ground with his foot and slid it back into place atop the shaft from which he’d just exited. Only then did he bring his gaze up from his feet, placing a hand to his forehead to shade his eyes as he squinted around. The sky was bright. Judging from the sun, it must have been late morning, or early afternoon – had he really spent almost a day underground?

He certainly felt like it; his limbs, taking their cue from the sudden realisation, were suddenly all complaining of aches and pains, scratches and bruises that he hadn’t noticed in the long dark hours of last night. And nothing to show for them, either. Some days, at least, he turned up minor trinkets, but it seemed that such finds were becoming less and less common as time went on, and he had yet to find anything distinctly Elvish. He sighed, straightened up (ignoring the crack his spine made in protest) and tried to get his bearings.

The sharp smell and the chirping of gulls told him that he must have been relatively close to the waterfront. When he looked about, he realised he was in a part of the city that he didn’t know too well – near the west end, where the old wall terminated by the waterfront. There was an old watchtower of elven architecture visible, towering over the squat human buildings. It was sleek, and beautiful in its twisted stone and verdigris pointed top. It made the young elf wistful. He had not been long gone from his home, but his failures in the undercity often made it seem longer.

He knew he should get some sleep, but he was far from his home, and hungry. He caught the eye of a passing human, but the man sped up, hurrying away from the alien face and muttering under his breath. The second person he approached did stop, and a strange smile played over his face when Valdaríon asked for directions to somewhere he could buy food.

“You’ll be wanting the Shattered Compass,” said the man. “Food, and beds, and drink besides. ‘Ere, do your lot drink ale? You’ll be wanting to order their premium brew, I’ll wager. Best ale in Bretonnia, and that’s no joke. Turn left at the waterfront,” he finished, pointing down the street.

Valdaríon thanked the man and began walking in that direction. He avoided eye contact with the city’s populace, and for the most part they went out of their way to avoid him – L’Anguille might have been built over Tor Alessi, but you wouldn’t think it from the distrust he’d received from its humans. When he got to the waterfront, he leaned against a wooden post for a few moments, gazing out over the choppy water and tightening his clothes around him against a stiff breeze. Ulthuan was out there, over the horizon. But it was far out of sight, and he wouldn’t find it by lounging around.

Turning left, he saw the sign of the inn of which the man had spoken. The paint was cracking, but he could vaguely make out a needle within a circle, and a lightning-shaped crack running across it. When he opened the door, the combined stench of booze, sweat, food and smoke wafted out over him. Stepping in, his eyes grew accustomed to the shade almost instantly - he had still not quite recovered from the long stretch navigating the sewers. Despite the early hour, the common room of the tavern was nearly full, and many of the patrons were already roaring drunk. He pushed his way through to the innkeeper at the back. The man was a broad human, with the thick dark beard across his cheeks and chin more than making up for the receding hairline on his scalp.

“Some food, please,” said Valdaríon, and then, almost as an afterthought, “and your best ale.” The innkeeper raised an eyebrow and a smile tugged at his lips.

“Othrakin?” he called through the door at his side. “Got someone wants some of your brew!” There was a shuffling noise, and then – a dwarf stepped through the door, a scowl twisting his features within a second of spotting Valdaríon.

“This pansy couldn’t handle it,” he muttered, glaring up at the elf across the counter, “but I’ll get it all the same – if you can pay.” Valdaríon was debating the merits of simply walking out when a voice called out from behind.

“Hey, elf, I’ll pay, if you’ll just sit down here,” drawled a human. Turning, Valdaríon spotted a young man waving at him with a half-full tankard, spilling his drink down his shirt in the process. The rosy-faced youth frowned, and, with an air of utmost caution, slowly placed the tankard back down at his table. Then he patted the stool beside him. Valdaríon didn’t see anywhere else to sit, so he made his way over and joined the intoxicated human at his table.

The inebriated lad was trying to relay something about an elf he’d met before as Valdaríon looked at the other two humans seated at the table. They looked like exact opposites. The first was short and dark of hair and eyes, cloaked in an unassuming brown. Valdaríon could see his pack at his side, and the stock of what looked like a crossbow poking out of it.

The second was quite frankly the largest human that Valdaríon had ever seen. The man was monstrous – taller than he was! His hair was a dirty blond mess that looked as though it had never been cleaned. His eyes were a bright blue, piercing even, and under his pale fur cloak his thick arms were bare, although not plain; blue sigils covered the length of them, of a human alphabet with which Valdaríon was not familiar.

Both of them stared at the elf as he sat down, and the younger human to his side noticed. “In fact, drinks for all my friends here!” he called, waving to the dwarf, before tottering and slumping forwards across the table, asleep.

There was a minutes silence as the three that remained awake at the table stared at the snoring youth and each other. Then, with a plonk the dwarf called Othrakin arrived from behind and dropped three full tankards onto the table. He rummaged through the sleeping man’s purse and slipped a few coins into the folds of his own clothes before turning back to Valdaríon with a cool gaze.

“So, elf, what brings you here?”

[-Sentinel-]

Valdaríon eyed the Dwarf warily. Unlike many Elves, he did not hate all Dwarfs on principle, but their violent ways were after all the reason why his family had fallen. Plus, they were greedy and would not balk at robbing him of the rightful ancestral wealth he had accumulated while searching the sewers.

What wealth? he sighed inwardly, accepting the tankard of ale.

“So, elf, what brings you here?” asked Othrakin.

"Business," he lied curtly, trying not to look intimidated by the Dwarf and the huge Norseman. "What else?"

Of course, he did not exactly look like a businessman or merchant. With his soot-stained leather clothes and his recent scratches and bruises, he looked more like a chimneysweep who had been mugged in a filthy back-alley on the way back from work.

Perception 35: [roll0]

[TheGreatJabu]

Othrakin

Othrakin swatted the single long auburn braid of his hair back over his shoulder as he scooped out the standard charge for Jorgen's drinks. He would never even consider taking a single pence more - he'd never seen a human who could match a dwarf drink-for-drink before he'd met this unbearded manling.

Then again, it wasn't difficult to outdrink Othrakin; he'd never had much cause to drink to excess until he'd come to the human land of the Bretons. Well, there was Orolokarr's wedding... he thought to himself. Above his long, braided beard the corners of his mouth faintly twitched upwards in the beginnings of a smile. That was a celebration!

The smile faded before it had even begun to grow, however. His return from waxing nostalgic to the present moment had lowered his spirits back to their standard gloomy level. The elf's curt response left him an easy target to vent his frustrations upon. "Ooh, elfen 'bisiness'. 'ere I was thinkin' that the unly bisiness elfs condoocted was sailin' in thair lil boats an' prancin' naked t'rough the woods!"

OOC: If the phonetic spelling of his accent starts getting aggravating to read, let me know. I'm sure it won't take long for ya'll to start imagining the sound I'm going for without my prompting.

[HerbieRAI]

Hargan had been trying to convince this over sized barbarian to join him for a few hours now to no avail. This elf doesn't seem any better. Tracking down runaways was getting easier, but recently the other hunters had stolen his bounties. The only way he'd get any bounties in the area is if he had the muscle to keep in the game.

The problem with most foreigners is they don't realize how hard it is to get work in Bretonnia. There's plenty to get done and fights to win, but getting the nobility to pay for anything is neigh impossible.


perception(34) [roll0]

[Tusalu]

The drunken youth continues snoring for a while, until he slides off his stool taking his half empty tankard with him. He lands on the floor with a small frightened shout. He tries to stand rather clumsily. He succeeds, on his second attempt.
"I'll just... I..."
He tries to grab his possessions, but trips and slams his head on the table. With a groan he lands on the floor.
Weakly and slurred he mutters:
"Not... don't worry. I'm a doctor."

[TheGreatJabu]

Othrakin

Watching the thin-livered human stumble about gave him a small degree of satisfaction in his currently dour mood. "Ah-hahah! You manlings dinnae have the stomach for my brew, but ye've got the Stones to try - I'll give ye that." Not having to stoop over far (due to his natural proximity to the ground), Orthrakin bends at the knees to places his hands beneath the fallen man's armpits and works to help scoop him back into an upright position.

[Sploosh]

The large norseman was lost in thought; his brow wrinkled as he sought an answer to the elven riddle. After a few moments, he nods and sagely answers "Pleasure." in a thick accent augemented by dwarvern generousity.

He then reaches an arm down to help Orthrakin lift.

Perception 15%:
[roll0]

[Tusalu]

(Forgot my Perception)
Perception 36 [roll0]

[Thragka]

With the noise Cydred was making as he fell down and was helped up, it was only Valdaríon's ears that picked up the slight change in the background noise. At first, the elf thought something had happened inside the inn, but when nobody moved, he then realised the change had come from outside. The footsteps seemed to be moving faster, and what snippets of conversation he could make out were more brusque and purposeful. There was definitely an increased sense of urgency on the streets of L'Anguille, as though the population knew something that the inn's patron's didn't ...

"He'll have been drinking since the morning," called the fleshy innkeeper across the room, interrupting the elf's train of thought. "I'm surprised it's only hit him now! That said, I ain't seen you drink much," he said, nodding towards Jorgen, "but we get Norsemen passing through from time to time, and they're not often lightweights."

[Sploosh]

Jorgen nods, "My people are strong and drink often. It fills us with fire against the cold and gives courage." He slams a few coins onto the table. "Bring us a drink worthy of dwarves and tell me more of these other norsemen. Tonight we drink to Norsca!"

[-Sentinel-]

Valdaríon was already getting bored with the small talk when the noise outside caught his attention.

"Are you deaf?" he said, his brow furrowing. "Something's going on in the streets." He began to rise.

[TheGreatJabu]

Othrakin

The dwarf scoffs at the elven patron's comment. "Peh. I dinnae get paid to worry about the fools outside - the fools inside are me concern."

He began to walk away from the table, wishing to look too busy to care about whatever the knife-ear had heard. His natural curiosity, however, led him on a path that went by the nearest window or door that he could have a peek out of as he passed by.

[Sploosh]

Jorgen frowns, the elf just ruined his toast! He angrily snatches his coins back off the table and storms outside to see what the damn commotion is about.

[HerbieRAI]

It's probably just some lord accusing the locals of stealing something his. If we're lucky we'll get to see a beating.
Hargan looks outside to see if his prediction is true.

[-Sentinel-]

It's probably just some lord accusing the locals of stealing something his. If we're lucky we'll get to see a beating.
Hargan looks outside to see if his prediction is true.

Humans, thought Valdaríon, shaking his head. Still, he was one of the first to (cautiously) step out of the tavern to see what in the Phoenix King's name was happening.

[Thragka]

Valdaríon tugged the door open, and then had to nimble step aside as a strong wind forced it the rest of the way back – the wood creaked and cracked as it took up the cacophony outside. The elf stepped out into the cold, closely followed by Jorgen, and looked about. The waterfront was full of people, and almost of all of them had their hands full. Some had boxes to their chests, leaning over slightly to prevent the tops coming off, arms wrapped around the base as they waddled forwards. Others had rickety carts and wagons, piled high with personal belongings and the extremely young and old. Turning, both the Norseman and the elf could see that people were rushing out of the buildings to either side, but taking their time to gather their personal belongings before they went. Some were even dropping clothing down from upper windows to be caught by others on the street. The few tradesmen with portable stalls were hurriedly closing them up and taking the blocks away from the wheels. Parents tugged at their children to follow, lifting them onto their shoulders and backs where they were small enough. All about, conversations interfered with other conversations, but the common theme was haste – be it with cajoles or threats to those who would not move, or a slight tinge of what sounded like fear. People moved in both directions along the cobbled waterfront, but Valdaríon noticed they all turned off it before too long. He took a few steps out and put his back to the sea, and looked at the rooftops that gently rose into the background. Higher ground ...

Through the grimy windows, Othrakin and Hargan could not see as much of the people moving along the street, but the amount of people that obscured their view while passing conveyed the pandemonium. Othrakin peered past shins and feet as something caught his eye. The tide was coming in. Small waves were lapping against the street’s edge, where usually only spray occasionally arced up – wasn’t high tide normally lower than this? As he watched, each fresh wave was slightly higher, the dark colour of the water against the stone encroaching further and further. Soon it would be wrapping around people’s feet ...

[Sploosh]

"What madness is this?" Jogen asks to nobody in particular. His voice straining to rise above the wind and roars of the crowd. He looks around for something to climb and gain a better view.

[-Sentinel-]

"That... um... certainly doesn't look natural to me," said Valdaríon nervously.

If the sea flooded the ruins of Tor Alessi, under L'Anguille, it would make his job quite a bit more difficult. Not to mention all the treasures it might damage or destroy...

"Excuse me, sir," he asked the first seaman he met, "do we know what's causing this?"

[Thragka]

Turning around, Jorgen couldn't see anything that looked particularly easy to clamber on top of. Perhaps if he wandered down the street he might find an abandoned cart or stall. There was always the inn itself, but if he wanted to look seaward it would probably be easier just to go back inside and find his way to an upstairs window.

The man that Valdaríon approached lowered the chest he'd been carrying to the ground and grinned, one gold tooth glinting.

"Elf, are yeh?" he said, straightening up with a swagger, if one could swagger while remaining in the same place. "Seen some of your kind, I have," he said as he leaned towards Valdaríon, stinking breath enveloping the elf's face. "Pirates, mostly." His grin did not diminish, but his eyes seemed to be glaring. "Well, 'we' know that it's a freak high tide. Only happens a few times in a man's life, but I've seen it a couple times. Everywhere close to the water'll be underneath it in a couple of minutes. Grab yer stuff and get movin', and don't stop 'til the water does." With that, he picked the wooden case back up and began to quickly shuffle away.

[Sploosh]

Jorgen heads back inside and makes his way to the upstairs windows.

[TheGreatJabu]

Othrakin

Othrakin had nearly dismissed the seemingly pointless rushing of the people outside until he caught sight of the rising water levels as he began to walk away from the window. He presses down on the window sill with both hands as he stares outside, his jaw hanging open. He turns about quickly to face Hadwyn, his large auburn lock of hair swatting anyone standing nearby. He frantically bellows out to the innkeeper; "Oi, Gaston! The sea's drauwin' oop upon us! I knew all ye manlings were DAFT to sett'le in sooch prox-simity to it!"

The cranky craftsman then quickly takes a mental inventory of the things he needs to save before the tides rise. The beer what's in the kegs already will be fine...the wort what's in the boiler and the fermenter'll most likely be safe since the openings are a man's height above the ground...yeah, we won't lose much if the water doesn't get more than a few feet up. Satisfied that his stock is safe, Othrakin hustles back to the rear of the inn to shove his personal effects into his pack, grabs his trusty hammer Alrika, and begins to scurry up to the higher floor of the inn.

OOC: Thragka, I couldn't remember if we made up the name Hadwyn to be Othrakin's BLACKSMITH boss, or the innkeeper boss. So I took the gamble!

Edit: EPIC FAIL!!

[HerbieRAI]

Hargan nearly spits up his beer when he notices the water. This kind of stuff can't happen when he's out hunting or sleeping upstairs. No, it happens right when he starts to have a nice drink. It was a very good beer, but not drowning takes precendence. Seeing the others going upstairs, Hargan debates on joining them. But if the water gets too high, there might not be a way out. It would probably be a good bet to take the streets. Hargan takes a quick inventroy of all his things, then starts moving to the door.

Halfway to the door, he realizes he has an open hand. It would be a shame to waste the drink if he could take it with him. He goes back to the table and see's the drunken man lying on the ground. Now there was no way he could get the door open, help the man outside, and carry the beer. This was a true dilemma. In the end, his morals got the better of him.

I don't know your name, but we need to get moving. Hargan helps the drunk man up and gather his things.

[Thragka]

Gaston scowled, his frown sinking into his jowls. “Alright, everybody out!” he roared, startling more than a few of the less attentive patrons. “Closing time’s come early!” As Othrakin passed to secure his pack and hammer, d’Aberre put a hand on his shoulder.

“Think there might still be a few people asleep in four and six upstairs,” he said. “Knock on their doors while you’re up there.” His voice was level, but his eyes were enough to impress the sense of urgency to Othrakin.

The dwarf followed in Jorgen’s footsteps as the blond man made his way over to a window. Looking out to the sea, there was nothing unusual in sight – even the sky was clear, with no suggestion of a storm brewing anywhere near land. It seemed that the water level had just spontaneously decided to creep upwards of its own accord. Jorgen opened the window and leaned out a little. The tide seemed to be coming in from the northeast, and to his right he could see that the seafront to the east of the city had already been hit by the rising water. As far as he could make out, at its worst it was reaching up to waist height, and people were visibly wading as far inland as three or four streets back.

Othrakin rapped on the door to room four with his fist – with one touch, it swung open. He peered in – empty. The window was open, though – evidently somebody had shimmied out without paying their bill. He crossed the hall to six. This time, the door was firmly shut. He had to pummel it several times before there was a response.

“Si? Cosa sta succedendo? Cos’è questo fracasso?” The door was wrenched away from his reach just as the dwarf was going for the handle. It was opened by a rather fat man with a curly beard that had been dyed blue, looping around his chin from cheek to cheek. He eyed the dwarf with something like distaste as he wiped the sleep from his eyes and adjusted his nightshirt. Othrakin brusquely explained that he had to leave, right now, and the man grumbled. “I’m getting my things,” he muttered with a lilting accent as he closed the door over. As the dwarf moved away, he could hear fabric sliding over fabric as the man dressed.

Cydred groaned as Hargan hauled him upright. Using the bench for support, he straightened up. He wobbled precariously as he leant over to sweep his pack onto the tabletop, and needed the bounty hunter’s help to sling it over a shoulder when he’d put everything he had with him into it.

“Cydred,” he moaned. “My name’s Cydred.” He put an arm across Hargan’s shoulder for support without as much as a by-your-leave, and together the two of them negotiated their way out of the common room, joining the throng of customers that d’Aberre had finally managed to convince to get moving. The barber-surgeon groaned again in the bright light of day as they shuffled out the tavern’s door, and slipped, falling to his knees. He blinked at the unexpected chill – his knees were wet. The water had already begun to drip across the Shattered Compass’s doorstep.

[Sploosh]

Jorgen shakes his head. "Son of Raven.." He storms into his room and grabs his backpack. It contains little else but a drink. "Othrakin, sorcery is about. Where might I find this..." he pauses to find the word. "Warlock?"

[TheGreatJabu]

Othrakin

Frustrated by the occupants of the first two rooms, Othrakin mutters angrily to himself. "Tee Hell with this!" He then scrambles past each door as quickly as he can and spares them nothing more than a single firm tap with the side of his hammer as he scrambles past. He shouts as he hustles through the floor. "Oop an' out, slooggards! The sea's a-risin' intee the streets!"

Once finished with his rounds, he comes speeding (well, speeding by dwarven standards) up to Jorgen. "Eh? I dinnae know nuttin' about no warlocks, lad. Believe you me - if I could put an end tee this by rammin' ol' Alrika intee some bugger's face, I'd be first oop in line!"

Othrakin trots over to the nearest window to see if there is any good means of accessing the rooftop.

Perception 41: [roll0]

[Sploosh]

Jorgen nods, obviously disappointed. "There are other ways to win wars. The father of waves shall receive no sacrifice today."

Jorgen rushes down to the door and does his best to help those who lag behind.

[Thragka]

Othrakin leant against the sill and twisted his neck to see if he could make out any obvious route across the roves of nearby buildings. It did seem as though jumping from roof to roof would be relatively easy, but first of all that would require getting on top of the Shattered Compass, and the dwarf was fairly sceptical of his ability to clamber from the window to the slight overhang of the inn’s roof. He straightened his neck – shaking it briefly to rid it of the slight discomfort brought on by the weird angle it had been in – and peered past the building beside the waterfront tavern. If he did get onto the roof, the easiest place to get down again would be a small plaza a couple of streets south. The square was now full of people passing through, crossing it and leaving again to get further away from the sea, but awnings and ledged made it look like an easy descent. But Othrakin recalled that he knew how to get there by the streets, too, and if he didn’t mind getting his boots wet, just walking would probably get him there with more ease.

“Othrakin!” came d’Aberre’s voice from below. “You’ve got one minute before I lock up!”

Outside, the innkeeper’s voice reached Valdaríon’s ears. Cursing, he turned away from the sea and stepped back to the Shattered Compass’s door – no matter how little use they’d been that day, he wouldn’t leave the tools in his pack behind. Getting in, however, was more trouble than getting out had been – the drunk, grumpy, or confused customers were leaving, and the slight elf had little hope of pushing past the broader humans.

Upstairs, Jorgen pushed open the door to the fat foreigner’s room, shouting at him something that was half an order to get out and half a wordless roar. The man blanched, but looped a pack over his shoulder, gathered a mixture of clothes and small belongings in his arms and darted past the Norseman with such alacrity that Jorgen nearly laughed. Masking his humour, he yelled again. “Get downstairs, you hog of a man!”

The man nearly tumbled as he reached the bottom step. He reeled past d’Aberre just as Valdaríon finally negotiated his way into the common room. He peered under the tables, spotting his pack – the bottom was wet, the water in the inn now halfway across the floor. He picked it up promptly and followed Jorgen out the door, who was in turn hot on the portly gentleman’s heels. Gaston called out one more time. “Othrakin!”

On the waterfront, Cydred got back to his feet, hopefully the last time he’d need to do that this morning. The sea air was bracing, and helped counter the alcohol. He patted at his knees ineffectually, as though that could dry out his breeches. Another wave washed onto the cobbles, sloshing water almost over the top of his shoes. It was probably time to get away from the seafront ...

[Tusalu]

Cydred quickly pats his backpack to make sure he has all his possessions. He then looks around for access to higher ground, perhaps a way to get to the roof-tops.

Perception: 36 [roll0]

[TheGreatJabu]

Othrakin

Othrakin bellows out in aggravation of Gaston's yelling. "QUIT YER MOUTH, I'MA COMIN' ALREADY!!" The dwarf begins to scarper down the steps and calls back to Jorgen. "Come on then, lad - if'n we hurry we can use the streets quicker than hoppin' about on rooftops!"

With that, the smith shuffles out of the inn and away from the shoreline.

[-Sentinel-]

With a deep sigh, Valdaríon shouldered his heavy pack and followed the Dwarf and the small group of humans, who seemed to know more or less where they were going. Looks like he would not be doing any more archaeology today, not with the undercity flooded.

For the first time since his arrival in L'Anguille, he began to wonder if this was truly the place where he would make his fortune.

[HerbieRAI]

Hargan pauseda few seconds to watch the dwarf at the window. Out was obvious he was debating on climbing onto the roof, and Hargan was not going to miss the show. Unfortunitly the dwarf decided against the climb. Another disappointment in a long day of disappointments. Seeing Cydred sobering up in the seawater, he grabs his shoulder. Lets get moving, this water isn't rising too fast we should be able to out pace it. I'm sure not going to let you sure till you buy me a drink to replace the one I left inside.

[Tusalu]

When Hargan takes the initiative to leave, Cydred follows. He doesn't feel in a state to make big decisions by himself at the moment.

[Thragka]

Slowly, the diverse group of humanoids began to wander along the waterfront, away from the inn. Nobody seemed to have a clear idea of where they were headed and they seemed to be moving more with the invisible current of the crowd than anything else, until Othrakin gave a grumble, strode to the front of the rest of them and set a fast pace, almost marching past the locals. Jorgen was left behind, helping d’Aberre clear out the very last of inn’s custom, but with a head above the rest of the crowd, it was easy to spot the others – not least because the city folk were almost shying away from the surly elf and the dwarf that looked like he meant business. Catching up with them was not a problem either. A look from the Norseman was enough to make most people get out of his way, and when that wouldn’t suffice, a shove would.

Othrakin turned off the waterfront at the first opportunity, but now all the traffic was heading in the same direction: away from the sea. Even by shouting curses, threats, pleas and cajoling promises, it was difficult to move through the throng of people, wagons, barrels and even the occasional animal much faster than the tide itself was creeping up on them. From the rear, Jorgen added his voice to the din; Cydred considered shouting also, but his throat felt a little hoarse and he doubted it would come to much use.

It took a few minutes for the buildings on either side to fall back as the street opened onto the small plaza Othrakin had spotted from the inn. Valdaríon spent a few moments looking around him – with the masses of people trickling into the plaza, and the buildings hemming them in, he almost felt like he was back underground, and had emerged from a tunnel into a larger cavern. Checking his exits was a habit. To the left, the elf noticed that the east entrance of the square was being blocked off with a makeshift barricade of an old table and upended carts with broken wheels. Water was getting through the gaps in between, but definitely at a slower rate than from the north. Opposite, there were a couple of alleys through which the crowds were leaving the square. Only one of them seemed to have any movement through it, however – at the other, two men were arguing, seemingly about a cart that had slid sideways and was now blocking the road.

“You there!” called a strongly accented voice in Breton. From a balcony to their right, a man was pointing down at the newcomers. The most noticeable thing about him were his clothes, a bright blue tunic covered by a thick white cloak – compared to the bland, dull colours of the commoners, this man almost looked like a strutting bird showing off its plumage. His demeanour, however, dispelled this semblance. He was solidly built, his face betraying a few scars – clearly a warrior, and from the look in his eyes and the tone of his voice he was well used to giving commands. It was immediately obvious to Hargan and Cydred that this man was nobility.

“Pull that cart out of the alley,” continued the noble, flicking his hand towards the argument brewing at the opposite end of the square. “It’s blocking things. Come on, put that brute to use,” he finished, furrowing his eyebrows as he nodded in Jorgen’s direction.

[Sploosh]

Jorgen snorts, "Only the strong command, not colorful birds. Bite your tongue, fool." Jorgen strides toward the cart to move it and barks at the men standing beside it. "You there! Move this! Now!"


Intimidate (41)
[roll0]

Strength check to help lift (31):
[roll1]

[Thragka]

The noble raised one eyebrow at Jorgen, his jaw tightening in a cool anger.

"It is your tongue we should fear for, barbarian," he replied, venom on his voice. "Challenge me again and it will adorn my belt. Now, redeem yourself by doing as I command" - there was a slight stress on that last word - "or you shall see how civilised people deal with scurrilous wretches such as yourself."

When Jorgen approached the cart and yelled at the two arguing men, one short, gaunt-looking young man and the other older and stouter, the elder turned instantly to look at him. The skin beneath his eye gave a slight twitch as he eyed the huge man up, but then his frown only deepened.

"Fine!" he shouted. "I will help, but only because this fool" - he pointed at the other man involved in the dispute, who seemed to be the cart's owner - "would rather block us 'til we soak 'stead of admitting he made a bloody mistake."

"Touch my cart and you'll wish you hadn't," said the thin man in a tone approaching a whine. "That's Sir Fouqueret up there, that is, and if you lay a finger on my cart I'll have you strung up for theft."

"Are you deaf as well as stupid, boy?" said the older man, running a hand across hid head to get his hair out of his face. "You don't know Sir Fouqueret, for one, and he's the one tellin' you to move your poxy cart for another." With that, he pushed himself up onto it and jumped down the other side. He put his hands underneath it beside the back wheel, and motioned for Jorgen to do the same on the other side. Jorgen bent over and grabbed the lower rim of the side near him, planted one foot behind him and strained with all his might. The ends of the cart began to rise, but then Jorgen's stance gave way, his foot sliding over a slick mossy stone. Getting some more help might be necessary ...

[-Sentinel-]

Valdaríon rolled his eyes at the insults and threats flying between the humans. The sooner the cart was moved, the sooner things would calm down.

"I can lend a hand, but I'm not really the physical type..."

Strength 35: [roll0] :smallsigh:

[Thragka]

Valdaríon's offer of assistance actually seemed to defuse the argument a little - there were a couple of mutters of "elf" and "ears" in the surrounding crowd, but then the man on the opposite side of the cart nodded. Valdaríon lithely climbed over to him and bent over, placing his pale and thin fingers beside the man's grizzled knuckles.

"One, two, three!" counted the man and the three of them struggled again to lift the stricken vehicle - up came the wheels, and for a few seconds they grunted and huffed and the cart moved a little - but then the weight became too much, and Valdaríon fumbled. With a judder, the wheels came crashing down against the cobbles again, the lower rim disappearing into the murky water - the tide had shown no signs of stopping, and was now up to knee-height.

Splashes heralded another arrival. A man entirely covered in mud came striding through the water towards the cart. He was soaked to the skin, but despite the circumstances was smiling.

"Once more?" he asked, getting into position beside Jorgen. This time, the four of them got the cart up and managed to turn it around so it was facing the right way, setting it down carefully to the side of the road. The thin man darted on top, rummaging under the pall and checking the carts contents.

"You'd better hope it's all here," he sneered, but the newcomer interrupted him.

"That's enough of that. I suggest you be thankful these people were here to help. Now, plenty more to do for all of us." With that, he strode on down the now-unobstructed alley.

Jorgen and Valdaríon wandered back over to the others. Over the rest of the crowd, Jorgen eyed the barricade on the other side of the square. Two children had climbed on top of it and were splashing each other. Someone shouted at them to get down, but they only kicked more water at each other. They paused to look down the street that was blocked off - then they spun on their heels, fear apparent on there faces. Even from the centre of the square, the low rumble of surging water seemed to be getting louder ...

The barricade broke in two with a thunderous roar as a particularly swift and high swell crashed against it from the other side. People were thrown off their feet as the water rushed into the square, suddenly rising to waist height. One of the children was now crouching on top of a barrel, shouting for his parents. Just before the water threatened to close over his head, Othrakin spotted the other being dragged along by the current, struggling to keep her head above the water as she was pulled past him ...

OOC:
'Fraid I have to ask you take more Strength tests to stay on your feet. The good news is they're easy, i.e. you get a +20% bonus to your strength. Being the heroes and catching the child requires an easy Weapon Skill test. But if you want you can just let her drown for all I care.

[-Sentinel-]

Valdaríon was almost thrown off his feet by the flood, but clung to the cart and managed to remain standing. One little girl was not so fortunate and was caught by the current. The Elf grabbed her by the hem of her shirt as she passed by him.

"You alright?" he asked. "Is that your brother over there, on the barrel?"

[Sploosh]

Jorgen growls as he braces his legs and attempts to withstand the tides and work his way over to the small boy.


Strength check (31, +20% to stand with the easy thing, not sure if that applies to trying to wade over in it though.
[roll0]

[TheGreatJabu]

Othrakin

Othrakin missed the majority of the cart crisis due to the predicament of being a short person stuck in a large crowd. His incessant angry muttering and blockish frame allowed him to slowly make his way through the masses to the chokepoint at the alleyway right as Jorgen, the elf from the inn and a few others cleared the blockage. "Good on you, lad," he says to the Norseman. "Now let's get te movin' a'fore the bleedin' waters-" His statement is cut short by the crashing of the improvised dikes and the surge of oncoming waters. Knowing there is no chance to outrun the surge, the dwarf lets out an angry snarl and turns to face the flood, bracing himself for its impact.

Othrakin maintains his footing, but the taste of saltwater in his beard has done nothing to improve his mood. His soggy boots, dripping hair, the bumbling crowd of fools blocking the way forward and the realization that his latest batch being spoiled by this damnable water: all these thoughts fill the smith with frustration beyond his boiling point, and he begins to shout.

"LINK ARMS, YA BUNCH OF BLEEDIN' FAIRIES! A group'll stand stronger against the tide and ye'll GET YER FEET MOVIN' FASTER!"

With that outburst, he uses his stable position to nab the nearest person and pulls them up to their feet - not letting go of their arm.

[Thragka]

A few people took up Othrakin's suggestion as a second wave rolled into the plaza, much weaker and slower than the previous - this time, only a few people teetered backwards or overbalanced, the majority standing strong against it. With that, it seemed that the worst was over. The small swells and troughs that followed in the coming minutes were nowhere near as strong as anything that had come before, and while the water level showed no sign of receding, it had almost entirely stopped getting any higher.

The young girl grabbed at Valdaríon's arm from the water when she felt her shirt catch. Whooping for breath, she pulled her head above the water, clutching at the tomb robber's sleeves. Valdaríon turned as quickly as he dared without losing his footing and got one arm under her knees.

"You alright?" he asked. "Is that your brother over there, on the barrel?"

The young girl coughed, eyes closed, before slicking her dirty blonde hair back from her face. Valdaríon guessed she was less than a decade old, but he couldn't make any better estimation as to a human's age.

She opened her eyes, and then her mouth, but rather than saying anything her jaw hung open as her eyes continued to widen.

"You're an elf," she whispered in amazement. Then, seeming to remember herself, she blushed.

"Yeah, that's him. He's smaller than me, he can't swim as well. He's only six. I'm eight" she finished conspiratorially. She twisted her neck in Valdaríon's arms and frowned. "I don't see my parents anywhere."

Jorgen bore the wave as it crashed against his chest, the cool sharp saltwater feeling invigorating. He strode towards the wrecked barricade as fast as he could, leaving eddies in his wake. The boy was absolutely terrified, shouting for help but refusing to reach out for anyone who tried to grab him.

"Let me," said Jorgen. He reached past the detritus of the overturned wagons and put his hands to the boy's hips, then lifted him clear over the mess of floating and submerged wood.

"Where are your parents?" asked the Norseman, not unkindly, but the boy could get nothing out but a snivel. Jorgen turned to the others and shrugged. They'd have to find someone who knew the children.

OOC:More tests, both Easy: Agility to wade through the water while carrying the children, and Gossip to find their parents. (You have to carry them; the water level would be over their heads.)

[HerbieRAI]

Hargan was enjoying the wagon fiasco when the water broke through the barricade. This completely caught him off guard and he was swept a few yards away before he was able to get up. Drenched from the short swim, Hargan began to feel his anger get the better of him. After all, he had just spent the past few hours trying to outrun this cursed tide and stay dry only to fall in at the last possible chance. It would take him all day to dry his equipment, and he sure he lost a few coin.

When he arose to find everyone else still standing and trying to help the runts who caused this mess, Hargan set off to find the parents so he could yell at them for raising such poor children. Of course, due to his angered state, most of his inquiries ended up being shouts and yells at random people, which didn't get Hargan any closer to finding the parents.



Strength test to stay up (31 + 20) [roll0]
gossip check to find the parents(28 + 20) [roll1]

Edit: wow, Have I succeeded a check yet? I'm also assuming I can get back up after falling in the water.

[-Sentinel-]

"You're an elf," she whispered in amazement. Then, seeming to remember herself, she blushed.

Valdaríon smiled kindly. "Yes, and I'm here snatch children like you and take them to the Elven lands." He grew serious. "Looks like your brother's safe with the big man over there. I'll look for your mom and dad."

He waded through the flooded streets, asking strangers: "Pardon me, do you know where this young lady's parents may be?"

Agility 67 to move through the streets: [roll0]
Fortune Point if necessary: [roll1]

Untrained Gossip 35 to find the girl's parents: [roll2]

Edit: Some help, please? These people seem to distrust Elves for some reason.

[Tusalu]

Cydred takes a deep breath now the immediate danger has faded. He tries taking a look around, somewhat sobered by being dragged around and having to fight to keep up.
It looks like the helpful people from the inn are doing fine by their own, this might be a good time to try and earn a few pennies. "Doctor here! Someone need a doctor?! Anyone injured?!" he shouts out as he walks around the nearest people, looking out for anyone injured by the flood.
He tries to keep an eye on the others from the inn. He feels he might owe them something after saving him.

[Sploosh]

Jorgen struggles to plod behind the others, initially comfortable to let them handle the gossip. Though he isnt above gently telling the child the tales of the brave heroes of Norsca. Upon seeing how poorly they were doing though, he decides to ask around.


Agility 35 +20(easy)
[roll0]
Perform Storyteller 34
[roll1]
Gossip 34+20(easy)
[roll2]

[TheGreatJabu]

Othrakin

Othrakin was already feeling a bit silly after his outburst. He never was one to make a big scene (that he would remember the next day) and certainly hadn't ever tried to be the center of attention. He sloshed over to Jorgen and kept his eyes down to avoid catching any glances from those nearby. Seeing the human child the Norseman had in tow caught his attention. "Ye're a wee bit yoong ta be the sire o' that one, lad."

Keeping his tone low, Othrakin begins to meekly ask around about the parents of these unclaimed children.

[roll0]
Edit: OH SNAP! If that was actually an Easy Gossip check, there's a chance I succeeded!

[Sploosh]

Jorgen chuckles, "My son would swim to me and have a beard to rival yours! "

[TheGreatJabu]

Othrakin

The dwarf laughs at the young Norseman's reply; not his typical sarcastic chortle, but a genuine hearty guffaw. "Haaah-hawhawhaw! Now tha's the kind o' family pride we dwarves have. Good te know there's at least ONE clan o' humans with some heart!"

[HerbieRAI]

Hargan, still bitter about falling in the water, turns to the chuckling men .From the stories of dwarfs and norsemen, tort wives would have beards to match.

[-Sentinel-]

Had Valdaríon's hands not been carrying the little girl, he would have sunk his face into them. Aren't there enough hairy, smelly, boisterous drunkards on this Asuryan-forsaken continent? he thought. Hopefully, their paths would part very soon.

"My name's Valdaríon," he told the little girl. "What's yours?"

[Thragka]

Cydred’s offer of help seemed to fall on deaf ears – a small number people glanced in his direction, looking tempted to take him up on his supposed skills, but none approached him. In fact, more than a few could be heard to mutter reproachfully. Crestfallen, the barber-surgeon realised that now was not the time to be seen as looking to make a quick denier. Turning on the spot several times, the hem of his coat flaring, following his movements in a wide arc as it was swept through the water, Cydred saw that the group from the inn had congregated close to the east side of the square, carrying a pair of children and apparently searching for their parents with limited success. In the absence of anything better to do, he strode towards them.

“My name’s Anna,” said the girl in Valdaríon’s arms. “You’ve got a funny name. But you won’t take me away, my daddy wouldn’t let you,” she continued, seeming unfazed by the elf’s mock-threats. “Where is it elves live anyway?” she asked, twisting around to look directly into Valdaríon’s face. Half-heartedly, he began to relate to her his fond memories of Ulthuan, at the same time trying to gaze over her head at any likely candidates for her parents.

Jorgen’s young ward was much less talkative, but the boy calmed down when Hargan and Othrakin convened on him, listening wide-eyed to the conversation. “Do your women really have beards?” he chimed in when the bounty hunter made his slightly sour observation. The Norseman shook his head.

“Beards? No, I think –” He got no further, as something loose underfoot slid away from his boot and he keeled to his left. Before he could slip entirely, Hargan leant into him quickly, arresting Jorgen’s fall before man and boy went spluttering into the water. The two men straightened up.

“Thank you,” said Jorgen. Hargan was about to utter something noncommittal when Othrakin came back over from where he’d been chatting with a couple of the people in the square.

“Looks like we’re in luck – man here says ’e’s seen the parents of our little hangers-on. That way,” he finished with a broad wave of the arm. The group followed where the remains of the barricade had floated into the square. As the group approached, there was a shriek.

“Marianne! Alois!” roared a woman’s voice above the general din. A woman pushed her way through the crowd. At the sound of the voice, Anna turned in Valdaríon’s arms. “That’s our mother. Maman!” she called. Her mother did not seem so pleased to see her – when she arrived in front of her children’s rescuers, she seemed close to panic. She thrust an arm out at Valdaríon, index finger inches from his face.

“Put down my child, you MONSTER!”

There was a moment of shocked silence. Valdaríon held out the young girl and began to explain himself, but before he could get out anything more than “I –” the woman screamed again.

“Give her back! You won’t take my children, you beast!”

A man pushed through the crowd up to her, putting a hand on her shoulder as she took Anna and hugged her tight.

“I’m sorry,” he said to Valdaríon almost sheepishly. “My wife does not trust ... your people.” He averted his eyes, spotting Jorgen and his son for the first time and breaking into a smile. “Here, Alois.” Jorgen put the young boy into his arms and the man nodded his thanks.

“Thank you all for looking after my children. I am afraid my wife has not repaid you as she should have, but ... well, we have nothing else to offer you.” He looked each of them in the eye, seeming almost to glare at Valdaríon, and then muttered and turned off after his wife, who was already half the square away with Anna in tow. The elf sighed. It seemed these people would mistrust him even when he was saving their family’s lives. For a moment, the mixture of dejection and frustration on his face was enough that Othrakin almost felt like saying something ... but then the dwarf’s attention was distracted.

“What’s that?” he asked aloud, pointing at the largest piece of floating wood, a mishmash of collapsed crates and old bent furniture. It just about looked as though there was a human foot in the shadows – could that really be the shape of a body obscured by the wood?

[-Sentinel-]

"Pardon me, ma'am," muttered the Elf politely. "I was only trying to help." He had never expected any kind of reward, but not quite that level of ungratefulness either.



“What’s that?” [Othrakin] asked aloud, pointing at the largest piece of floating wood, a mishmash of collapsed crates and old bent furniture. It just about looked as though there was a human foot in the shadows – could that really be the shape of a body obscured by the wood?
"Most curious," Valdaríon agreed, frowning. "I'll go take a closer look."

[TheGreatJabu]

Othrakin

Othrakin was glad to be rid of the little manlings, but wasn't too impressed with the gratitude of the human woman. He mutters to Jorgin. "Hell, knife-ears or no, a man savin' yer kin is a man savin' yer kin, aye?" He wouldn't deliberately admit that to the elf's face, of course.

One thing he had to admit, however, was that the elf had gotten the move on far more quickly than himself when he pointed out the troubling sight amidst the flotsam collecting nearby. Not one to be left behind, Othrakin began to tromp through the water to get a closer look as well.

[Sploosh]

Jorgen nods in agreement and turns to watch Valdarion's progress.

[Thragka]

The shape did not stir as Valdaríon moved the flotsam away. It was a man, floating face down in the water. From behind, his dress seemed unusual - his shoes and breeches were poor quality, but the cloak he wore looked fine and warm, and there was a dull silver ring that looked awfully out of place on his finger. Turning him over to get a better look, the body's face revealed two things. First, he was definitely dead - his mouth was hanging open, his brown eyes were glassy and unfocused and Valdaríon could feel neither pulse nor breath as he rolled the body around. And second, almost studying the elf's face was a third, green eye, staring up out of the centre of his forehead ...

[-Sentinel-]

"Mutant," hissed Valdaríon, recoiling.

[Thragka]

The word seemed to take on a life of its own as it escaped his lips, nearby members of the crowd repeating it in shock and confusion. Those who were close enough to see the corpse quickly made themselves scarce, and a tense silence settled over the square ...

"Mutant!" came a loud cry from behind - floating into the square from where the barricade had once stood was a second corpse. It was a young man, dressed in a fine white shirt, but at his waist the pink skin terminated, lacerated trousers revealing a mass of grey scaled and slimy tentacles, trailing behind the body, leaving ripples roiling down the street.

The panic was palpable now, even more pressing than when the tide had risen - the crowd dispersed rapidly, most people choosing to flee from the plaza by the other streets, some few even wading back towards the sea front in their haste to get away from the corpses.

[TheGreatJabu]

Othrakin

The very mentioning of the word "mutant" sent a shiver through the soggy dwarf. He awkwardly sloshes backwards through the water a few steps, muttering a short prayer. "Valaya, make our spearrits stroong as the Stoune itself, tha' the blade o' Chaos may be dulled when it strikes us!" His hand instinctively reaches to pull Alrika from the loop on his belt where she normally hangs when not in use. The feel of her haft in his hands turned his worry into aggression.

"I'll bet ye a keg o' me finest tha' more o' thair ilk are te blame for the floodin'! Any o' ye recognise these wretches?!"

OOC: What's a good check to make to see if we can come up with any possible origin/associates of these bodies?

[-Sentinel-]

"I'll bet ye a keg o' me finest tha' more o' thair ilk are te blame for the floodin'! Any o' ye recognise these wretches?!"

"I'm pretty sure that's the other way around, actually: the flooding's to blame for the mutants. Mutants often take refuge in the sewers... so when there's a sudden flood, they drown and end up floating in the streets."

It was only a theory, but it sounded like a good one.

"Spare me your keg of ale if I'm right, though. I much prefer wine."

[HerbieRAI]

Hargan keeps his distance from the bodies, and makes sure his weapons are ready if one is still alive. That doesn't explain how the bodies got out of the sewers. It seems to much of a coincidence that the tide comes in and well dressed mutants start difting in. We should continue our march and get out of the cursed water before we end up like these poor fools.

[Sploosh]

Jorgen plods over beside Valdarion, his face stoic. He reaches down and snaps the ring off the finger and rips off the fine cloak. He shows little concern, for he is from Norse. Smiling he holds up his prizes.

[TheGreatJabu]

Othrakin

Othrakin has to struggle to fight the urge to begin prodding one of the bodies with Alrika. He doesn't really pay attention to the elf's observations that the mutants likely didn't cause the flood. The reasonable idea of their point-of-origin, however, does catch hold.

"Tha seuwers, ye say? Tha water's oonly flowin' tha one deerection - if we trace it back'ards, I'll bet ye we find rest o' tha wretches what caused tha tides te rise!"

[HerbieRAI]

And if they all are dressed this fancy they surly have plenty of money. Although we should talk to the nobility before we go, there's no reason to risk our necks unless someone is willing to pay for it.

[Sploosh]

"Then we must hurry. I will have vengence before this is over."

[Tusalu]

Cydred is drawn near by the shouts of "mutant". He takes a short moment to study the corpses, largely out of academic interest.

When the others begin discussing searching for the sewers he turns to them. "Might I help you track down these mutants? If you get hurt you'll want a healer close by. Remember that sewers will be filled with filth and miasma that could get into your wounds." He looks hopefully at the group, swaying slightly from the alcohol.

Cydred still feels he owes the others some help, and if there really are mutants about it would be best to stick near someone who knows how to fight.

[-Sentinel-]

"Tha seuwers, ye say? Tha water's oonly flowin' tha one deerection - if we trace it back'ards, I'll bet ye we find rest o' tha wretches what caused tha tides te rise!"
"They didn't cause anything," sighed Valdaríon, exasperated. "Tides are tides. People here seem used to them. If the mutants somehow caused the tide to rise... and you tell me how they managed that... it seems to me it didn't end too well for them, whatever they were trying to accomplish."



And if they all are dressed this fancy they surly have plenty of money. Although we should talk to the nobility before we go, there's no reason to risk our necks unless someone is willing to pay for it.
"I've got to agree with the last part. What is there in it for us, assuming there's any mutants left alive?"



"Then we must hurry. I will have vengence before this is over."
The Elf looked puzzled. "Vengeance? What for?"

[Sploosh]

"For what? For this foul magic! For this chaos! How might I prove myself if this sorcercy drowns all those worthy enough to challenge?"

[-Sentinel-]

"If you're angry about the tides, take it up to Mathlann. Or Manann, as you humans call the god of the sea. Not sure he listens to complaints, though." The young Asur shrugged. "As for Chaos... I always thought you northmen worshipped the Ruinous Powers. Was I mistaken?"

[Sploosh]

The norseman growls. "It can be more complicated than that. Enough talk, let us see this chieftien."

[HerbieRAI]

Hargan moves close to the elf, and talks quietly to him

I know you don't know how things work around hear, but that tide was not a natural occurrence. The locals are going to want blood, and currently the possible culprits include an elf and barbarian that seem to have appeared right before the mess and survived, or a bunch of mutants that seem to have robbed the lower areas in our absence.

Whether you believe they caused it or not, as the other likely suspect, you should be pointing your finger at them before the nobles realized this is a good reason to go to war. They've gone to battle for less and are always looking for a reason to test their honor.

[-Sentinel-]

"I'd rather stay low, thank you very much," replied Valdaríon, increasingly irritated. "The people here are used to the tides. Blaming a bunch of dead mutants for them will only make us look like idiots. The man I met a few minutes ago said it was nothing but a freak tide... Rare, but not unheard of."


OOC:
Hargan may not know it, but the locals did react rather rationally, as seen here. (http://www.giantitp.com/forums/showpost.php?p=11828878&postcount=19)

[Thragka]

By now the square was mostly calm again, the panic having fled with the people. The only remaining stragglers were hanging about the opposite end of the square, mostly merchants who had stayed with their wares, but there were others shiftily investigating the lost or forgotten floating goods, pocketing valuables. Turning around to face the balcony where the knight possibly called Sir Foqueret had gone, Hargan saw that it was empty: the noble had left his vantage point when the crowd had dispersed, it seemed. Frowning, he began pressing forward through the water towards the door set under a shallow porch in the same building – perhaps Sir Foqueret was still inside.

Valdaríon and Jorgen exchanged a glance and took a few sloshing steps after the bounty hunter. Cydred stayed with Othrakin by the corpses for a little longer. The dwarf was treating the dead mutants with a disdain bordering on outright anger; muttering oaths about corruption under his breath, his fingers flexing around Alrika’s shaft. Cydred, on the other hand, felt a perverse fascination, quarrelling internally with the fear and disgust that his education told him was perfectly reasonable. He’d never seen Chaos before, and while he knew on some base level that these creatures were wrong by all the laws of gods and men, he couldn’t help but appreciate the effect on the human body – particularly not when he was well acquainted with the body’s workings himself.

As he crouched over slightly, something caught his eye – tucked into the belt of the tentacle mutant’s torn trousers was a wad of papers. It looked like several sheets folded up together, now sopping wet, but with the shadow of ink marks visible through the outermost leaf.

The receding door banged open, and Sir Foqueret strode out. Seeing Hargan at first, his brow furrowed as he tried to remember the familiar face. Then he saw Jorgen and Valdaríon further back, and gave a courteous nod.

“My thanks for your help in clearing the road,” he said gruffly, scratching the short but thick brown beard across his chin and cheeks. “I heard the shouts from within. Lead me to these ... mutants.”

[Sploosh]

Jorgen remains silent, content to let the elf act.

[-Sentinel-]

"Sure thing," said Valdaríon, a bit nervous in the presence of a human nobleman. "They're floating about... The ones we saw are over there, but I suspect there's more."

[Tusalu]

Cydred bows down to the corpse. "What is this?", he carefully removes the papers. He looks to the dwarf. "These might be worth a look, if we want to get to the bottom of this.".
Cydred looks around to appraise the situation around him.

[Thragka]

By now, the square is completely empty of people - Sir Foqueret's emergence into the open seemed to have convinced the straggling ne'er-do-wells to find somewhere else to conduct their business. It was still an absolute mess, however: floating detritus, stray articles of clothing, boxes and general city litter strewn haphazardly, collecting and dispersing with the ripples that spread when anyone moved. To the south end of the square, an overturned cart had vomited up a sack of apples, the red fruit bobbing together in a loose cluster.

There would be no chance to clean up until the water level had dropped, though. It seemed to Cydred that it had receded slightly, but only by a minimal amount - he couldn't gauge how long it might take to entirely slink away, but it would be quite some time.

The only people left in the square were the group from the inn and the nobleman. Sir Foqueret gave Valdaríon a long look after he answered. Perhaps he was wondering the correct etiquette for addressing an elf, or perhaps he was wondering whether the elf knew the correct etiquette for addressing him. Regardless, after a few moments he narrowed his eyes pensively and nodded again.

Wading over to Othrakin and Cydred, the knight frowned as he approached the three-eyed corpse. He knelt down slightly to get a closer look, and then prodded the body with his boot. Eyeing the tentacled man, he gave a sigh.

"Thankfully, it seems we have little to fear from the dead. I suppose I shall have to inform Duke Taubert." His frown deepened. "And those blasted Brethren." Realising he was getting close to rambling, he turned back to Valdaríon.

"Did you see where these things came from? And what makes you 'suspect' that there may be more?"

[-Sentinel-]

"Did you see where these things came from? And what makes you 'suspect' that there may be more?"

"I think they lived in the sewers, sir, or perhaps even in the ruins of Tor Alessi. The sudden tide drowned them and brought their bodies to the surface." The Elf shrugged. "It's only a theory. I really don't know if there's more, but it's perfectly possible."

[Thragka]

"It is perfectly possible," agreed Sir Foqueret. "The sewers are doubtless rife with unwholesome creatures, and this tide could flood them out. But the sewerjacks will be most reticent to commands that do not come from the Brethren." He harrumphed. "Guild politics," he muttered mostly to himself.

He raised an eyebrow at Valdaríon.

"It may be common knowledge to your people that the ruins of your ancient city lie beneath L'Anguille, but I would thank you not to divulge that carelessly. You, at least, would meet only skepticism. Which is as things should be." He scratched his beard again. "Tor Alessi is deeper, though, and I doubt these wretches would know how to navigate it. But are you suggesting that you're acquainted with the ruins," he faltered, finishing with " ... Elf?"

[-Sentinel-]

Valdaríon's eyes lit up. He so loved to talk about Tor Alessi.

"My family was from there," he said with enthusiasm. "I came here about a year ago to explore the ruins and, hopefully, retrieve some pre-war artifacts. Regrettably, I haven't made any important finds yet, but I think I've only scratched the surface. Most of the ancient homes I found belonged to the paupers of the waterfront, after all, and anything valuable in them was looted by the Dwarfs. But I estimate the legendary University of Tor Alessi to be just a bit further west; now, if I could just find an access through the rubble of what I think is the archers' barracks, I'm sure I'd..."

He managed to stop himself. Once he got started, he could go on for hours.

[Thragka]

Sir Foqueret did not look as impressed as Valdaríon had expected; if anything, he actually seemed slightly angry.

"Clearly you are well acquainted with the ruins," he said softly. "Do you think it's feasible that there are mutants living or communing there? I am loath to negotiate business with you," he continued, the very concept of paying for a service seeming distasteful, "but with the Guilds being so intractable, perhaps I could ... retain you to help get to the root of this problem." It seemed to be less of an offer than a fleeting thought that had escaped the noble's lips.

[-Sentinel-]

"There might be mutants, yes," Valdaríon allowed. "I've never met any, but I'm certainly not the only one who knows how to access the ruins. As I said, I know only a small part of them. But if you need someone to lead a group through them, I'm your Elf."

[Thragka]

The knight almost grimaced at the fact that he seemed resigned to paying an elf to do what he should be able to order a peasant to do, but he gave an affirmative grunt. Turning away from the elf, he looked at the other four, and then addressed Cydred and Hargan.

"One supposes by your association with this ... diverse set of companions that you would all be interested in employment?"

[HerbieRAI]

Hargan spends a few seconds staring at the mutants. While he always welcomed work, dealing with mutants could lead to a fate worse than death. But with great risk usually comes great reward.

That would depend on the compensatation. Dealing with mutants is a risky busniess, since there is always a chance we get contaminated and become abominations as well.

[TheGreatJabu]

Othrakin

Othrakin had spent the past few minutes in relative silence, seeming to brood over the situation at hand. He was no coward, but the prospect of having Chaos mutants rising up from beneath the streets under the cover of night made his blood run cold. I woondar if comin' te this bleedin' human city was a meestake... he thought to himself as he subconsciously ground his teeth.

The dwarf didn't remove his eyes from the corrupted corpses until he heard a strange new voice speaking nearby with the others. He turned away to see that human noble from earlier mucking about, examining the bodies and speaking with the elf. Dwarves are not well-reknowned for their hearing, but Othrakin's ears acutely detected the word "employment" and his bushy red eyebrows shot up. Giving his beard and single braided lock of hair gentle twists to remove the excess water, Othrakin walked over to rejoin the others from the Shattered Compass.

"Mi'Lourd, we dwarves are blessed by tha Stoune te re-Sisst sooch dark pouwers. Not te mention tha' I'm tha finest smith in tha city. Ye couldn't ask fer a better outfitter!"

[Thragka]

Sir Foqueret held up a hand to stem Othrakin's enthusiasm.

"I have heard as much about your people, in their craft and their resilience," he said diplomatically. His expression like bright steel, he looked back at Hargan.

"You are correct that there is risk involved. But permit me to remind you, there are sumptuary laws against the use by peasants of white cloth," - a glance at Cydred - "and the weapons of the nobility." - a look to Jorgen that became a lingering stare.

Then, his face softening, he spoke again. "But while you are acting as my retinue, we should experience no problems. And I will, of course, remunerate you as appropriate. Rue de la Demoiselle, this evening. Do not come by if you have nothing to report."

With that, Sir Foqueret turned on his heel and began to wade away, leaving the five men alone in the plaza with the floating corpses.

[Tusalu]

Cydred looks after the nobleman for a moment, before turning back to the others. He speaks in a neutral tone: "It looks like we're a team now."
Cydred is actually a bit relieved to have been drafted into this. For once a proper employment with reliable payment. After all how much worse could it be down there, than what he'd already seen up here?

He holds up the bundle of papers. "I think we should study these before doing anything."

[Sploosh]

Jorgen watched the nobleman walk away. He held his tongue though, he just might have just found what he was looking for. He fingered the ring and nods his head when he notices the group is still talking.

[-Sentinel-]

He holds up the bundle of papers. "I think we should study these before doing anything."

Valdaríon blinked. "Where did you find those?"

(After Cydred's answer)

"Can you read, sir? If not, I can."

[TheGreatJabu]

Othrakin

Excitement made the dwarf visibly flush. This is it, lad! Once ye git inte this lourd's good graces, ye'll be commissioned for REAL work in no time! The prospect of finally succeeding at his life's goal since leaving his mountain home made Othrakin unnaturally enthusiastic (well, enthustiastic by his standards). He excitedly paced around the others gathered, eager to get on with their task.

"Aye, I can read too, lads. Brewin' an' hammerin' aren't me only worthwhile skills. What'd tha bligh-ters have on'em?"

[Tusalu]

"Can you read, sir? If not, I can."

"I can read! I am a formally trained doctor!"
Cydred carefully unfolds the papers to take a look.

[Thragka]

Gently teasing the damp layers apart, Cydred rested the sheets against his arm – they were too wet to retain their shape on their own, flapping over when he first tried to hold them by one end. There were two sheets, one folded into the other.

The internal one was well-preserved – and obviously printed, some sort of one-page pamphlet for mass distribution. The words FREE L’ANGUILLE ran across the top, and a small illustration of the seafront took up the top half of the page. Beneath was a short passage trying to be inspirational:

When was the last time Duke Taubert set foot in the capital of his duchy? When was the last time the knights and lords of the country helped rather than hindered? They tax us, they draft us, they drain our lives and livelihood! Support a Free L’Anguille!

That was all there was to it. Cydred frowned; for something that had clearly cost money to produce, it mentioned no person or association, nor suggested any course of action for anybody who sympathised. Carefully, the young surgeon separated it from the second page, and turned it over to see the back. There was nothing else there, apart from large ink smudges from the sheet below.

The second piece of paper was a letter – or at least, it had been, but it had deteriorated far more than the pamphlet. The difference in quality was almost suspicious; perhaps it had been purposefully damaged before the water did the rest of the work. Most of it was in ruins, with patches of paper simply falling away as Cydred touched it, and the lines of cursive were so blurred by the water as to be unintelligible. A few short phrases, though, were still clear enough to make out.

… such pamphlets are becoming prevalent …
… perfect opportunity to act …
… instructed to deal with this quickly …
… whom nobody will miss …
… shall visit to oversee myself once the problem …
… task is for the benefit of all …

Notably, the names of whomever it was addressed to and whoever had written it were both scratched out.

[TheGreatJabu]

Othrakin

When the contents of the letters were made known to the group, Othrakin thoughtfully runs his hand over the top of his head. "Hmm...soun's like these buggers are schemin' soumthin'. I dinnae like it. I bet ye tha' they aren't expectin' viseetors, though! We can go oop-stream of 'shiite-creek' douwn below us te find where they came from te look for more clues. What say tha rest of ye?"

[-Sentinel-]

"Which 'buggers' are you talking about?" Valdaríon asked the Dwarf. "Those printing the pamphlets, or those who want to stamp out those printing the pamphlets? One thing is sure... If it all comes down to politics, I'm not getting involved." He frowned. "I don't understand why the mutants keep things like that. What's their interest in this?"

[Sploosh]

Jorgen spits in contempt. "These sound like cowards. They stalk around and squak secrets. My people speak with steel" he growls.

"If this peacock will pay us to hunt vermin though, so be it. Who cares what their interest is?"

[HerbieRAI]

Hargan watches the noble leave while listening to the papers, then turns around and evaluates his new companions. The only other Bret was the surgen, and with the muscle of he, Jorgen, and the dwarf, he could be kept in line.

Why don't we try to find the Free L’Anguille movement? Whatever is going on, that second page implies they are going to try to pin their mischief on the movement, so they would probably be willing to pay more than that man for any information. Compound that with the chances that Sir Foqueret is probably trying to set us up to take credit for our deeds.

[TheGreatJabu]

Othrakin

The dwarf grunts in frustration. "Ungh! I dinnae care for tha poly-tics of tha humans 'ere, meself. I care aboot three things!" Othrakin then begins raising one stubby finger at a time as he counts off his list. "One - we know tha' tha mewties are dangerous and tha' thair schemes are mooch darker than soume flowery pamphlets! Two - all we 'ave te do te find tha mewties is follow tha seeuwer; I dinnae know whare te look for these 'Free Lahn-gee' sods. Tha thaird an' moust important reason te go after tha mewties now is tha' we're guaranteed pay from 'Sir Foe-kwerrit' if'n we axe 'em; why not find tha lair o' these beasties, mash 'em, then look for soumethin' to prove to tha rebels tha' they owe us a few gold crowns as well, aye?"

[HerbieRAI]

Fine, but lets rememberto go talk to them before to we go bank to Forquet

[Tusalu]

"Well, I did say I would help you, but are you sure we want to associate witht the kind who would oppose their lawful liege?" Cydred has been looking nervously at his companions while they talked, and finally raised his voice cautiously, "Who is to say they wouldn't attack us?"

[-Sentinel-]

Valdaríon sighed. These people were so reckless; no wonder their lives were so short. "We can't just butcher first and ask questions later. We've no idea how many mutants are still down there, or what they're up to. Listen... I suggest we go under the city to scout and see how things stand. But if it looks like we're in over our heads, or there's more to it than it seems, we get out and try to find out more. Understood?"

[Sploosh]

Jorgen gives Cyrded a look. "That's the point."

[Thragka]

“Ah’m sick’n toired a’ thiss bickerin’ an’ dooin’ owt,” muttered Othrakin. “Tha muties?” he asked, waving Alrika at Valdaríon. The elf wrinkled his nose at the all-too-dwarflike method of grabbing attention, but nodded. “Tha muties? Tha muties?” the dwarf repeated, looking to the others. When everybody signalled their assent, he gave an assertive nod of his own.

“Right. Tha’ way, then,” he said, gesturing in the direction of the broken barricade. Slinging his axe, he began to trudge forward through the turbid water, sweeping his arms around to push floating litter out of his way.

One by one, the other four followed. Jorgen was eager, and matched his pace with Othrakin as he almost marched down the street, the others trailing in their wake. Valdaríon kept his eyes low; it would be difficult to figure out a way down into the undercity with the water still as high - and as murky - as it was. Occasionally, they would pass small, rolling sections of the water that were buoying up leaves, stones and ripped planks of wood, and the elf suspected that there was some sort of current or inlet into the street, but invariably it was water flowing against them, not with them - while there might be connections to the sewers, the underground channels were still disgorging their contents. There would be no easy way to get in.

Hargan and Cydred hung back, spending more time looking around the empty side-street. It was as deserted as the square, but some of the buildings on either side were inhabited. The girth of the lane fluctuated as the walls on either side leant in, and then recoiled back - where they passed beneath an upstairs window, the usual chatter of conversation could be heard. It seemed that after the tide had stopped rising, the cityfolk were happy just to remain indoors until the waters subsided.

It took a few minutes for the group to reach the end of the winding lane, pressing against a waist-high current as they were - even though the water was flowing slow enough that it would knock them over, each step still needed a small effort. Coming out at a crossroads, the party paused. It was unclear where the flow had come from, now that it had almost subsided. Then Jorgen pointed across the junction - further down the same street was another corpse, half-visible as it stretched out of an alley.

This one was immense, a bloated sac of flesh and, seemingly, pus - as they approached, it became apparent that the deceased man was festooned with boils and ruptured blisters. There was barely an inch of skin that was not coated in some unsightly slime. For a moment, Hargan thought that this man, too, had a third eye - but it was just a dark, concave weal set into his forehead, scabbed along the edges with dirty yellow gunge. Turning to look down the alley, it was apparent that they still weren’t seeing the body in all its girth. What could nominally be thought of as the waist was stuck in a hole in the ground, the hinges of a wooden trapdoor digging into the already wretched-looking skin and bruising it even more. Valdaríon heard a gurgle - further down, it looked as though there was a small sinkhole, as water sloshed past the corpse and down into another large gap in the cobbles, burbling away into the dark.

[Sploosh]

"Looks like we found the door." Jorgen announces as he approaches the body to move it. "Just...need to....move this."

[Thragka]

The corpse's slippery skin made it difficult to get any purchase on the body. Jorgen had to grab handfuls of flesh in his fists to get any hold on the corpulent mutant, but even then, it was difficult to heave the man out of the hole. Othrakin gave the running sores an apprehensive look, but then knelt down and braced his shoulder against the cadaver's side.

With a wet pop, the mutant's waist passed through the trapdoor. A few more seconds of huffing and puffing sufficed to get the veined and blubbery legs out of the unwholesome murk through the hole. Setting the corpse down, Jorgen leaned precariously over the hole in the ground - and then wished he hadn't, as a foul, rotten smell emanated in the body's wake. All that was visible through the water was a gloomy opening, entirely flooded with putrid-smelling liquid - it may have been water, but so soiled with sewage that it was almost black. Descent into the shaft would require submerging oneself, at least until the high tide subsided, and though the rungs of a ladder were just about visible, the column of dark water became opaque too quickly to tell how deep it went.

[-Sentinel-]

Valdaríon grimaced. "You know what, on second thought, I think we might want to investigate the Free L'Anguille movement first. It would give all that water time to recede a bit."

[Sploosh]

Jorgen's face contorts at a powerful whiff of the hole, and as his head jerks back it, he glances over at the second hole. "Wait, that looks like a second hole!" he wades over.

[Thragka]

The flow of the water became a a series of smooth arcs and twisting chutes, like dunes in a desert, as it flowed over the edge of the drop. As Jorgen walked towards it, he felt the stone give slightly underfoot - it seemed that the ground beneath the street was weak here. The second hole revealed a tangled mess of wood and rock, cracked cobbles interspersed with what looked like broken wooden beams, forming a concave waterfall beneath the earth; it was steep, but not completely vertical, for perhaps a dozen yards, but it seemed to gradually level out into a rough mess of rubble one could clamber across.

The water kept flowing down; wherever it ended up in the depths below, Jorgen couldn't see - but there were no underground lakes or flooding close to the fissure as far as he could see.

[Tusalu]

Cydred bends over the corpse, and begins to examine it. With morbid, but professional, interest he tries poking a bit at the psysical anomalies with some of his surgical instruments. He is disgusted but curious. While examining the body he tries to come up with some vague, but educated-sounding description of the condition to impress the others with.

[HerbieRAI]

Hargan walks over to the hole in the ground.

I've got some rope. Who wants to go down?

[TheGreatJabu]

Valdaríon grimaced. "You know what, on second thought, I think we might want to investigate the Free L'Anguille movement first. It would give all that water time to recede a bit."

Othrakin

The dwarf chortles derisively. "Mwh-hm-hm! Tha smeall will oonly git woorse wit' time, lad. Le's kill tha muties neow, bayth ourselfs, then find these rebels te nee-go-sheeate while smeallin' peartty!"


Hargan walks over to the hole in the ground.

I've got some rope. Who wants to go down?

"I'll make me way first, lad. Ne'er has a dwarf ree-fused te go oonderground afore a manling or elf!" With that, Othrakin slides Alrika back into the loop on his belt and readies himself for the climb down.

[Thragka]

Cydred bends over the corpse, and begins to examine it. With morbid, but professional, interest he tries poking a bit at the psysical anomalies with some of his surgical instruments. He is disgusted but curious. While examining the body he tries to come up with some vague, but educated-sounding description of the condition to impress the others with.

As far as Cydred can tell, the various blisters and suppurating boils on the corpse's flesh indicate that the man suffered from a very advanced pox - possibly complicated by an excess of the phlegmatic humour. As for the body's corpulence, there is no way the barber-surgeon can think of that a man could become so bloated without the influence of Chaos.

[-Sentinel-]

I've got some rope. Who wants to go down?

"I'll go next... Thank you."

Effective Ag 77: [roll0]

The young Elf slid down the rope with considerably more grace than the Dwarf.

[Sploosh]

Seeing the elf make it down safely, Jorgen starts to climb down after him.

Scaling (15):
[roll0]

[Thragka]

Deliberating for a moment, Hargan knotted one end of the rope tightly around the corpse’s shin, hoping his weight would anchor him in place and that his bloated ankle would stop the rope from slipping off. He yanked it taught and, satisfied, passed the loose end to Othrakin.

With an air of easy confidence, the dwarf stepped backwards over the edge of the pit. The fractured stone beneath his boot was slick with the flow, but there were plenty of nooks and crannies for wedging toes into. One foot after the other, Othrakin descended into the gloaming beneath the earth. The colour seemed to wash out of the light the deeper he went, until the face of the crevasse became a monochrome hillside stretching up to some heavenly colourful world above. Othrakin twisted to see how far he had left to go. Foot slipping over a mossy plank, he tumbled backwards, a wave of scree accompanying him and throwing up dust – it subsided in a few moments, the rattle fading away as he slid into a stop. Standing up and dusting himself down, he peered back up at Valdaríon’s smirking face.

In comparison, the elf appeared to dance down into the gloom, feet touching the side of the hole almost imperceptibly as the tomb robber zigzagged down the sheer slope. Letting the rope go, he wandered casually past Othrakin to inspect the space they found themselves in. Othrakin harrumphed, and contented himself with watching Jorgen laboriously clamber down. As the Norseman methodically felt his way down the shaft, Othrakin eyed the mouth of the hole. Eyes accustoming to the dark, he noticed that the face of the pit seemed to have several distinct layers behind the sheet of falling water. First was the cracked rock of the street itself, cobbles mixing with compact earth, but abruptly changing into a square-ish tangle of wood, a few errant beams spilling out and forming the lower layers of the slope. On either side of the bottom mound of wood, earth and rock, however, was a vertical wall, pitted and cracked yet unnaturally straight and smooth, clearly placed by someone intelligent.

Valdaríon was just reaching the same conclusion, something like excitement brewing in his gut as he spotted what looked like a pillar to the other end of the cavern – a cavern that, even in the poor visibility of the lightless murk, seemed awfully like it had four walls and a mostly-flat ceiling.

[-Sentinel-]

"Would you look at these walls," breathed the Elf, his eyes wide. "I don't think I've ever been in this part of the undercity."

He could not wait to start exploring. Now if Hargan and Cydred could join them...

[Sploosh]

"I can't see a damn thing!" Jorgen growls as he stumbles around looking for some wood or rock to make a fire.

[Thragka]

The only loose bits of wood and rock Jorgen can see are at the bottom of the mound he just climbed down onto, but all of these are damp with the water cascading down from above and then apparently disappearing into cracks in the floor. Trying to feel around in the dark on his hands and knees for drier tinder produced nothing else except a vague feeling of foolishness.

[Sploosh]

Frustrated and humiliated, Jorgen stands back up. "Khorne take me.." he mutters, drawing a bit of blood from his palm and clenching his hand. He breathes deeply and hopes his eyes adapt as he waits for the others.

[HerbieRAI]

Hargan watches the other three slide down the rope and waits to hear them get to the floor. By the echoing voices, it didn't seem like that far of a drop, and so Hargan begins his journey down.

His eyes become useless very quickly, and he begins to rely on his ears to tell how far down he is. It sounds like he's only a few feet away, but it's better to be safe than sorry, and so he continues shimming down the rope. luckly thing, since the floor was a good distance further. Before he lets go of the rope, he realizes that he doesn't have anything to light the area up.

I don't suppose one of you can light up the area for us humans, could you? I don't like being blind.

[-Sentinel-]

Valdaríon chuckled. "Right away. But do understand that this makes it harder to sneak around. If we get attacked, I'll put out the light at once."

He scratched a match against the wall to light his lantern.

Each match has a 50% chance of lighting, so I'll have to roll below 50.

[roll0] Success.
[roll1]
[roll2]
[roll3]

[Sploosh]

Jorgen looks appreciately at the light but says nothing.

[Thragka]

Valdaríon’s torch took easily, lending the cavern a mellow, reassuring light close at hand, but casting lurking, dark shadows behind the pillars and indeed the people. The space was vast; not in the sense of the simple space of the great hall of a noble’s palace, but in that underground, in the cool, there was a sense of emptiness that made the corners seem to recede away from the bounty hunter. He guessed that this room was probably twice as big as the common room of the Shattered Compass. The walls were coated with a cobweb filigree of fractures; the elf’s eyes could just make out the hints of long-faded colour on the scabrous rock. There were four pillars, holding up the ceiling and, he supposed, the intervening layer of stone beneath the street, but whatever details had once adorned them had faded away or been cut directly off. They were now little more than oblong lumps, pitted and potholed. Two more stumps were closer to the ruptured end, squat blunt stalagmites like raised fists. It seemed the corresponding points on the ceiling would be very close to the edge of the hole by which they’d entered.

Hargan nodded gracefully, releasing the rope and stepping backwards away from the water spluttering down. In the light, it was more apparent where the flow was going – mostly it was channelled through cracks and grooves in the ground underfoot, some disappearing completely into smaller gaps and fissures to his right. That side was lower than the other, the floor slanted, and the water formed a small stream, a foot or two wide, carrying the water away – to the remains of a doorway at the other end of the room. It seemed the only exit – barring climbing back up the rope.

At the illumination, Othrakin frowned. The more he could see of the mound of rubble they’d climbed down onto, the less sense it made. There was all the collapsed rock and earth that should have formed the roof, but the long beams of wood, in relatively good condition, looked awfully out of place, as well as far newer. The dwarf even thought he could spot what looked like the blade of a shovel, right at the bottom of the entire mess.

Jorgen pressed two fingers into his palm, relishing the pain slightly – a drop of blood slid between his fingers and off his knuckles to the ground below. It made a deep red stain on the rock – right beside a darker but similar rusty blot. The berserker crouched down again. The darker marks were spread out, forming a loose path between the detritus beneath the hole and going back between Hargan’s legs, towards the opening the bounty hunter was staring at.

[Sploosh]

"Blood..." Jorgen mutters.

[Tusalu]

Cydred is staying in the back of the group as they move through the tunnels. He is a little unnerved by the darkness and various ooze and dirt. His attention is caught by what Jorgen said.

"Blood? Are you injured?" he says with a tiny hint of hope in his voice.
Wounds he knows how to deal with. Mutants and dark sewers wasn't really covered in his training.

[Sploosh]

"No" Jorgen replies gruffly. "But something else might be." he says as points out the stains.

[HerbieRAI]

Hargan peered through the doorway, then slowly around the rest of the room, keeping his hand close to his weapon. When Jorgen mentioned the blood, Hargan moves to the blood trail, and touches it with his own fingers.

Any objection to leaving the rope here for a way out?


I'm going to make a Follow Trail check to try and see how long ago the other person fled trough here.
(34) [roll0]

[Thragka]

There was a slight draught as Hargan looked through the remains of a door frame, now just a rectangular opening in the rock wall with a groove at waist hight where there had once been a lock. The doorway led to a shallow stairwell, just about wide enough to walk down -- the wallson either side seemed to lean inwards, but that was probably just Hargan's imagination. The steps were slim, and sagging in the middle where the stone was worn down into a smooth arc -- they had been frequently used, once. Hargan could just make out a corner after about a dozen steps where the stairs turned at least ninety degrees.

Turning his back on the shrouded, chilly gap, the bounty hunter took a few steps towards the rest of the group, keeping his gaze down until he could make out the irregular streaks. From the look of it, someone had hurt their foot or leg and left a few drops with each pace. The trail definitely led towards the staircase, but Hargan noticed that it also ran in the other direction. Stepping slowly over to the mound, there were a small number of red blotches skirting a few rocks at the very bottom.

[-Sentinel-]

Any objection to leaving the rope here for a way out?

"Well, good luck untying from up there, even if you wanted to."

The sight of blood made him slightly queasy. Still, as long as it wasn't theirs...

[-Sentinel-]

OOC: (Sorry for the double post, we need to get the plot going.)


Valdaríon drew his pick and tried to look brave. "So. Shall we go?" he said, indicating the trail of blood. "Better finish it off before it can recover."

[Tusalu]

"You... lead the way then!" says Cydred, failing to keep his voice level. He draws his sword and gets ready to follow close behind the others.

[Sploosh]

Jorgen snorts and stands, steel in hand. "You people are finally making sense."

[HerbieRAI]

Hargan bends down and moves a few of the rocks to check for anything hidden underneath, then joins the others.

[Thragka]

Valdaríon cautiously put his foot onto the first step. When it remained solidly and silently in place, the young elf began to make his way slowly down. Jorgen hurried after, resting the flat of his greatsword against a shoulder and running the other hand across the cool stone wall of the stairwell. Cydred watched them go apprehensively, almost trying to convince himself that he’d be more use to the group on this level – until Hargan gave him a glare and waved him onwards. The bounty hunter followed. Othrakin, seeming half-distracted, eventually noticed where the others were going and paced slowly over to the doorway, casting a couple of glances back at their exit with a pensive look on his face.

Moving as quietly as possible, Valdaríon reached the bend. Switching the lamp to his left hand, he peered around into the dark. The stairs only went down another flight – at the bottom of the next stretch was another opening, into what appeared to be a room much like the one the group was just leaving. Rounding the corner, the elf let the light illuminate the rest of the steps and floor just beyond as he stood silently for a moment. There was a faint noise coming from somewhere further on – the scratch of metal against stone, and a low murmur that could have been voices.

Jorgen prodded the elf, growing restless just waiting at the corner. Valdaríon resisted the urge to berate him, but then pressed on until he was just beyond the door, not wanting to jump out into the open. The lamplight spilled into a room much larger than the one above, with the door at one end, and much better preserved – it almost looked as though there were frescoes on the opposite wall. Despite himself, the tomb robber lifted the lamp to his face to get a better look across the hall

There was an animalistic snarl from off to the right, and the other noises stopped. Cursing, Valdaríon quickly extinguished the lamp, but a faint glow remained from down the opposite end of the long hall – whoever was there had light sources of their own. But it was too late – the group heard a couple of deep, guttural snaps in an inhuman tongue before everything faded away but the sound of hurriedly approaching footsteps...

OOC:Think Fast!

[Sploosh]

Jorgen draws his weapon and rushes to the door he hears the noise from, hoping to hide beside the opening and ambush them.

[Tusalu]

Cydred lets out a scared sound and turns towards the source of the noise with his sword ready.

[Thragka]

Jorgen counted the steps in his head as, little by little, they became louder, trying in the half-light to judge how far away the source must be. Taking a gamble, he swung himself around the corner, yelling a blood oath at the top of his lungs.

His greatsword slashed down – through thin air. The enemy was still nearly twenty yards away.

The three mutants stumbled to a halt in surprise as the Norseman appeared through the door, giving Jorgen enough time to take them in. One had an upturned nose and a protruding jaw, with tusks emerging between his fat lips, and his skin was a dark tan, looking almost like leather. Another’s skin seemed to be hanging off his face in rags and tatters, revealing a cruel, predatory beak of bone where his nose and mouth should be. The largest, in the rear, looked almost like the half-man creatures from the campfire tails of Jorgen’s homeland – his body was coated in thick fur, two stubby horns sprang from his temples and a long, muscular tail swung from side to side behind his back. All were carrying what looked like old, unfashionable swords – closer to butchers’ cleavers than anything else – and waving them about as though they weren’t really sure how to use them. The mutant at the back also had a shovel held in his tail, the thin end wrapped tight around the handle.

For a brief instant the creatures stared at Jorgen and he stared back. Then, the beaked mutant gave an avian screech, keeeeeeee echoing down the hall – with that, the trio began to charge.

[-Sentinel-]

With a sigh of resignation, Valdaríon hefted his pick and walked down the stairs into the room to allow his allies to reach the enemy. He himself was better at hiding or fleeing than fighting.

It always goes smoother when I work alone, he thought.


Initiative: [roll0]

Actions: I ready my weapon and move just to the right of the stairway's lower end.

[Sploosh]

Jorgen braces himself, his sword held high in a topguard posture. His breath came heavily between grunts but his face was grinning. "Come, god spurned. Come and die!"


Init: [roll0]
Action:
Defensive Stance (Full Round)

[HerbieRAI]

Hargan draws his crossbow and moves to the bottom of the stairs behind Jorgen. He then fires a shot at the beaked creature.


This is my first combat in the game, so if I do something wrong don't be afraid to point it out.

Initiative: [roll0]

Ballistic attack roll (base 55) [roll1]

[Tusalu]

Cydred moves up behind Jorgen and waits until the enemy is closer or Jorgen has moved away.

[Thragka]

The beaked mutant stamped a foot, leaning forwards and giving another shrill, aggressive cry that echoed down the hall. Beside him, his snouted companion advanced cautiously - the furred one gave an animalistic howl and began to run as fast as he could towards the intruders ...

http://i154.photobucket.com/albums/s243/Thragka/Warhammer/Ill%20Tidings/undergroundcombat2.jpg

Beaky is activating his Frenzy talent; the others advance, one at a run. Because I set up the distances poorly and you played defensive (go team!), nobody actually does any fighting this round.

[Tusalu]

Cydred waits until the first of his companions engage the enemy, then he attacks the same enemy (if possible) with his sword.

Weapon Skill 31: [roll0]

[Tusalu]

.. he hits, and damages:
[roll0]

[Sploosh]

Jorgen keeps his stance wide, his grin is joined by hard determination in his eyes and his muscles tense, ready to uncoil like a snake.

Actions
Attack or Delayto attack the first to engage.
Weapon Skill 37
[roll0]
Damage:
[roll1] or[roll2]
Take highest due to Impact

Parry Stance
Parry roll 37
[roll3]


Fury roll if needed

1st [roll4]
2nd [roll5]

[HerbieRAI]

Hargan doesn't wait for the first blow to be struck, and aims at the closest mutant, then lets loose a quarrel


to hit (70) [roll0]
This seems a bit high, I have 45 plus 5 from marksmen and 20 from sharpshooter, right?

damage [roll1]

[-Sentinel-]

"I hate this," mumbled Valdaríon.

Somewhat timidly, he swung his pick at the nearest mutant...

Move into contact + Standard attack

WS 29: [roll0]
Damage: [roll1]

I suppose I don't get an outnumbering bonus, since I come first in initiative order.

...and missed.

[Thragka]

Staying as close to the wall as he could, Valdaríon darted forwards without really believing he was doing it, eyes wide as he watched his arms swing the pick at the leathery-skinned, hog-faced creature – piggy eyes watched it descend and leant back out of the way. Cydred jumped out of the stairwell with an unimpressive yell, scoring a gash across the creature’s right leg – the mutant gave a wretched howl as his trousers took on a deep red stain. He lashed out in retaliation, the barber-surgeon whacking his enemy’s blade aside before it lunged downwards towards sensitive areas.

Othrakin drew Alrika and stepped up to the horned and tailed foe, but was startled at a cry from his left – twistingquickly on the balls of his feet, the dwarf used his hammer’s shaft to block the rain of incoming blows from both of the mutants that had turned towards him - a moment's respite came from Hargan as one of the bounty hunter's quarrels hit the back of the furred one's head, glancing off the skull and dragging a patch of flesh as it fell to the ground.

http://i154.photobucket.com/albums/s243/Thragka/Warhammer/Ill%20Tidings/undergroundcombat3.jpg

[HerbieRAI]

Seeing Othrakin getting overwhelmed, Hargan draws his club and moves around to the left most flank ready to attack.

[-Sentinel-]

Keeping his guard up to parry any incoming attack, Valdaríon cautiously swung his pick at the mutant he was fighting.

Effective WS 39 (outnumbering): [roll0]
Damage: [roll1]

Parrying stance

[Tusalu]

Cydred slashes the creature with his sword again

Using the Aim action first:
Effective Weapon Skill: 41 [roll0]
Damage: [roll1]

[Sploosh]

Startled by the sudden turn of events and his companions uncharacterisitic bravery, Jorgen can only stare. He shakes his head and rushes to help them.

Seeing Cydred and Vadrion have their mutant on the ropes, he instead heads to aid the dwarf. He comes in hard, fast and agressive. His blade dancing furous, seeking any gap.

Actions and attacks
Moving to the mutant between Cyd and Oth and then attack.

Weapon skill (37) Plus maybe outnumbering
[roll0]
Damage:
[roll1] or [roll2], whichever is higher

Edit: Didnt see All out was a full round so I changed it to normal attack.


Ulric's Fury rolls if needed

[roll3]
[roll4]

[Thragka]

Valdaríon gave another feeble attempt at lodging his pick in the mutant, but the creature’s blade bit into the shaft, sending the elf’s arm into a painful judder as he nearly dropped his makeshift weapon to the ground. Spotting his chance, Cydred brought his blade slamming down – neatly arcing through the creature’s exposed shoulder. The snouted mutant gave the young barber-surgeon a look of terminal surprise as the limb flopped off, a stream of hot blood spurting across the Bretonnian’s face, before collapsing to the ground.

Othrakin’s hammer collided with the horned beast’s shoulder as his foe ineffectively tried to sweep Alrika away with the shovel clasped in its tail. It staggered sideways – towards the charging berserker. Jorgen’s greatsword carved a long gouge through the mutant’s left arm, lopping off two fingers. The mutant wavered, and then fixed its eyes on Othrakin. It gave a half-hearted slash at the dwarf’s hammer arm, blade sliding painlessly off his sleeve. To the left, the beaked half-man stabbed forward, but found its sword whacked aside by Alrika’s hammerhead ...

http://i154.photobucket.com/albums/s243/Thragka/Warhammer/Ill%20Tidings/undergroundcombat4.jpg

[Tusalu]

With renewed confidence Cydred takes a stab at the other mutant next to him.

Using Aim:
Effective Weapon Skill: 41 [roll0]
Damage: [roll1]

[-Sentinel-]

Adventure isn't as fun as I thought it would be, thought Valdaríon as he moved on to the next mutant and swung his pick again.

Move into contact with the nearest mutant + standard attack

WS 49 (+20 outnumbering bonus): [roll0]
Damage: [roll1]

[Sploosh]

Jorgen roars, disgusted that these mutants continued to pester them. They were weak. They were unworthy. His sword would pass his judgement.
There was only now, only hate.


All out attacking
Weapon skill 37 (+All out 20, +outnumbering)
[roll0]
Damage:
[roll1]
[roll2]

[HerbieRAI]

As Hargan moved up, he realized one of these may be of more use alive. He draws his net and moves around to get a clear throw at the mutant facing Othakin.

[Thragka]

Valdaríon felt something almost like relief as his mining pick once again failed to touch the enemy. It was almost as though this wasn’t really happening – he couldn’t really be underground, with people he barely knew an hour, fighting for his life against the spawn of Chaos in the damp and the dark. No – the smooth arc that the pick traced out was too fine to be spoiled by bloodshed. He was basically an archaeologist, for gods’ sakes!

Cydred had no such thoughts, concerned only with the immediate problem of the two remaining mutants. He felt some beast stir in his gut as he swung his thin blade towards the corrupted foe – this is truly living. It was almost poetic – he had trained to save life, but here he was almost enjoying taking it away. His reverie was broken when the beast’s tail whip-cracked, pushing his wrist to the side – perhaps the neat amputation of the snouted brute’s arm had just been a fluke.

Jorgen’s charge brought him within spitting distance of the foe, and as he wrenched his massive sword towards his opponent’s chest the halfman locked eyes with him. He was no true beastman, Jorgen saw – a man’s face stared back at him, eyes bright with bloodlust, a furred and horned face but a human face all the same. This was no true servant of the Dark Gods, not worthy of the respect the berserker had for the Children of the North. But with some raw arrogance, a furious tenacity to stay alive, the mutant swung its long tail up over the shoulder, shovel-blade nearly biting through Jorgen’s hand even as it drove his sword away. The Norseman bit back a howl of rage – this sad foolish thing would die yet.

A grunt from Othrakin seemed louder than the ring of steel as the birdman’s sword slapped his cheek, knocking the dwarf’s head around by ninety degrees. Valdarion could see blood running from his temple, down his jaw and his nose – dazed, Othrakin barely managed to avoid falling onto his opponent ...

http://i154.photobucket.com/albums/s243/Thragka/Warhammer/Ill%20Tidings/undergroundcombat5.jpg

[-Sentinel-]

WS 49 (+20 outnumbering bonus): [roll0]
Damage: [roll1]

Parrying stance

Valdaríon's pick missed by a wide margin again. The Elf sighed. Maybe he really should have followed those swordplay lessons his father had always insisted about.

[Tusalu]

Cydred takes another stab at the mutant close to him.
This was nothing like what little formal fencing training he had had. This was more like a panicked operation of a dying person - the same fight against time. But instead of fighting to mend as much as possible, he is fighting to do the opposite.
Again he tries to sever something important, using his knowledge of anatomy for quite the opposite of what it was intended for.

Using Aim:
Effective Weapon Skill: 41 [roll0]
Damage: [roll1]

[Sploosh]

"Fight, dwarf! Fight to prove yourself! There will be no second chances! NO MERCY!" Jorgen shouts, pushing forward again to give Othrakin breathing room.


If Cydred doesnt kill that mutant, I will all out attack him. IF he does, since he acts first, I'll move to the other mutant and attack.

Weapon skill 37 (Not counting Outnumbering and potentially All Out
[roll0]

Damage: [roll1] or [roll2], take highest.

Fury if it comes up
[roll3]

[HerbieRAI]

Hopeing he can subdue one of the creatures for questioning, Hargan aims and throws his net.


attack roll (65) [roll0]

[Thragka]

The barber-surgeon’s blade plunged under the mutant’s shoulder, slipping (the Breton guessed) between the fourth and fifth rib. A wheeze signified that the left lung had been punctured, and then a slight resistance – coupled with the spasm that ran through the creature’s body like a bolt of lightning – highly suggested that the heart had been pierced. Cydred wrenched his sword back as the furred face turned to look at him, wearing an expression of terminal surprise – and then the beast was dead on the floor.

The other creature gave another high keen as Othrakin leant precariously towards it – the beak darted down and tore a chunk out of the dwarf’s neck, gulping it backwards with a snap of its mandibles. Grunting in frustration, Hargan tossed his net, the weights arcing out but falling short, clattering to the ground. Jorgen sidestepped neatly around Othrakin as the dwarf’s grip loosened, dropping his hammer to the ground and following it down a moment later. Roaring in anger, both at the foe and the fallen ally, the Norseman swung his sword in a flat arc – with surprising agility, the avian mutant dropped to one knee, thrusting his own rusted weapon upwards at the berserker’s right arm – it bit, opening a gouge in the middle of one of Jorgen’s tattoos, the blue quickly becoming tempered with his own red blood.

http://i154.photobucket.com/albums/s243/Thragka/Warhammer/Ill%20Tidings/undergroundcombat6.jpg

[-Sentinel-]

Valdaríon paled slightly when the huge Norseman was wounded. But they were now five against one; the mutant would be dead soon. He brought his pick down again.

Target 49 (+20 outnumbering): [roll0]
Damage: [roll1]

Awww crap, and I had Khaine's Fury...

He missed. Again.

My grandfather must be turning in his grave, he thought.

[Sploosh]

The wound hurt, its was deep. It didn't hurt though, no, never that. The audacity though, the sheer insolence of the mutant was what stung. "I will have your head for that." Jorgen promises, stalking his foe. "I will cut out your heart and feed your tainted flesh to the dogs. I will make you wish for death and the legacy of your pain will last forever. Your bones shall remain as my trophies and decorate His throne. I will have BLOOD!" He shouts, rushing in, all defenses tossed to the hellish winds of his dark god.

All out attack! BLOOD FOR THE BLOOD GOD!
SKULLS FOR THE SKULL THRONE!
77(Weapon Skill 37 +20 All out +20 +Outnumbered 3:1)
[roll0]
Damage: [roll1] or [roll2]

Ulric's if applicable
[roll3] [roll4]

[Tusalu]

Cydred looks at the last enemy. "YIELD!" he shouts, trying to give it a chance. He steps closer with his weapon ready, but not attacking for now.

[HerbieRAI]

Hargan draws his club and moves around for a clear shot at the creature, secretly hoping it takes the chance to yield.

[Thragka]

The mutant twisted its head almost entirely backwards to look at Cydred, muscles seeming to flow beneath the skin of its neck to accommodate the sharp rotation – in its dark eyes, the Breton saw no comprehension, only a raging insanity. It hadn’t even understood what he was saying, he realised – like a cautious beast, it was responding to the threat, but there was no human comprehension. If it had ever been a creature capable of reason and intellect, the bloodlust had drowned that – now, in the dark, surrounded, it would fight to the death.

Jorgen’s litany of promises brought its face snapping back around to the Norseman. It eyed him warily as he babbled on, almost lulled into inaction by the rhythm of his threats – as Cydred and Hargan slowly approached on either side, it made quick flicks with its rusted shortsword at them and Valdaríon – all of whom were only too happy to stay out of its range. Jorgen struck suddenly, longsword arcing down – crashing against the creature’s fingers with a crunch. The mutant dropped its blade as it gave a screeching howl, shaking its wrist desperately as though to slough off the pain – clacking its beak, it hunched back, shifting to the balls of its feet and preparing to jump ...

http://i154.photobucket.com/albums/s243/Thragka/Warhammer/Ill%20Tidings/undergroundcombat7.jpg

[-Sentinel-]

The Elf shook his head at Cydred. "We can't let it warn its friends, and we can't keep prisoners." Reluctantly, he raised his pick to execute the creature. It was a mercy, really.

Sorry for the lateness. I just feel Valdaríon isn't a killer at heart, and I was hoping someone else would do it.

Effective WS 59: [roll0]
Damage: [roll1]

*headdesk*

My character couldn't hit the broad side of a barn with a melee weapon.

He swung the pick slowly and without enthusiasm, and the mutant easily dodged the attack.

[Tusalu]

"If we must." Cydred says, before he slashes the creature with what he hopes is surgical precision.

Using Aim:
Effective Weapon Skill: 41 [roll0]
Damage: [roll1]

[Sploosh]

Jorgen follows through with his attack and then putting his strength to work, reverses momentum, coming back around.


All Out Attack
Weapon Skill 37+20 All out+Outnumbered 20
[roll0]

Damage:
[roll1] or [roll2]

Ulric
[roll3]
[roll4]

[Thragka]

From the back of his throat, the mutant gave something between a cluck and a growl, twisting its head as it sprang forward – the cruel point of the beak aiming for Jorgen’s neck. It moved so fast that Cydred and Valdaríon’s weapons were left behind as they swung, and Jorgen himself had no time to retaliate – instinct took over, shifting his weight without thinking about it. Blood roared in his ears as the curved bones darted past his cheek, and the berserker took one hand off his sword pommel to deliver a slug to the creature’s abdomen. His foe slid back slightly, and Jorgen twisted, bringing the blade in from the left, but his momentum carried it up, passing far too high above the mutant’s head. Hargan planted one foot forward and raised his club to shoulder height. Twisting about his hips, he brought it around and down swiftly, slamming horizontally across the small of the thing’s back. The beast gave a surprised squawk and a long, painful-sounding cough as it stooped down to retrieve its shortsword ...

[-Sentinel-]

"This is getting ridiculous."

Valdaríon brought his pick down again...

All-out attack and outnumbering, total bonus = 40.
Effective WS 69: [roll0]
Damage: [roll1]

...and finally connected, hitting the creature's left arm.

[Tusalu]

Cydred tries once more to rid the creature of something vital.
Using Aim:
Effective Weapon Skill 41: [roll0]
Damage: [roll1]

[HerbieRAI]

Hargan takes another swing at the creature.


Effective ws(59) [roll0]
damage [roll1]

[Sploosh]

Jorgen continues his barrage of steel.


All Out, Outnumbered 37 Wep Skill
[roll0]
Damage:
[roll1] or [roll2]
Ulric
[roll3]
[roll4]

[Thragka]

The elf’s weapon finally connected, the thin curve of the pick piercing his foe in the left shoulder. Surprised at how little resistance there was, Valdaríon followed through. The whole of the blade embedded itself down along the mutant’s arm, the point springing through the skin on the other side. The creature howled, wrenching its arm away – combined with Valdaríon’s frenetic tugging as he tried to retrieve it, the entire length of metal erupted backwards through its flesh, leaving the upper arm a mess of flesh, hanging in tattered red ribbons, shattered bone shining through the wound. Nearly dazed, the tomb robber could only stare as the forearm wobbled, barely still attached – only a small patch of bloody skin preventing it from falling to the ground.

In contrast to the halfman’s pitiful keening, Jorgen was utterly silent as he brought his greatsword around in one more flat swing. Sliding through the remnants of the mutant’s arm, the blade split skin as easily as passed through his enemy’s grotty tunic, opening a gash all the way to the belly. The creature fell silent, dark eyes locking on Jorgen’s for a moment. Shuddering with its final breath, it slumped to the ground. The Norseman planted a boot in its chest, pushing the corpse backwards to the ground as he pulled his sword back.

In the silence that followed, the four had their first chance to get a good look at the chamber. It was long – at least thirty yards from end to end, and nearly ten across. The murky light was coming from the other end of the hall – three or four torches were set into wall-brackets at the end. Beneath them were an assortment of tunnels, hammers and pick-axes, leaning against the wall; off to one side, it seemed the mutants had been doing their best to destroy a patch of the wall. Between two braziers was something daubed in dark charcoal, but from the distance, none could tell what it was – writing, possibly, but most of it just looked like lines and shapes. Before anyone had really had enough breathing time to consider stepping away from the corpse on the ground, though, they tensed again – from back upstairs came the unmistakeable sound of more movement ...


~

Erberhardt von Buchwald spent a few moments thinking after coming across the filthy, corpulent body in the alley. Then he bent down, tying Anders to the bloated leg next to where another rope had been attached. Tugging at the rope that wasn’t his own to establish that it was fast, he cautiously swung over, down into the gap in the cobbles.

The flow of the water made it tricky to navigate some footholds down the precipice of broken wood and rubble – the roadwarden descended slowly and cautiously, keeping his eyes to the rock face. The light faded as he continued, past the broken cobbles and earth at the lip of the hole, past the rectangular mess of wood jutting out of the slope, and finally dulling to a dim grey as his feet found relatively dry boulders and scree at the base of the room he found himself in. Slapping his hands together to rid them of dust, he turned around, making a complete circle slowly to take in his surroundings. He could barely see further than a few metres in the murk, but the damp, musty smell told him that he was in an old place – the earthy hint of scent belying centuries of imprisonment beneath the city.

An eerie sound hit him from somewhere in the dark – an echoing, inhuman howl, nearly a squawk, and with no indication as to how far away it was ...

[Xsesiv]

Before the thought's even entered his mind, Erberhardt has a pistol in his right hand and his left on his long sword. He draws the sword, deliberates for a second or so, and switches them over. His right arm's just that little bit stronger, he finds.

Overcoat flapping around his knees, he limps painfully, if not particularly slowly, towards the source of the sound, apparently needing to extend his right leg in the middle of each step. He holds his sword out in front of him, giving himself a yard or so of space, and his pistol in close to his body. "Who's there?" he hisses, as he goes, and then, after a second's thought, asks the same again in Breton. That scream wasn't right, not in the least, and he'd heard similar in the forests before. Especially the places where they said there were mutants.

And amazingly enough, Erberhardt's able to tell himself that thinking about that doesn't matter at the current moment in time and believe it.

[HerbieRAI]

Hearing someone calling out from the stairway, Hargan calls We could ask you the same. Show yourself, we wont attack.

Hargan then turns to the dead birdman and spits on it. The cursed things parents should have killed it when it was born. He then takes a few seconds to check himself to make sure none of the blood got on him, incase it is contagious. After being satisfied he is not infected with some deadly virus, Hargan makes his way across the room to inspect what the wretches were working on.

[Sploosh]

Jorgen holds his weapon in hand, moving it through a few passes as he waits for a reaction and takes up a defensive position. His blood red and blue arms taut.

[Thragka]

To Erberhardt, the voice echoes oddly, sounding at once as though it’s just a few yards into the dark but also weak and faint, carried through the rock – the roadwarden realised he could also hear it below him, very soft through the ground beneath his feet – and the echoes were likely from a stairwell somewhere just out of sight. Despite the “we,” there seems to be no sound of anyone else apart from whoever just called up, save receding footsteps.


~

Below, Hargan slowly ambled along the room, towards the tools and torches. Just to the right of the far end is the broken section of the wall – as the bounty hunter approached, the depression swung into view, a shallow alcove hacked out of the earth with steel and brute strength – all the picks and shovels lying against the wall showed signs of heavy use. Scant yards deep, it seemed the mutants had only just begun to clear the space. It was wide enough for perhaps two men abreast, at a squeeze, and barely six foot in height – around the lip of the cracked stone, two long wooden beams had been wedged upright, pressing against the ceiling of the recess – a makeshift measure to prevent it from collapsing inwards, but not one that would last if the excavators had intended to lengthen this new passage.

Turning back to the intact short wall at the end, Hargan saw that the graffiti was nothing more than charcoal, daubed inexpertly against the smooth stone face. There was some order to the sooty lines and curves, he saw, but even in his illiteracy he could tell that hardly any of the glyphs looked anything like good honest Breton characters.


http://i154.photobucket.com/albums/s243/Thragka/Warhammer/Ill%20Tidings/caveglyphs.png

[Tusalu]

Cydred is initially startled by the shout, and turns towards it with his sword ready. After a moment's thought he lowers it again, "These monsters don't speak, do they? Can't be one of them." he hisses quietly to the others.

[-Sentinel-]

Cydred is initially startled by the shout, and turns towards it with his sword ready. After a moment's thought he lowers it again, "These monsters don't speak, do they? Can't be one of them." he hisses quietly to the others.

"I'm pretty sure mutants do speak," said Valdaríon, trying to keep his voice from trembling. "But I don't think a mutant would be announcing its presence."

[Sploosh]

Jorgen spares the others a glance. "They speak. This though, does not smell like one."

[Xsesiv]

Somewhat reassured by the human voices, Erberhardt came along a little faster, moving a bit further, and then down the stairs; cursing like a sailor as he simultaneously tried to deal with the sagging of the stairs and his limp, but didn't yet dare put his weapons away. Going upstairs, he didn't have a problem with, it was downstairs that was difficult.

Slightly disturbed by the presence of this quantity of blood, Erberhardt carried on towards the sounds.

[Thragka]

Erberhardt took the steps carefully, leaning against the wall with one hand and grumbling curses beneath his breath. Walking into the wall at the sudden, sharp bend loosed a particularly foul torrent – below, Jorgen and Valdaríon shared another patient glance. They relaxed slightly when a patch of shadows congealed to reveal a broad, haggard-looking man limping down the last few stairs.

The newcomer gave the chamber a brief glance, taking in the three mutated corpses, the dead dwarf, and the charcoal scribbles beside the pile of tools at the other end of the long hall. Utterly nonplussed, he could think of nothing to do but glare back at the four people – well, three people and an elf – that were eyeing him with a similar expression; confused, but confident on some unconscious level that his appearance couldn’t make the situation any more complicated.

Cydred relaxed, shivering slightly as his adrenaline caught up with him. Clearing his throat, he decided somebody ought to ask.

“Who on earth are you?”

[Xsesiv]

"Interesting question, that, but my name's Erberhardt," said Erberhardt, holstering his pistol to kneading the hitch in his hip. His Breton, though perfectly fluent, betrayed a slight Imperial accent. Satisfied that the motley group isn't about to slaughter him here and now, he turns his attention to the mutant corpses.

"Mutants, is it? I've dealt with these bastards before," and he hobbled over for the sole purpose of spitting on one of the corpses.

He looked the group over with interest. "If you're cleaning these out, I could give you a hand if you'd like. I'm not fishing for cash or anything, I'm just really, really bored." He seemed a little amused by his on words.

[HerbieRAI]

Hargan took a few moments to look over the new arrival. That limp wasn't doing him any favors for usefullness, but Hargan's eyes were drawn directly to his gun. Hargan had seen these foreign weapons before, but never in action. He glanced down at his crossbow, wondering which of the two weapons was better. Crossbows have been used for a lot longer than guns, surely they were a lot more advanced and deadly.
Where'd you get the pistol from? They usually don't sell those in these parts?

Hargan bends down and reloads his crossbow, then turns to look at the writing again. Part of it looked somewhat like a map, but without any markers it would be useless. The elf was studying the writing as well, and from the look on his face he couldn't read it either. It was probably some demonic symbols of the dark gods, a thought which sent a dark chill down Hagan's back. Hargan began looking around for any paper to copy the scribblings onto.

Anyone have anything to write on? Someone on the surface may be able to translate this for us, or at least tell us what it is.

[Xsesiv]

"This one? I got issued with it back in the Empire," said Erberhardt, looking absently at the gun and thinking to himself that if people were still clinging so firmly to the old ways, using crossbows and suchlike, it's a wonder we were not still hurling stones at each other.

He shambled over to the signs and symbols on the opposite wall. Unable to make top nor tail of it, he remarked, "Well, if someone wants to copy it down, be my guest, I'm not doing it. It'll curse me, as far as I know."

[Tusalu]

Cydred whispers to Hargan "We should get him to go with us. He looks dangerous, but let's hope he turns that on the monsters.". He glances nervously to the newcomer and his gun.

[Sploosh]

Jorgen eyes the newcomer warily. His sword still gripped loosely in his hand. He agreed with the others about the strangeness of his weapon but brushed it off as unimportant.

"Cursed. These mutants are cursed, cast down for their weakness. They can write only blasphemy, as their words are tainted by their existence." He puncutates his statement with a spittle.

[-Sentinel-]

"I'm willing to accept any help we can get," Valdaríon told the newcomer. "As long as you're positive your fancy little gun won't blow up in our faces or burst our eardrums." He really did not trust these things at anything other than making noise.



Anyone have anything to write on? Someone on the surface may be able to translate this for us, or at least tell us what it is.
"Not Eltharin, that's for sure."

[Xsesiv]

Erberhardt withdrew the gun, which was neither particularly little nor particularly fancy, and looked it over. Well, though he'd never seen it himself, there were tales of them blowing up, and they'd misfired often enough in his presence. "No need to be rude. I can't make any promises, these things have never been what you'd call reliable. I won't use it if it makes you feel any better," he coolly offered the elf, holstering it again.

Wait. An elf?

Well, that was unusual. An elf in Bretonnia? Erberhardt had worked the forests long enough to have come across them before, at least, so he wasn't about to start throwing salt on the elf and shrieking protective prayers to Sigmar. Still, they were rarer here from what he'd heard.

He shook his head and turned back to the graffiti. "Is that some sort of map, maybe?" He turned his head and looked at it from several different angles. "Could these three circles be these three pieces of scum, maybe? Sort of "we are here"?" He indicated the circles at the top left hand corner, and the mutants. "And these diagonal lines are the stairs? And then, these solid lines could be the walls? And that thing there is that alcove?" He massages his temples. "But those circles and the lines could be a campfire for all I know. It's too obvious. And there's no telling what that lot means," and he pointed to what looks like writing on the bottom right. He dug through his pack, apparently not finding what he was looking for. "Well, I can think of no way of writing this down. So unless there's a volunteer to have it scratched into his skin with a dagger, we'll have to try and memorise it." He found himself strangely dedicated to this puzzle.

[HerbieRAI]

Hargan, starting to get fed up with the scribblings on the walls, moves into the Alcove. He starts kicking things around, trying to find if the deamons hid anything in or around the wall.


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[Thragka]

Small broken boulders adorned the ground about the alcove, jagged and irregular. Hargan kicked aside - it rolled oddly, seeming to gain and lose momentum randomly with every unpredictable bounce. The bounty hunter coughed at the cloud of dust that gently rose trying to swat it away with his hand. He was more gentle the next time he prodded at loose stones, but even then, he could find nothing. The back of the alcove was rough, with clean edges where a pick had torn off a solid chunk - this would have been hard work, cutting through the rock. The tools that were lying around were badly worn down and did not look up to the task of carving through stone for an extended period - there were many more shovels than pickaxes, and even their edges had been blunted.