Tomboys and Troublemakers pt 3

[MrAbdiel]

Spoiler: OOC:

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Haha, 'fight' the hunter and dwarf was a legit typo. Damn. But let's roll with it.

Bertelis looks baffled at Gimgroth for a long moment. "...Fight them? Did I say that?" He looks up at the rest of the company, whose noninterventionist gazes suggest to him that it was a fault in his speech, not the dwarf's hearing. He shakes his head slightly. "Forgive me, no. No, the hunter Le Becassin is our best chance for a knowledgable ally against the Red Knight. And the dwarf we have no quarrel with; I know resolving his quest is a matter you are pledge to. I meant only to find them."

He touches his own forehead lightly, as if he expects to feel a crack, and his brains oozing out. He glances again to Bruno.

"I am not so much better than I was when we started sparring, Bruno. And you may be the better man, over all. We have been through most of the same trials together, but you have born your suffering better. And the foes we face today are owed your wrath as much as mine - Sul Kovaar is responsible for the plaguelord's targeting of your family... The suspicion levelled upon them, and forcing you to battle your cousin back in Altdorf. Carry the blade. I will fight for what battles I can, but I must be ready to.. withdraw if the situation demands. When this is over - when we go to claim back my family's lands in Bordeleaux - I believe we will see the Dancer again. I will need it for that fight. But today... You are our sword."

[bramblefoot]

alright, so the walk is as peaceful as its gonna get in this accursed land. youd arrive at the south gate, and nobody gives you a peep, except a small waif who will walk up to sir bertelis "its time to admit the waters have grown." she will walk away, and a older man will say "better get swimming, or youll sink like a stone" other than those two weirdos, nothing

[wilphe]

Wighard looks around, taking in the crumbling buildings, the stench of, well, everything and the reek of corruption.

He's also making a rough estimate of what percentage of the population might pass for non-mutants after some attention from his knives.

It's not high


He reaches up from petting Shclapp

I highly recommend not drinking the water, but you knew that

[MrAbdiel]

Bertelis looks at the pitiable wretches who wander by with their cryptic rhymes. He frowns a little.. and distracts himself by asking Wighard a question in his expertise.

"Most of the folk of Mousillon are under one curse or another. Born without the right allotment of fingers, or one leg too short, or curved of back. Is there... Do you think, a line between deformity and mutation..? Is one simply the terrible extend of the other, or are they matters of a different kind entirely? Is one... more natural than the other?"

[LarsWester]

Gimgroth interjects quickly but quietly They're all the same to the witch hunters. He then shuffles his boot in the dirt ashamed that he spoke out of turn.

[wilphe]

Wighard grimaces

If it has got to the point where a Witch Hunter has to decide if you are a mutant or not it's already too late for you

He looks at Bertelis

In theory no one in the Empire is supposed to be condemned as a mutant without a medical examination. In practice that hardly ever happens, but I keep it in my pocket in case I ever need it.

There is a difference between abnormality and mutation, but it does depend a lot on who is doing the assessing.

In practice it might not matter because part of the horror of mutation is being shunned, alienated and the deep feeling of self-loathing and resentment of others. In that case why you are different scarcely matters, chaos will get a hold of you anyway.

I have worked in a few mutantenklaven. A lot of people there aren't mutants, but if you think you are damned already and everyone tells you you are, you end up living down to expectations

[farothel]

"Okay then," Bruno said, taking the blade and handing over his own sword so Bertelis had a weapon. It wouldn't do to walk around here without one.
"So, what way do we have to go."

[MrAbdiel]

Welcome to Unlovely Mousillon

The gate to the city of Mousillon is beautiful. It’s elven, like many of the foundations of the cities in Bretonnia; abandoned long ago and left for the despoiling of the greenskins before, as legend has it, the tribes of the Bretonni seized them back, and built their own mighty cities. The gate is tall with a peaked archway set into snugly fitting stonecraft around it. The elven artisans that made it many ages ago ought to be proud; even through centuries of strife and war, it does not seem to have been broken down.

It is the only beautiful thing about the city so far as you can tell; perhaps the only beautiful thing you will see for a long time.

The road leading to the this southern facing gate is wide and slick with packed mud forever churned by the feet and hooves of those unlucky enough to walk it and settled again by the rains. Lining the approach to the gate is a maze of tents, shanties, shacks, hovels, huts, lean-tos, shelters, and all conceivable variety of poor quality shelter cobbled together or stolen by the hundreds of ragged paupers who live outside the walls. There exists a susurrus of ‘village’ life all around and through the shanty town, but it bleeds down to a quieter murmur as folk come to the edges of the road to watch your group wander toward the city. And what folk they are - oddly sized ears, bulging eyes, extra fingers, lumpen heads, hoist shoulders, there seems none among them who have developed completely right. They are as miserable and poor people as you might ever have seen, but they gaze upon your party with fascination and wonder, especially the dwarven and halfling members.

And then, as you near the gate, a man with one leg shorter than the other by two inches forcing him to caper and slouch in his approach hustles forward, grabbing the unsewn hem of his sackcloth vest and holding it so the cloth makes an impromptu beggar’s bowl.

“Spare coin or bread?” He asks, his voice dry and reedy. That seems to be all it takes; then a dozen more detach from their hovels and close in about your group.

“Gods favor the gen’rous, lords!”
“My son! My son is ill, very ill - he needs silver!”
“Just a coin or more ser, just a coin or more!”
“Dwarf! Dwarf, here, let me rub yer head, fer me gout!”
“Just three penny, outlanders - three penny for the blessing of Maldor, the city-god!”
“Geef? Geef? Geef ‘ere? Geef ‘ere?”

Now there’s a score of them - holding bowls, rattling bone boxes, petitioning your attention and money. One hops foot to foot in what he must hope is a pleasing dance worthy of compensation. Another wears a crude diorama hanging from his neck like a gaudy talisman - though what the clustered stick figures are meant to represent is beyond a cursory glance. You are all seasoned enough travellers that you know to keep your purses in sight in crowds like this, but you have moments before the score around you becomes two score, and three, and more. Beyond the gathering mob, the great gates of the city sit open wide enough for a few to walk abreast - but there are no guards, no knights, not even tollmeisters here, and no one to whom one might appeal for order.

Spoiler: OOC:Sacre Bleu!

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This seems like a good time to offer rolls! Consider the difficulty Challenging in all cases, though if it's too outlandish, I reserve the right to penalize after the fact. Intimidate, public speaking, some creative use of performance - something to repel, settle, or subdue this gathering crowd of beggers before they pull the buttons off your boots.

[farothel]

This country was depressing, that was all Bruno could say about it. He knew that the Empire had its share of problems and especially in locations like Sylvania things weren't good either, but something about this place made him on edge. When they were accosted by beggars, Bruno's hand went to his sword, before he relented and started to speak.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he said, "we're here to rid this land from its curse, or at least some of its curses. We're willing to pay for information, but only good information about such things as The Red Knight, The Black Knights of the Ducal Palace, the Flylord Sul Konarr and some undead lead by a vampire and ..."

He named a few other threats in this region to mask what exactly they are looking for, although a group like the Company will quickly be known to be present by their adversaries, no matter what they do.

Spoiler: OOC rolls

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I'll go with charm and as I have public speaking, I can use that skill on up to 67 people

charm: (1d100)[20] vs 66 (67 fel -10 challanging)

FP reroll if needed.
charm: (1d100)[73] vs 66 (67 fel -10 challanging)

[wilphe]

Wighard 13/13 4/5

“My son! My son is ill, very ill - he needs silver!”

Wighard's eyes pivot

I am a healer, show me.

Whilst examining the child in question in the corner of a shack, Wighard hears Bruno loudly declaim their intentions, as well as a bunch of other false leads

So much for a low profile

No one was gonna believe we were so misinformed as to come here for the waters. Stay high, don't want you ripped apart as a holy relic

Kwolf settles himself on the wall above the gate and keeps an eye out for an ambush or ambitious urchins with slings

The child turns out to have a cough, but has not yet developed consumption. Wighard digs out a few herbs to help clear the symptoms and steps out to address the closer part of the crowd

If our business is successfully concluded I will try to spend some time among you to provide relief and succour. However right now we have things to do

Spoiler: OOC

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(1d100)[89] Heal 81 FP to 24

[MrAbdiel]

Bruno's courtly talents do not fail him here, translated though they are to speak to a lower class. He was one of them himself, once (though perhaps never so low as this); and even the act of imposing a structure on the situation has a decisive effect. This is a forest of desperation in which every human composing it is tremendously in need of anything they can beg from travellers; but as soon as it seems like the travellers want something from them, especially with matters involving such frightful titles as those announced, the flow reverses. They drain away, almost none of them willing to get involved matters of knights, and lords, and vampires, and dead-men.

Even Wighard's good natured effort to attend the ill here is stymied by the implosive dishonesty and deprivation of these people - the woman crying for help for her ill son has a tent not so far away, and a son within it indeed. He is not ill, though he is malnourished; and Kwolf damningly observes the woman trying to gesture to her son behind Wighard's back to play along. The boy doesn't get it. He is enamoured by the tame giant wolf, and has no talent for the grift. At a guess, the mother is used to begging for silver and being fobbed off with copper, and that being enough. None of this is to say that there is no illness to treat here - the mass of humanity here is so poor and ill-treated that Wighard could pitch a tent in the with them outside the walls and spend the rest of his life battling waves of Wheezing Croop and Crawling Shingles and The Scampers roiling through the camp, not to mention treating the chronic sufferings of people so routinely afflicted with asymmetry that their spines are destined to strain and give grief. When poxes do come through here, they must shred such a slum most brutally. But in the short term, in this moment, there is nothing much Wighard can do to abate such a monument of human misery.

Back at the gate, as the beggars lose hope that they will be given money and gain fear they will be roped into something dangerous, they drain back to their hovels until only one remains. At first your eyes register him as a halfling, but he is no such thing. Halflings for all their plumpness are built to purpose; they are spry and comfortable in their stature, as quick on their toes as they might lack strength in arms. This man is shorter than a halfling, perhaps three feet tall on a good day; but with the proportions of a man compressed ill fittingly. Barrel chested, big headed, short of limb; he leans on his left side on a crutch made of a 'y' branch wrapped in fraying cord. But within the creases of his face, his eyes a big, brown and clear; and he manages a nervous smile to your band, showcasing that he has retained most of his teeth.

"Well, lords, ma'amselle; if you are going into the city herself, p'rhaps I can show you on your way. I've nought to say on such grim figures as you mention..." he says, the confession seemingly containing the sentiment 'not out here, anyway'. "...But I might show you about in the dock district, and perhaps there y'll find a man who knows more. Small Gaétan, I am. There have been no tolliers at the gate for two weeks, and for the first there were more making use of it." He wheels about and begins hobbling on his crutch toward the open gate, his badly diminished stride forcing you to walk slowly if you intent to take him at his offer. "Will you be lodging lavishly, or frugally?"

[wilphe]

Wighard lets the boy pet Schlapp for a few moments, then departs.

That was quick

This place needs an Emil, not me. I can't fix poor.

He looks over Small Gaétan, surveying him for any tinge in the winds that might indicate magic or mutation

Spoiler: OOC

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(1d100)[63] Magical Sense 87

Hail and well met, perhaps.

We're probably going to get attacked where ever, so might as well be somewhere comfortable.

And where any collateral damage is limited to those who might have it coming

[MrAbdiel]

Spoiler: Magical/Medical Sense for Wighard

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The study of mutation is adjacent to a direct study of the ruinous powers, and so is frowned upon. As and Gimgroth both note moments ago, witch hunters rarely approach these matters with enough precision. Mutants themselves do not exude the tainted chaos wind except when very recently mutated, leading to a fairly well accepted order of operations - chaos magic causes mutation. Mousillon is not a riot of chaotic energy, though it is... dour. The nature of the curse of this land is blamed on all kinds of malefactors and events, but it seems to predate the men that settled it. The grail companion, Landuin, was the patron of this realm before he fell to despair and spent his latter years in morose isolation. Whatever the base curse that has corrupted this land, it predates Bretonnia as a nation. Perhaps there is an elven archivist in far Ulthuan who knows something about the city Mousillon was, before they abandoned it to the orcs.

The important thing is that, while the land itself has a sort of background count of dhar, it is not directly mutative. Most of these people are deformed but their deformities are predictable spoilings of human standards. You see no hooves, tentacles, or clusters of extra eyes (though there are extra fingers here and there). That said, you can assume with a fair amount of authority that mutants would fit in with these people much more easily than others accustomed to normalcy. Where there are men, there are mutants. But they need not flee into the far and wild places if they can skulk in a fallen city full of unfortunates like this...

Small Gaétan himself, you are quite sure, is no mutant, nor magic user. He is a sufferer of a deformity you read about once - Kleinwelg's malady, in which a human child is born with compressed proportions leaving them no taller than a dwarf or halfling. Such children are so rare in the world they are almost theoretical - they must certainly be thought to be mutants, or else an indictment of a mother's unwholesome appetite for non-human men. Ironically, here in this most cursed and unlovely town, Small Gaétan lived where almost anywhere more fortunate in the world, he would have died.

"Comfortable, eh...? Well... p'raps, perhaps, we can find something like comfortable, and you look right to look after y'selves if I do say. Small Gaétan will show you surely, heh..."

The little fellow's nervousness drains rapidly away as you manifest to him as honest dealers - a like a dog used to beatings needs to sniff a hand before it wags its tail. He hobbles along on his crutch and huffs and puffs as he does, apparently used to hustling along so that the folk he guides are not overly frustrated by the delay short legs force.

"I shall show you to the best lodging in town - Ezekiah rents rooms next to the Fallen Heaven. You like arts? Comedy and music, and such? There are such things, and more unsavouriness, heh...Might I ask wherefrom you hail? Sigmarland, yes?"

He probes good naturedly about your group as he leads you through the gate into the Southgate distinct - a ruination of decrepit and collapsed buildings through which yet more desperate and destitute folk scamper and perch and boggle at you as you go. These ones seem brave enough to carve out shelter in the ruins of the city - or perhaps they are the ones who are not welcome in the shanty town. Ahead is a channel that splits off the Grismerie as it runs through the city, dividing the South Gate from the Bridge and Chapel districts. The Grismerie is foul in the best of places, but here it is utterly rank, and choked with rubbish, filth and corpses; the funk of it wafts up and invades your nostrils even as you approach the rickety looking bridge that crosses it. It is build from posts lashed and secured to skeletal and sunken buildings in the channel where the ground seems to have buckled and swallowed parts of the city here.

Spoiler: OOC: Perception!

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What a fine and wonderful time for a reaction post from everyone, and then a Perception test for no reason at all! You may fell your diminuative guide about where you are from if you like, though he can hardly force you.

[LarsWester]

Gimgroth matched strides with their diminutive guide. I'm sure this Ezekial will reward you with a few coins for bringing us to his rooms. But if we survive the night without trouble come find us in the morning and I'll add a handful of silver to whatever the proprietor provides you. Since you ask Gaétan, I hail from Tilea having recently served in one of the countless mercenary bands of that land.
As the group approaches the channel Gimgroth raises an arm to cover his nose from the stench. Gah! It's worse than a Troll's crotch.

Spoiler: OCC

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Perception - (1d100)[12] vs 58 4 D.O.S.

[farothel]

"Comfortable, for certain," Bruno agrees after getting rid of most of the other beggars. He really didn't want to know what 'basic' or 'roughing it' was in this area. While they moved behind their guide, he did keep an eye out for trouble, as you could never know here. He nodded at the question, but didn't go into any detail.

Spoiler: OOC rolls

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perception: (1d100)[36] vs 69

[wilphe]

Wighard 13/13 4/5

Wighard takes the opportunity to take a look at their guide, and possibly look at him a bit closer

Yes, most of us are from Sigmarland. That's where we all met. You were born here or you moved?

He drops his voice a bit softer

I am a student of medicine, I would be happy to pay for your time if you would consent to an examination. I get to see so few patients like you. It is entirely up to you of course

Wighard has noticed his senses becoming more acute over the time the Company has been together, especially after he was temporarily blinded. This is usually a boon, here, it isn't, but he attempts to avoid being over-whelmed and instead focus on specific smells and what they can tell him.

He isn't yet at the state where he can determine time and cause of death just by sniffing, but the time may not be far off


(1d100)[84] Perception 101

[MrAbdiel]

Small Gaétan puffs as he forces his diminished step to keep up with your party's ambling pace. He's leery of Schlapp - not surprising, as the juvenile giant wolf is a threat to him far beyond even what such beasts are to normal men. But with the wolf padding on the other side of Wighard, the little man is free engage with you all, giving his best efforts to be conversational though he is clearly not widely travelled enough to have much in the way of worldly experiences to share. He knows little of Sigmar, but is interested to hear about Sigmarland; he knows little of Bretonnia even beyond Mousillon, though the faces on the coins make it clear that there is a king, and the nation's legacy of knights and valor is tarnished but still known here. Of Tilea, he has a little more to say.

"Ah - Tilealand? I know some Tileamen from Tilealand. Many of the Sang'Argent gangfellows are Tileamen, under old Lanfranco, eheh. All tallfellows, though; not like us, ahah!" He reaches as if to rap his little fist on Gimgroth's shoulder, glancing back at Jasmine for some kind of solidarity between the short, but he bails short of contact and offers and apologetic, bashful smile as he gets to answering Wighard's question instead.

Spoiler: Gimgroth

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You've heard of Lanfranco. Sartosans are bloody parasites in the eyes of most Tileas, and Lanfranco is the name of a pirate who must by now be in his greying human years. He is know to you because he is one of those pirates who has self-validated sense of gallantry and romanticism about raiding and plundering, sufficiently that he and the crew of the Damoiselle Vert (a Bretonnian ship of war that Lanfranco's men seized in a daring night invasion by rowboat off the coast of Bilbali) were able to sell their services as a mercenary gang from time to time. This made them less odious than most pirates, but it did create the suspicion that however crafty he was, he was not vicious enough, or perhaps just not skilled enough, to make break open a fortune as a pirate. He his retirement took him to Mousillon, and not anywhere more pleasant in the world, the rumors may be right.

You were once on the same battlefield as Lanfranco, though you never had occasion to exchange words. (You can decide the circumstances of that battle, if you and Lanfranco's pirates were on the same side or opposing, and so forth. No rush for that memory; it may come up later!)

"Well, that's a story, my lordfellows; and both is true. My mother'll have me here, but she'll take me away to village Puanteure. She will die when I am still young, and I'm making a penny playing flute sometimes; but rogues come to Puanteure, and throw many of the children in bags, and scoop me up also. But when they'll let me out of the bag days after, I'll be on the docks in Mousillon and they are selling one and all to the Arabymen. But they'll look at me, and say, 'Ah, not this one, he is too small!' and they will throw me into the water. But as the gods will have, I'll land in a tangled mat of river weed, and instead of sinking, I'll be there until after the Arabymen ship will've sailed and a pair of ragged goodfellows pull me out of the water. They'll say, 'Small Gaétan, we save your life, you must learn to be a thief like us', and they will've taken pity on a boy and I'll say to do it. And three days later, they will pick a house to rob, and they will say "Small Gaétan, stay here on the street and if the master of the house is coming home, you holler and we shall flee." But as the gods will have, the master will be home already, and he will be the pit fighter Rolf the Wolf, and he will beat the lives out of them and dump them on the street corner, and give me a piece of silver to tell the cartfellows to come get them. And I'll have been here ever since!"

The anecdote is jarring, though you've heard it before in your travels in Bretonnia - a lower class quirk in the way past stories are told, the narrative future tense, which is just one more reason Imperials and Bretonnians find each other difficult to comprehend.

As for the medical examination, the little fellow nods along at Wighard's offer - the promise of paid work of almost any kind, however odd, is appealing to him; though he doesn't seem to understand why this is a paid service, and is afraid to blow his good fortune by questioning it.

As the companions approach the bridge and power of the smell invades your nostils, your attention is drawn to a spectacle being made by a mob to one side of the street. A man in rags is hauled out of a crumbling tenement, tied to a convenient post, and flogged by a a dozen men, women and children wielding an assortment of sticks, belts, and knotted ropes.

"More creeping things seen in the night, I think," Small Gaétan explains as he urges you to pass by and not interfere. "Some people think they are attracted to evil thoughts, so when they are seen creeping around a house, this happens... Poorfellow."

Spoiler: OOC: If you passed your Perception Check before...

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...Even these distractions are not enough for you to fail to notice, from the angle of your approach to the rickety crossing coming up, that there are wooden pegs and handholds along the wides and under the 'bridge'. Presumably, these are used to hide the numbers of criminals trying to waylay people crossing the bridge and strongarm them for money, permitting a superior number of opponents to quickly scramble up top and even the odds. You see only a pair of scruffy young toughs on the bridge right now anticipating your approach, but there are likely quite a few more under the bridge waiting for a signal.

Spoiler: OOC: Gimgroth, for succeeding quite so well:

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There's also something else - far on the other side of the bridge, in what is formally called the Bridge District where the dilapidation of the city as at its least terrible, there is a three story building with a pronounced sag to one side, causing it to slouch into its neighbour that in turn slouches to another. But in the window of the second floor of that building, you make out a humanoid figure shifting ever so slightly and watching the happenings on the other side of the river; and presumably watching those who cross.

[dojango]

Jasmine mostly ignores the crowd of beggars and hides behind Gimgroth to shelter from the worst of the press. After all, in her mask and cloak she might just pass for a child or servant herself, albeit one with a curious device slung over her shoulder and heavily laden with bags. She spends most of the trip trying to stay close to the others, but also trying to stay at least six feet away from the native which does not work out nearly as well as she'd hoped. She ignores the patter of their guide, instead preferring to look around her for the ambush that he is no doubt being paid to lead them into; after all she has not just fallen off the turnip cart yesterday.

[farothel]

As the approached the bridge, Bruno noticed the interesting features.
"Interesting bridge design," he said to the youngling guiding them, "it's the first time I see something like that. Engineering is a bit of a hobby of mine, I'll have to study that design in more detail. It's as they say, you're never too old to learn. And speaking about that, remind me when we're settled to tell you the story how we fought some chaos demons and a whole bunch of Skaven. It's quite interesting."

[MrAbdiel]

“Eh? Ah, strength at arms serve you well in this city,” he says with an a faint smile; seemingly reassured by the idea he as unwittingly hitched himself to a party of hearty warriors. “Strong arms carry silver and gold, where weak ones carry only wood and steel, they say. This crossing - it is a small crossing over this channel, the real river is yet much further ahead - this crossing the Sang will press for money. If you look weak, they might just rob you; but, eheh..”

He flaps a hand at Bruno in his plate and Gimgroth bristling with weapons particularly, as his reason to believe a simple bribe will suffice.

[wilphe]

And smart arms carry nitre and lead.

He looks at the others

So, ill advised takedown attempt, someone sending expendable minions to their death to try us out, or maybe a distraction?

[dojango]

"Or just local yokels with more hunger than sense," Jasmine pipes up. "Desperation can make a little guy fight a lion, after all."

[MrAbdiel]

Spoiler: OOC:

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I'm making the assumption this suspicious side-talk is taking place in Reikspiel so not to tip off your guide more than by Bruno's oblique warning.

Small Gaétan rubs his hands nervously together as your party nears the bridge. He looks to Wighard, his most forwardly conversational cliente, and pivots on his crutch to explain directly, and offers first a cringing little smile.

"What? No, nothing like this. They are Sang'Argent gangfellows, but gangfellows are everywhere in this town. Gangfellows run everything north of the channel; everything worth running is run by such gangs. You run with them, or you cope with them; this is all. Come, come.."

"These gangfellows, on the bridge... they will charge a toll. The well is on the other side, see? So it is good business for them. You are all very, ah..." He gestures loosely at your group; however battered and rough you look, you are all polished gems amidst Mousillon's filth. "Wealthy, so they may try a bigger toll. But not too much; the gangs run much of the town, so they only will rob you if you seem too poor to have money to spend, you see? They take your last coin, but not your second last. Not too much, I promise."

With this assurance, he tries to lead you to the channel crossing bridge, toward the gangland wardens manning it; a pair of bruisers almost comically well matched with sloped shoulders, one sloping right and the other sloping left. Ratty leather armor adorns them where blurry, incomprehensibly abstract tattoos are not on display on arms and legs; and soiled red kerchiefs hang around their necks pregnant with the symbolism of a uniform.

[LarsWester]

"If those Sang'Argent lads want a toll they are welcome to try and take it from me hands." Gimgroth says loudly in Tilean as he has his shield in his left hand and his hammer slung over his left shoulder but gripped in his right hand. "Only problem is me hands are rather full at the moment." These words in Tilean are said loudly enough that the two twin toll-takers can obviously hear what is being said and also anyone waiting in ambush under the bridge. More quietly the dwarf turns towards Small Gaetan. How is old Lanfranco? I was served with him on the same side in Tilea. Didn't have the honor to meet him on that occasion as he was a commander of his mercenary band while I was but a grunt in my own band at the time. But that was many years ago probably about twelve or thirteen years if I recall correctly.

Spoiler: OOC

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MrAbdiel your PM mailbox is full. Also thinking that maybe a Intimidate roll is in order here. Basically Gimgroth is trying to A intimidate the toll-takers to letting them cross without a toll failing that have them reduce the toll.
Intimidate - (1d100)[19] versus 66 not including any circumstantial bonuses or penalties.

[wilphe]

Wighard 13/13 4/5

"Or just local yokels with more hunger than sense,"

That's an interesting perspective, though there is an old Tilean proverb, "Dying ain't much of a living".

Wighard will hang back and let the people better at talking and violence handle this

[MrAbdiel]

"Lanfranco? Heh, grey hair old, all I can say. Maybe oldest man in town, but this is not to say much - this is Mousillon, after all."

Spoiler: OOC: Gimgroth

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I'll suspend that intimidate roll and honour it if you decide to proceed with that approach in a moment!

He takes a moment to process the first half of Gimgroth's words, pivoting on his heel to halt the (slow) movement of the group. Fear crumples his features, and the hand that doesn't brace his crutch waves back and forth in a gesture of submissive plea.

"You mean to fight these gangfellows? No no, please... Please, they will kill us! And if they do not, if you prevail, then they will kill me for bringing wrath on them. I must live in Mousillon, lords; I have little more than that life at all. Do not pull such a storm on poor, Small Gaétan's head..."

The thugs on the bridge are out of earshot, but they're close enough to see the group hesitating and deciding whether to take the crossing or not. They seem confident; unbothered by presentation of an armed group, in that habitual failure that ruffians perform to parse the posers from genuine fighters like yourselves.

"Ah, woe; if I had known you had war in your pockets, I might have known better than to get involved..."

"We intend to make war on much graver figures than gangs and common cretins, Small Gaétan," Bertelis finally weighs in with that labored tone suggesting it takes an uncommon effort to do so today, "if these men attack us, they will no walk away alive to accuse you. Still... Loath as I am to pay criminals rather than hang them, perhaps we do not need to purchase more trouble than we intend to find..."

Spoiler: OOC:

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That's the decision at hand - you can approach the bridge, intent to pay their toll or try to spook them away from trying to exact it. Your guide fears this will have repercussions for him in the longer term, but how credible those fears are, and how worthy they are of consideration, is up to you. Attempting to find another crossing of the southern channel is likely to be much less direct and possibly more ambigiously dangerous; but depending on how lucky you're feeling, how much worse than walking into a shakedown/ambush can it be?

[dojango]

Jasmine says, in Reikspiel, "They're just tollkeepers, master dwarf. Surely you've seen them in the Empire or in the dwarf holds? They presumably keep this bridge in..." she pauses. Repair seems like the wrong word, as does 'working order', 'safe', or 'functional'. "The way it is? And return we travelers pay a copper or three. Perhaps some of the money is used to fund the local lord's wine collection or his wife's dress collection, but what is that to us travelers? We simply pay the toll and move on. If they demand too much, then we find another way, or cross over on their bodies, but at least let them make their assessment."

[LarsWester]

Gimgroth frowns looking alternatively between the toll collectors and Jasmine. "The bridge looks like it could use repairs before someone gets hurt. If this fee is to prevent the injury of others crossing this perilous pass I could perhaps be convinced of parting with a few copper or even as much as a schilling to achieve such an end. If these be naught but disguised highwaymen and their fee be extravagant than they'll receive naught but a knocking on their noggin from me. Gimgroth slaps the head of his hammer with the last statement. He stands ready to hear the demand of these would be Toll-keepers perhaps highwaymen. "And as for you Small Gaetan if we cause any trouble for you, you are welcome to stay by our side as long as you deem it safer than the alternative."

Spoiler: OOC

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I'd like to apply the intimidate roll to reduce the charge these "toll-keepers" were thinking to extract to something in the silver/copper range rather than the Gold crown range.

[wilphe]

Wighard places a hand on Gimroth's shoulder

If you served with Lanfranco then perhaps maybe we shouldn't jeopardise that connection, perhaps we should speak to him

[farothel]

"Maybe I can give it a try," Bruno suggested, "dwarves have many qualities, but diplomacy is not always one of them, unless it's the axe-in-your-face kind."

He will approach the bridge, shield in hand, but sword not.
"Greetings, gentlemen," he said in his best Bretonnian, "I assume you are the wardens tasked with protecting and keeping in repair this bridge and we will have to pay a small toll for our crossing of your bridge. I'm sure we can come to some arrangement, so we can continue the quest we have been charged with."

Spoiler: OOC rolls

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charm: (1d100)[75] vs 87

FP reroll if needed: charm: (1d100)[80] vs 87