[WFRP] The Oldenhaller Contract
 

After what seems like months, your boat reaches Nuln. You are all frozen and soaked through. It is probably true to say that you all bitterly regret buying a cheap deck-class passage on an aging riverboat.

During the course of the journey you have got to know each other and become friends of a sort, united by the tedium and hardship of the voyage. It's a small miracle you've still got your lives, let alone your health; most of the goods and personal effects you brought along are long gone, thanks in roughly equal part to pirates and confiscation by overzealous riverwardens. You all have your own reasons for coming to Nuln, the cultural center of the Empire.

Bukowski, purportedly traveling for no other reason than to see the sights, and dragging along his recalcitrant friend Jelavic (who doesn't speak enough Reikspiel to order an ale).

Hargundsson, tasked to provide new and accurate maps of Nuln and the surrounding lands for the recently reclaimed dwarfhold of Karak Eight Peaks; though for all he knows, the hold has fallen to Chaos again while he sat miserable on this damned boat.

Tallowman, bored of peaceful life in the Moot and with no greater ambition than to get himself into trouble for the sake of a little excitement.

Tanglefoot, invited to be part of a presentation on Ostlander art at one of Nuln's fabulous galleries. Alas, the weather has destroyed his invitation, and what few sculptures the bandits didn't take were lost to the river when Jelavic's damned horse slipped its pen for the fifth time.

Last, there's Tenderheart: an emaciated giant of an elf, who speaks little of his plans and less of his past. He claims to have been a farmer before leaving to seek his fortunes in Nuln, but few farmers could afford the extravagance of Tenderheart's leather jerkin.

The pilot brings the boat alongside a jetty. Crewmen throw ropes to waiting stevedores, the ropes are lashed round massive wooden uprights and the boat is pulled onto the jetty with a slight bump. The gangplank is lowered, and timber cranes swing across the decks to unload the cargo. The customs formalities drag on and on, and it is nearly midnight by the time you are allowed ashore.

Regardless of the separate tasks that brought you here, for the night at least you are companions by circumstance if not necessarily by choice. Time to find beds, and then part ways in the morning (save Jelavic, who might as well be on Mannslieb — so poorly is he suited to city life on his own).

You try the inns along the Shantytown waterfront, but they are all full. Tired and groggy, you begin to despair of ever finding a bed for the night. Things seem to be looking up when you meet a man in the Blind Pig tavern who introduces himself as Grolsch Van Eyke. He speaks with a distinctive Wastelander accent, and seems to take pity on you when he hears that you are newly arrived in Nuln. He warns you that it is extremely unwise to be wandering about the city at this hour and says: "Giz'za couple of shillings and I'll get you a nice warm room somewhere dry and clean."

Seeing an opportunity to move up in the world after the wood nymph fiasco that drove him from the edges of the moot Bulkbelly commences to engage in this "big pimpin" he'd heard so much about.

How does one shilling and a night of beastly congress with the living scarecrow over yonder strike ye?


haggle

The grimy Wastelander raises an eyebrow and grins, openly leering at the elf.

"Yer, a'right. Nevva had me a twig before, but none like the present eh?"

It's highly unlikely that Tan will actually humor the human's advances when the time comes, but that's neither here nor there. Bulkbelly passes silver to the smirking human and Van Eyke dips into an exaggerated bow, gesturing grandly out the door onto the dark streets.

"Mmm. Call me jaded, but do make sure the warm dry place is an inn, and not a stable, hm? Spent the last too many nights huddled with with this lot of foul smelling belly swillers already."

Dazhyn wondered why the group couldn't just find a camping spot outside town. Cities made him feel claustrophobic. He was much more comfortable sleeping outside in a land he didn't know than inside a crowded city in a land he didn't know. Open fields under the stars were more his thing. Saying nothing, he followed the rest of the group to wherever they were going. Dazhyn wasn't taking charge of anything until he was out of this dreadful place.

It was a warm night and Yarogni would have been quite happy to spend the night tucked up in a barn somewhere. When you've endured a few winters on the border of Troll Country, the rest of the Empire seemed positively balmy in comparrison.

The Kislevite wasn't convinced that giving money to a stranger for any reason was a good idea, let alone merely on the promise of a warm bed but it hadn't been his money so he followed the crowd, mildly surprised to see the dwarf and elf heading off together and not having come to blows yet.

His holiday was not going well so far. He'd traipsed across half the Empire with his new friend Dazhyn in tow and not seen a single one of the legendary knights his father had told him about during those long evenings around the fire. From his father's tales of his time as a member of the retinue of the Yarl's, the knightly orders of the Empire were the most impressive examples of soldiery in the known world and it was those stories that had inspired this vacation. That and the silly business about the bargain bucket, mystery meat but it's not like anyone had actually died, there was no need for the rest of the townmen to get so angry.

Getting a similar bad vibe now to the one he had got the night he had to skip town in such a hurry, Yarogni loosened the tie round his club and hid it up his sleeve, just in case.

Grolsch leads you down dark, winding alleys and through streets littered with rotting vegetables and stinking debris. At last, he reaches a door. "Here we are", he says. Then, quick as a flash, he pulls the door open, leaps inside and throws the bolt behind him. Suddenly, you become aware that you're not alone. "Right", growls a voice from the shadows behind you. "Just drop your weapons and purses and walk away, and there won't be no trouble!"

You're in the intersection of three alleys, but the thugs have blocked off every one. You're trapped!

:savepoint: Hamit 48, Bulkbelly 48, Tanrindil 45, Yarogni 43, Dazhyn 41, Footpad (Green) 40, Footpad (Red) 37, Footpad (Yellow) 36, Footpad (Blue) 35, Kazanin 21

Clockwise from top right: Yarogni, Hamit, Kazanin, Tanrindil, Dazhyn; Bulkbelly in the center. Yes, the tokens are a bit of a rush job, deal with it.
Oh, and HEX MAP BOOYAH, also deal with that. A 4 in movement means you can move 4 hexes, etc.

DAGNABIT!! No elf for you!

Ready hatchet and take up a parrying stance.

Yarogni rolled his eyes. Bloody typical, the old here's a warm bed no actually it's an ambush routine and they'd walked right into it. Still, he'd been there when enough deals went bad to know how to handle himself in situations like this. Sliiping his club into his hand he took the initiative, charging towards the ruffian to the left, swinging as he went using his momentum to add weight to his strike.

Charge attack on Red Footpad.

Hit! 7 minus toughness bonus damage to footpad's head

See, this is why Dazhyn preferred plains over cities. No one can jump out and surprise you when you can see them coming three miles away. He pulled out his lasso and lobbed it at one of his opponents. Or at least tried. The rope hardly went more than a foot.

ready lasso, throw at south thug.
fail miserably. :(

Hamit had been nauseous and tired from the voyage, did not trust this city, and was now faced with this awful situation. Funny how the closer to civilization you get, the less civil things become. But since fate had decided to alter his plans up until now, he figured he would let it do so for one more night and gather his agenda the next day and move out.

"This might be the last time I make that mistake," Hamit thought. Hamit was not accustomed to this kind of situation. He was not a noble, but he was certainly not used to fraternizing with ill company. Hopefully the more country-bred brethren he was with could properly handle the situation.

Move against crates. Climp up into them if possible.

Tanrindil thought about it for a moment.

Foot pads? Foot people? Footpi? Foot....clan?

http://colonelskills.belkanairforce....red_symbol.jpg

SHIT.

Try to clamber up onto the house on the right. Use the crates if need be

Hamit clambers atop the nearest box without much trouble, preferring to leave the violence to the others if at all possible. Bulkbelly just mutters a mild oath, pulling the hatchet from his belt and waiting for the trouble to reach him. Tan clambers onto the crates as well, his long arms pulling him onto the nearest rooftop and out of harm's way.

Yarogni immediately goes on the attack, too surly and tired from his long trip to tolerate any nonsense. He rushes the hoodlum on his left, his trusty club smacking into the thug's skull with a wet thump. That should put a scare into them.

3 wounds lost by Red Footpad

Dazhyn was not at home in the city, but in his experience there was always one good way of dealing with unruly animals. Alas, his lasso falls short by yards — it's hard to judge distances in this urban maze!

The thugs to the north approach carefully — the halfling was ready for trouble, and the two climbing the crates were clearly up to something. Their swings go wide, and Dazhyn smells the stink of cheap liquor on them. Maybe they were emboldened more by liquid courage than any actual competence. The footpad to the west reflexively turns on Yarogni, attempting to repay the Kislevite's assault. With his head still ringing his overhead smash is far off the mark, nearly overbalancing him.

The last thug charges up the alley, hurtling toward Kazanin before the dwarf could even free the hammer from his belt. The footpad's cudgel collides painfully with Kaz's left arm.

Charge attack (+10 to WS): Hit! 1d10 (4) +SB 4 - armor (none) - Kaz's TB (4) - 4 damage to Kaz.

You guys don't need enemy AC anymore, but this may be useful:

Footpads: TB 3. Wearing leather jack: Body armor 1, Arms armor 1.

:savepoint: Kazanin 21, Hamit 48, Bulkbelly 48, Tanrindil 45, Yarogni 43, Dazhyn 41, Footpad (Green) 40, Footpad (Red) 37, Footpad (Yellow) 36, Footpad (Blue) 35

"I WILL NOT DIE NEXT TO AN ELF!"

It wasn't much of a battle cry, but it would have to do. My moment of heroics was delayed, however, as I saw the creature charge at me, his cudgel slamming into my arm. I grunted my dissatisfaction with his choice of targets. Locking eyes with him I very carefully removed my weapon, and lowered my shoulder, as if to strike at him. I grinned as he flinched away. I may be a cartographer, but I can map enemies as well as shore lines. I was going to smash his chest in. Or maybe his face. The point was smashing followed by gloating. And maybe throwing blood on an elf. They were dainty, and hated when you did that.

Draw weapon and feint.

Hamit felt consoled a bit that his fellow halfling was just as apprehensive about engaging any of the ugly fellows. He also wondered if the dwarf should worry more about being killed by the thugs or by the elf. He shrugged.

Break off some wood and throw it at closest dude.

Tanrindil was having none of this bullshit. Cowardly box man has absolutely no male genitalia to speak of. Who throws wood. Honestly.

Not Tanrindil. No sir. He's a man of the people.

YouTube Video

Standing jumping people's elbow onto blue foot asshole.

These boys are about to learn why you don't stand with your nuts at face level to a pissed off halfling with a hatchet.

Say goodbye to your bollocks boys.


all out attack on green footpad

Dropping the profusely unhelpful length of rope at his feet, Dazhyn pulls the string on his shoulder, reaches behind him, and lets his hatchet fall into his hand. He wasn't exactly a seasoned warrior, but he was grateful for all of those lessons his grandfather had given him. He took a swing at the thug in front of him. The attack gets by the thug's guard but only just - Dazhyn's hatchet simply bounces off his foe's armor.

drop lasso, ready hand axe. attack connects, but no wounds are sustained.

The sudden ferocity of the Kislevite's attack had clearly surprised the footpad but Yarogni knew that uncontrolled agression was not the way to win streetfights, not without picking up a few cuts and bruises anyway and he was not about to start this leg of his holiday resting up from a serious injury. Adopting a more defensive posture, he swung at his assailant again.

Attack footpad, adopt parrying stance
Hit to the head, 4 more wounds

Kaz draws his hammer and feints to the left; the filthy human recoils, fooled by his ruse. Behind him, he hears odd splintering sounds. What's that halfling doing?!

Hamit snaps off chunks of the damp, rotting crate and pelts the footpad with the decaying wood. Inside the box was a stack of mildewed fabric bolts. The rain of splinters doesn't seem to do much other than annoy the human; Hamit had hoped to at least get some in the bastard's eyes.

Bulkbelly's hatchet goes scything through the thug's codpiece, but the man doesn't shout in pain. Odd. Maybe this one's not carrying a full set of marbles. Bulk had expected to meet a little more resistance, and now his swing had left him off-balance.

Tan leaps from the rooftop, intent on introducing the flying elbow drop to the uneducated populace of Nuln. Alas, he misjudges the distance: Tan misses the man entirely, sprawling awkwardly onto the cobblestone below.

Tan knocked down; until he stands, his attacks are at -10 and attacks against him are at +10.

Yarogni gives the ruffian another bash in the head and the thug reels, blood streaming down his face. Another solid hit would probably take this one out of the fight. A good thing, too; it seemed Yarogni's companions could scarcely hit anything smaller than a house. Typical Imperials.

Daz's hasty axe swing just bounces off the footpad's leather-clad shoulder — but the bounce carries it upward through the footpad's ear, slicing a jagged line through the soft flesh. The thug yowls in pain as his earlobe goes rolling into the dirt. Not precisely the kind of strike that people tell stories about, but a wound was a wound.

Hit location is the reverse of your attack roll, so 12: you hit him in the head for one wound.

The footpad's free hand darts to his ruined ear, and his fingers come back bloody. "You rotten —", he snarls, smashing his cudgel into Dazhyn's left knee. Nothing feels broken, but it still hurts like hell.

3 damage to Daz (left leg)

"I'm not havin' my taxes paid over this, bear-botherer." The thug Yarogni had given a beating to withdraws cautiously, clutching his temple. "Keep my share of the grab, boys. I'll be having... a lie down. Ugh."

Red footpad disengages and flees

"You runty little — that was brand new, I'll have you know." The footpad's club whistles over Bulkbelly's head. Bulk smirks, only to find himself lifted off his feet when the footpad's boot thumps into his chest. He stumbles backward, narrowly avoiding a collision with the dwarf (who clearly has his own troubles).

Yellow footpad wins opposed test to manoeuvre, pushing Bulkbelly 1 hex southwest.

The thug assaulting Kaz glances over in surprise as the elf slams into the cobblestone at his feet. Never know what's goin' on in a leafer's head, but an opening is an opening. His cudgel smashes into the back of Tanrindil's skull, and the elf responds with an agonized screech. Damn it all, there's nothing more annoying to listen to than an elf with a grievance. The dwarf was all but forgotten for the moment — somebody has to stop that awful noise.

Ouch. 9 damage to Tanrindil (head)

:savepoint: Kazanin 21, Hamit 48, Bulkbelly 48, Tanrindil 45 (Knocked Down), Yarogni 43, Dazhyn 41, Footpad (Green) 40, Footpad (Yellow) 36, Footpad (Blue) 35

Hamit looked at the elf, blood oozing from his pointed ears like morning dew from a tobacco leaf. He definitely wouldn't be following his lead. Also, he could use a smoke.

Well, as mother always said about the bullies when he was a child, "Ye may as well just run away, Hamit. Theer bigger dan ye. No sense in hurtin' yeself."

What a cunty old rag.

Throw some more wood, for goodness sake!

His opponent defeated, Yarogni cast a string of Kislevite curses towards the fleeing footpad before turning to watch the triumph of his companions.

To say he was disappointed was an understatement. Clearly none of these soft Westerners had ever had to fight their way out of a tavern full of angry villagers when they found out exactly what the surprise was in a rat sausage surprise!

He was of half a mind to just slope off and find a bed but despite his history of dubious business deals, the Kislevite had a sense of honour of sorts. Having seen enough wolf packs hunting bison on the Steppes, Yarogni knew the trick was to take out the weakest one first. Raising his club, he launched himself at the nearest foe who appeared to be weakened already by the ineffectual flailing of his companions.

Charge Green, unless I'm too close in which case move and attack
Hit to the head (Again). 9 Wounds

Dazhyn's knee throbbed with pain. Drawing his dagger from its sheath on his leg for something to protect himself with, he took another swing at his opponent.

Draw dagger in off-hand to get one free parry attempt per round. Attack same target with hand axe again (assuming he's not already dead)

6 wounds to the arm (i think)

This time the axe slices into the thug's arm like it's supposed to. Dazhyn allows himself a tiny grin. He usually preferred to give other people drinks, not pain, death, and disfigurement. But hey, this guy had started it.

The elf bit cobblestone roughly as he jumped. I allowed myself a light smirk as he almost got his head caved in by the ground and then again by the thug. Sure, I enjoyed the suffering of a pointy-eared dandelion eater, but I also enjoyed crushing the bones of hapless thugs with my hammer. So as I ducked my head to disguise the angle of attack, I swung out with my weapon, looking to maul the poor bastard.

All Out attack on the jerk off who hit me with the feint bonus

After stumbling back Bulkbelly whirls around to find another thug directly in front of him.

Mayhaps your packing more than friend there?

full attack to blue thug


Truly he was already beginning to regret running afoul of the empty codpiece gang.

Tan sort of flops around a bit. He's curious, where did his people's sunglasses go?

He must remember to look for them later.

Getting up is for suckers, though. He's got this asshole right where he wants him.

Do the Curly Shuffle and kick at blue as spinning around

YouTube Video

Kaz swings brutally at the footpad's lower torso — and gets nothing but air.

"Haw!", the bastard sneers. "The mark en't lived what figured out the cunnin' secret of the Empty Codpiece Gang!"

"Damn it all, Heinz", a voice behind Kaz mutters. "Doc Witzenberg's rusty shears are not a cunnin' secret! 'sides, I just tuck — stop throwing things at me, you horrid little knob! God, they're everywhere! Like big angry ants!"

Tan spins in a little circle, absolutely kicking the shit out of the angry giant that had suddenly loomed up next to him. Sadly, the kicking does nothing to drive the giant away. It may be time to escalate the fight to ankle-biting, or perhaps the ol' hot foot. Ah, but where are his matches?

The Kislevites continue cleaning house while the native Imperials trip over their own feet. Yarogni dashes back into the melee, having driven off his original quarry; the dent he puts in this next man's skull probably would've killed him, if Daz hadn't done the job proper only a second later. It was a clean wound, as dismemberment goes; first he's got two arms, then he's only got the one. None of that messy dangling sinew business. His buddy beside him gets all saucer-eyed and shaky.

"Heinz, I, I, I reckon we, uh... him who fights and runs away, er..." He turns tail and runs, fleeing into the alleys with the dead man's blood all down his tunic. The last of them curses, makes a quick guess at his chances, and does likewise.

The Empty Codpiece gang made a severe miscalculation when selecting marks this night. The six visitors to Nuln survive mostly intact, though the elf's head is significantly more purple and lumpy than you really expect from a head. Best not to hang around long, especially with that body lying in the street. Hopefully the elf can move under his own power. Ouch.

Let's say, oh, 10 XP for each of you.

Yarogni spat in the general direction of the fleeing footpads and uttered another string of curses in his native tongue, primarily aimed at the useless bunch of Imperials the gods had decided to grant him as allies in this little scuffle.

Never one to look a gift horse in the mouth, he quickly rifled through the dead footpad's belongings, hoping primarily to find enough cash to buy a few drinks to keep him entertained until it got light. Once the corpse was picked clean of all but his clothes the surly butcher headed back the way they had come to the inn, muttering to his kinsmen as he went in Kislevite.

Brother, what say we leave these idiots to their doom and go find a couple of cold drinks and hot wenches for the night, eh?

He turned his head and spoke loud enough for the whole group to hear in broken Imperial.

Me and my frund here, we go drunk now. Drunking is for real man only but if you ladies liek come vith us, you maybe learn about how real men act, no?

He stowed his club and tramped off back to the pub.

Fuck this.

Tan takes the clothes, leaving the corpse dead with it's junk flapping in the breeze.

No one maintains their modesty for long around here. And this dead asshole isn't going to start.

Otherwise yeah, Tan is totally down for bar hopping with his corpse robber pal. Fuck standards. It's time to get liquored.

Dazhyn leaned against a nearby wall and started cleaning the blood off of his axe. He didn't want to be stuck chopping firewood with a rusted out hatchet when he finally got out of this lousy city. Dazh always took good care of his stuff, and it took good care of him. He'd had this axe for twenty years already - and it still worked like it was new.

Dazh didn't much feel in the mood drinking himself silly, especially considering the incident he'd just survived. But seeing as his translator had just walked off into the night, he grudgingly followed along, picking up his lasso before following Yarogni to wherever it was they were going.

Hamit carefully descends the stack of crates.

"None of ye interested in bothering that bugger for your coin back, eh?"

Hamit wasn't one for confrontations, but a little fore never bothered him. He picked up the footpad's loose arm and used it to point towards the door the old man man bolted shut.

"I mean, it may buy us some better drink that Mockenheimer Light."

Intent on recouping all losses, Hamit pursues the original troublemaker into the tumbledown shack he'd hidden himself away in. An open window in the back tells the tale: their erstwhile help had fled even as the fighting started.

The group leaves the naked man's dismembered corpse lying in the street, meandering their way through the back-alleys while they discuss the distribution of this most paltry loot. He hadn't any coin on him, but then bringing one's own purse to a robbery is poor form; the whole point was to get yourself a nice new purse.

Poor Quality Clothing, Poor Quality Leather Jack, Cudgel (Hand Weapon), Knuckle-dusters, Hooded Cloak

They wander for nearly, finding everything closed at this late hour and getting quite lost in the dark back streets of Nuln. At long last Bulkbelly spots a dim light glowing behind a greasy window.A three-story wooden building looms at the end of a dead-end lane; the shingle over the door reads "The Reaver's Return". There's no sound from inside, but worst comes to worst a man can fix his own drink.

Yarogni tries the door, relieved at the chance to finally get off his feet. It won't budge.

Yarogni was getting annoyed now. He was tired and hungry, had been attacked, was being followed around by a bunch of useless Imperials, had found nothing more useful than a leather jack on the corpse of the footpad (Which he had put on, a gruff stare daring any of the others to object. He had slipped the brass knuckles into his pocket too, discarding the rest of the dead man's gear for anyone who wanted it) and now could not even get a drink. The Kislevite was starting to hate this city already, what kind of place has no bars open through the night?

He took out a measure of his frustration on the door, rapping heavily and repeatedly on it with his club whilst enquiry loudly in his mother tongue as to the exact parentage of the innkeeper who had lights on and a locked door when there were thirsty men about.

Bulkbelly examines the building to see if there are any alternate entrances or a window that isn't too smudged to see through.

After a minute or two of rapping on the door and angry shouting, Yarogni's just about to give up. Daz still has most of a skin of kvas with him, and while drinking in the street is pointedly undignified it's may be a prerequisite to sleeping in the street. He gives the battered door one last angry pound with this club, surprised as anyone when the rotting wood finally gives way; the entire door pulls away from its hinges and falls into the tavern beyond.

The interior of the Reaver's Return is a sorry sight; a dozen or so ragged old drunks lay sprawled either over wobbly tables or directly on the floor, all of them deep asleep. A white-haired and wrinkled fellow with a badly stained apron stands angrily at the foot of the stairs, glowering at the Kislevite.

"You'll have to pay for that, you know", snarls the innkeeper. "Six crowns, I warrant."

At about the same time Bulkbelly accidentally smashes though the brittle, filthy glass of the window while trying to scrub a spot large enough to see through. Narrowly avoiding landing directly on a ratcatcher's sleeping dog, he tumbles to his feet and promptly makes a point of acting innocent.

I pay for your door? I pay for door when you pay for being closed at reasonable drinking hour. Now me and my friend we drink! These ladies probably have milk from cow or something.

The surly butcher laughed deeply at his own joke and plonked himself down on a stool at the bar, pulling one up for Dazhyn and staring pointedly at the barman.

Dazhyn rolled his eyes. Typical. He didn't know enough of the local language to accomplish much, but he had heard their word for "money" enough times in the angry exchange between his companion and the proprietor to know that he was going to have to either pay the man or chop off another arm before the night was over. The things one does for an old friend.

For now, though, Daz simply took the stool his friend had offered him and rested his feet. He amused himself people-watching, since there's not a lot else to do in a bar full of people you're incapable of communicating with.

"You'll pay now, and —"

The innkeeper stops midsentence, frowning as Yarogni pays no attention to his demands and settles his beefy, blood-spattered form down at the bar. He glances around at his regulars; dead to the world, the lot of them. "...right. Drinks on the house it is, then, for your inconvenience." Shortly thereafter, Yarogni and Dazhyn are eyeing two mugs of warm, watery beer with a degree of skepticism.

The dwarf followed at a reasonable distance from the two. He couldn't help his instincts of mapping out their path mentally as they traveled. He didn't pay a lot of attention to the bravado of the beefy leader of the pair. He'd seen his ilk many times. Walked into a forest with dreams of grandeur and heroism and got lost ten minutes in, only to be eaten by whatever local animals decided he smelled of tasty flesh. As he stepped through the now shattered door, he simply said "Ale" as he passed the bar keep and sat down a respectful distance from the loud ass and his quiet boyfriend. So far he'd gotten to almost smash in a criminal's chest and survived to drink a beer. Good first day here.

Hamit didn't want any more of the trouble this group was bound to bring...but there was no other options for the night. He sat at the first table he found that wasn't being slobbered on by a drunken corpse for the time being and motioned for the other halfling to join him.

He would prefer a warm glass of his cousin's superb cherry meade at the moment, but he was going to guess this wasn't that kind of an establishment.
He didn't order anything. He just plopped his coin on the table and hoped that the innkeeper would have enough tact to not poison him since he bothered to pay for his drink. He would ask the innkeeper about room and board once he brought it.

Question innkeeper about getting situated for the night. Also, observe the room.

Stepping through the door, Tan glances left and right as his eyes start to adjust to the new room.

He starts to count how many folks he can see and estimate how many of them seem to know how to handle themselves.

Y'know. Should something unfortunate happen.

Yarogni was glad the innkeeper had seen sense. One pointless fight a night was more than enough for him and who knew what kind of protection rackets were in place round here to quash any attempts to beat up barmen. A link to the local criminal fraternity was useful in any town but ideally nto when they were brandishing weapons and pissed off.

Since he felt he was building a raport with the innkeeper, the Kislevite questioned him further.

Nice place you have here, although bit draughty no?

Another unpleasant belly laugh.

So what can man do round here for entertainment? Maybe make a little coin too ya?

Turning to his companion he explained the situation.

Eh, we need some money right and this joker might know of someone looking to hire some help. I say we get good and drunk, leave the Imperial ladies to guard our gear and have a good sleep then tomorrow see about scrabbling together enough cash for a proper room. This lot look and act like milksops but they might come in handy, we should try to keep them sweet.

Dazhyn listened to his friend's description of the situation.

I'll not be leaving my things in the care of anyone else, thank you. Last time i let you borrow my dagger you decided to try cutting through the steel belt on the keg to open it instead of just stabbing a hole in the top like you're supposed to. It took me four hours with a whetstone to get the thing back to the point where it would cut an apple again. No way i'm letting this lot get hold of my things.

Whatever this job is, it had better involve getting out of this city. I can't stand not being able to see the stars. It's disorienting.

For someone who had spent so long looking to the stars for guidance, Dazhyn didn't trust their powers of prediction nearly as much as one might expect. He eyed the ale in front of him, then pushed it back towards the barkeep with an apologetic smile and a shake of his head. He wouldn't be drinking tonight. He only drank on special occasions, and even then not much. When you had friends like his, getting drunk was a very bad plan.

The innkeep gets surlier and surlier as the rest of the group files in; it was one thing to let an angry Kislevite have his way once in a while, and quite another thing when he brought the circus with him. At least one of the runts was paying his way. He fetched the beers for that one and the dwarf both, scooping up the gold crown the halfling had left on the table. That'll cover everything nicely, save the property damage; well, one of the regulars can be told he's to blame in the morning.

"Rooms? Well, the common room is full booked, once this lot drags their sorry hides over next to the fire. I've got something upstairs, though."

Curious, Hamit follows the innkeep up to the third floor — the attic, really — to observe conditions. The stairs creak even under Hamit's relatively minimal weight.

"Watch your head, man. Ceiling's a little low in... ha, nevermind that."

The attic is a dingy place; a dozen worn-out cots are strewn haphazard across the floor. Hamit notices bolts on both the window and the door; the window's been left unlocked.

"Window looks out directly on the canal. Lovely view, innit?"

The windows are too grimy to see a damned thing, but Hamit can certainly smell the canal.

Tan staggers in through the open doorway as cautiously as he can, taking a quick survey of the other patrons. All except the new arrivals and the innkeep were unconscious (either at their respective tables, or sprawled out next to the fire in the adjacent common room). Most of them looked little better than peasants; not individually dangerous, but there looked to be 15 or 16 of them all told and Tan spotted at least a few knives tucked into the occasional boot or belt. Best not to make too many waves, perhaps.

Hamit and the innkeep wend their way back downstairs, and Yarogni immediately pulls the old man aside again.

"Entertainment?" The innkeep laughs, his stale breath wafting unpleasantly into Yarogni's face. "Not been in Nuln a full day, and you're already bored. I wouldn't go wandering in the dark any more tonight if I were you, but I'm sure you can find something to do come morning. Nuln has more than its share of entertainment — just throw a rock and you're like as not to hit a brothel or a gambling den. Or both, often enough. Theatre, too, if you're an upright sort. And that's all without leaving the Neuestadt.

If you're looking for work, they're often hiring day labor down the Reiksplatz. Just head down the Drogstrasse 3 or 4 blocks; you'll know you're there when you can stretch both your arms out without putting them through a wall."

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Yarogni settled in for a hard night of drinking. Once he'd finished his own drink and his friend's, he motioned for the barman to pour another, jabbing a thumb at the smaller halfling and grumbling something about putting it on his tab.

Seeing that his companion was once again in no mood for drinking, he handed over his meagre posessions to Dazhyn's safe keeping just in case he passed out where he sat, which was after all his intention.

After a drink or two (or in some cases, none), most of the group trudges upstairs to the filthy attic room to sleep off the aches of the day - dropping off dead asleep and paying no heed to the open bolt on the window. Yarogni remains rooted in place at the bar, downing an astonishing 17 pints of beer before promptly vomiting most of it up in an impressive puddle. That he then passes out in this same puddle is less impressive. Even unconscious, the big Kislevite was unlikely to be interfered with and his few valuables were upstairs and safe. Well, relatively safe...

As they slumber away, a form quietly steals through the window. Perhaps that bolt was there for a reason. One by one, the burglar plucks the purses from their belts — though he is nearly interrupted as Dazhyn suddenly turns over in his sleep. With literally every penny the six had between them in tow, the thief sneaks back out the window — or tries to. Chuckling to himself over his score, he carelessly barks his shin on the corner of Hargundsson's cot. The jostling shakes a drowsy Kazanin to wakefulness, and he spots a dark figure creeping past his bed: a figure too tall to be either of the halflings, and too short to the drover or that gangly elf.

Jostled to a waking, the dwarf sat bolt upright, spluttering:
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"HOW'S MY HAIR?"

Shaking the cobwebs from his head, his wits suddenly coming back to him he pointed a finger and let fly the famous warning call of his people:

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Waaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!!

In mid cry, he grabbed the blanket from atop him and launched himself at this interloper, seeking to dive on top of him and wrap him in the thing like a net until the other, what's a nice word for "these retards I just met", he wondered.... sure, fellas. Until the other fellas could leap in and offer their aid. Most of them might be helpful, and gods willing, the elf might die.

Kazanin leaps from his cot like a man possessed, lunging at the intruder with his filthy blanket and bearing him to the floor. Within moments the burglar, caught utterly by surprise by the shrieking dwarf, is bound up tight. He tries desperately to wriggle his way free, but Kaz's strength (and his indignant fury) are too much for him.

After one last ferocious struggle, the burglar goes limp, breathing heavily. "Porca putanna, I surrender. You can have your money, just let me to go." His Tilean accent is heavy, and he mutters quietly to himself: "Cazzo merda. Mi sembra di essere in difficoltà tremenda con il mio stile di vita."

Kaz's Tilean isn't perfect, but it sounds like this isn't the first time this fellow's had a heist go south on him. The rest of the group drowsily stumble out of bed, watching the dwarf wrestle with his own blanket. Dwarves sure could be a sad people, sometimes.

Yarogni was roused from his drunken stupor by the sounds of conflict from above. He attempted to leap to his feet, only to fall flat on his backside, slipping in the large pool of vomit someone had left congealing around him. Deciding standing up was a mission too far, he crawled over to the stairs before beginning the arduous and frankly, in his state of inebriation, rather dangerous task of climbing them to the room above. It wasn't that he cared about the wellbeing of his new companions, in fact after consuming half his body weight in ale he could not have recalled their name if the Grand Theogonist himself was torturing the information out him. No, what Yarogni cared about was his money and his club. The money he needed for without it, how could he hope to build a new "trade" empire here in the West and the club had seen him through more business deals gone bad than his mother had eaten luke-warm meals.

Daz is not happy. He does not appreciate being woken up. His tired brain puts things together enough for him to take all of the money pouches from the thief (his included, if the thief was dumb enough to bring his own cash with him). He then picks the man up by the back of his clothing and lets him go. Out the way he came in. Daz then closes the latch, figures out which pouch of money is his, takes it, goes back to the cot, and lies back down without a word. He hears someone crawling up the steps and shouts -

Yarogni, that had better be you coming to tell me we're getting out of this hole. I've had about enough of this "big exciting city" of yours to last me a lifetime.

Yarogni hears shouting from above him and quickens his pace, slamming the full weight of his drunken body against the door in front of him, uttering a bestial roar as he fell through it.

Tan is not so amused. He thinks he's covered in begbugs. What a nasty place to sleep.

To keep himself at least somewhat satiated, he pockets the....pillow. Yeah. That's it.

Who knows? It could come in handy.

The matter of the burglar resolved without any further injury, the rest of the night passes uneventfully (though Tan's sleep is even less comfortable for the lack of a pillow — in retrospect he might have smuggled it away in the morning instead).

The dawn finds the travelers not much refreshed, but it had been better than sleeping in a gutter. Barely.

Dazhyn and Kazanin recover 1 wound. Tanrindil is Heavily Wounded; without medical attention it will take him a week to begin healing naturally.

Yarogni awoke, as he had so many times before, on the floor of a strange room. The remains of a door were scattered around him and the side of his face had stuck to the matting on the floor. Staggering to his feet he tried to reconcile the events of the previous evening.

There had been a fight, that much was certain although he was sure he recalled a halfling trying to bodyslam someone, that much have been the grog. There had been some drinking too, there often was.

Kicking Dazhyn awake, the burly butcher retrieved his belongings and stumped down the stairs to see what kind of fleapit they had lodged in and see what kind of ale was being served for breakfast.

Dazhyn is rudely awakened for the second time in less than 8 hours. He gets up, and is about to grab Yarogni when his vision clears enough to recognize his companion. Instead Dazhyn settles for packing his things and going outside after paying for his night. Since he wasn't going to be much help in figuring out the plan, Dazhyn instead busies himself with taking care of his horse and dog (which of course he has been doing since he arrived in town and yes i did just realize now that i had a horse)

Irritable and smelly, the Kislevites tumble downstairs. Yarogni makes a limited attempt to brush the dried vomit off his shirt. Breakfast is small beer and a foul-smelling pottage of cabbage and beans, simultaneously somewhat repulsive but also served in infuriatingly small portions. The Reaver's Return has no fodder for Dazhyn's animals, but even if he weren't quite so hungry he'd be hesitant to foist this gruel on such innocent creatures. Lucky thing some enterprising hoodlum hadn't come upon them tied to their fenceposts in the night, really. Dog's not the best eating, but some people get desperate.

The others groaningly descend from the attic some time later, with the elf somehow looking worse off than he had before bed.

Do you guys need more railroading, because I can do that. If the open-sandbox thing isn't working for you just let me know.

I stretched my arms above my head as I wandered downstairs. I felt refreshed from a good night's rest and an even better night's thief catching. I'd set out to map the world and find adventure, and I'd found the latter on my first night. Good for me. Twice, actually. Gooder for me.

I scanned the room over breakfast looking for anyone wearing a guild badge, or generally looking like they might be willing to trade some information on where to find a job that would allow me to follow my young cartographer's heart. Or at least something that would keep me from sleeping in the alleys. Either or. Or both. Whichever.

"Oi, innkeep." I called. "You'd best check your locks. I caught a fly buzzing around my coinpurse last night." And with that I settled in for breakfast and hopefully a job offer. I decided to help that last bit along: "Seasoned adventuring group looking for decent paying work. Anyone know where to start in this town?"

Yarogni finished his breakfast with a derisive snort. While he had been eating, the rest of the tourists had made it downstairs. In the clod light of day they were as sorry a bunch as they had been the previous evening, a couple of them looking a worse than he did, which after the keg he'd drained the previous evening was something of an achievement.

The butcher was tempted to spend the day sitting and getting drunk but this was his first full day in a new, big city and before he could get to drinking, he needed a source of income and that would mean he'd need a group of vaguely like-minded individuals in order to muscle his way into whatever rackets were to be had round here. Sure he could have looked for honest work but that had never been his way and dishonesty was far, far more lucrative.

Eyeing up the travellers, the Kislevite made a snap decision.

Hey, Dazyhn, these guys look pretty wet behind the ears but they could come in handy. We're new in this town and we're going to need some muscle if we're going to get any sort of foothold here. What say you we make this gathering a little more of a formal affair, hit the streets and try to make contact with some of the local businessmen, beat them down a peg and set ourselves up here? We take this lot out for a walk and it won't be long before we meet a pickpocket or two and where there's pickpockets, there's the kind of businessmen we want to meet.

He turned to the assortment of travellers.

Comrades, comrades! Dazhyn here, we had a talk and we decide that in new town, new people best to stick together da? We find much good work as team no? You want we go out and see what the city hold? The city like some big lady bits, all it wait for is some sexing no?

Yarogni laughed raucously at his own joke before heading towards the remains of the Inn door, assuming the others would follow him. His plan was simply to wander the streets and wait for trouble to find him, from experience, he knew it wouldn't take long.

Dazhyn can see where his friend is going, and while unimpressed at the lack of open country involved, he'll go along with any plan at this point which gets his legs moving. He does, however, make a suggestion to his friend.

We might want to get the elf's head looked at before we go looking for more trouble. It wouldn't really be a good start to your little empire to lose a man because he trips on a loose rock. I'll be outside with Sasha and Hrim.

Dazhyn walked around the door, still on the floor from the previous night, and gave Sasha a good long scratch behind her ears. She looked about as comfortable in this city as he felt, her usually sharp senses confused and overloaded by all of the sounds and scents around her. Hrim seemed less affected by the city than his furry counterpart, but Daz could tell he was restless too. Hopefully they would find an inn near a city gate tonight, so Daz could take Hrim for a run.

"My locks? My locks? You rotten whoresons didn't leave me with a door to lock, you..."

The innkeep's angry tirade is cut short as the intimidating butcher snorts contemptuously, and he resigns himself to keeping his temper until these dangerous tourists were out of sight.

"If you're talking about the locks in your room, they'd be your own responsibility. I can't be goin' room to room making sure all the stunties and runties have the good sense to latch their windows; I've a business to run here.

As for work, well, like I told your puke-soaked friend last night: there's always a place for idle hands down the Reiks Platz. Maybe you can find yourself a day's work in carpentry, get some sawdust for the champion drinker there. Or else sign on as a sewer jack, where they won't notice the smell."

Breakfast finished, the Kislevites go outside and take in some fresh... well, air, anyway. Nuln was an awfully big town. A fella could get lost in a place like this. If only they had some kind of absurdly large annotated map detailing every important location in the city!

But, of course, they had no such thing; the dwarf might be working to correct that as time went on. For now they'd have to get by on rumors and the unreliable directions of passersby.

Hamit wanders outside after the measly and disappointing breakfast. The mutts...what good they did. Aren't animals supposed to ward off trouble? Maybe they could be sold for some coin.

With some compassion, but only because he was in a similar situation as the others, Hamit suggests the group accompany him to the gallery where he was to present his sculptures. He would likely be turned away due to lacking his invitation, but perhaps they could steer the other poor fellows into some work and provide him with some advice.

For his part, Hamit wasn't going to waste this trip to the city. He wanted to experience the cities art and culture, since he had been robbed of his original purpose.

"Why don't ye all come wid' me today, no? I think me comrades in the arts might have some gainful employment for ya brutish fellows."

Acquire directions to gallery to best of ability.

There were certain to be plenty of petty thieves hanging around somewhere like a gallery, one of which Yarogni could slip away and "have a chat with" while the others were looking at art so he was more than happy to go along if this was the consensus.

The dwarf grunted as he glanced over at the Halfling. During his training as a cartographer, he'd often found a certain... calming effect in the craftsmanship art provided. It wasn't far off from the smithing of his people, albeit to a far lesser extent. With a brusqueness he pushed himself up from the table, gathering his parchments and his quills and simply nodded curtly his ascent, both to spending time together and to heading towards the inner city as he made for the door, looking to gather his pony for the journey.

He always preferred to ride, when possible, in a city as it allowed him to copy down the streets and shops he passed. He had a strong sense of direction, but a map was always a trusty thing to keep in your back pocket. He never felt overwhelmed by the city, as growing up in Karaz-a-Karak, under the banners of Thorgrim Grudgebearer's Oathbearers, he had been constantly surrounded by a throng of living creatures. He did, however, at times feel slightly intimidated by the open sky, and his map making was an excuse to look down and around, and not up. His mother had always told him she'd lose him to the seas when he came upon them, but so far he still wasn't enamoured of the openness this new world afforded him.

The concept of sharing the road with an elf near turned his stomach, 85 years in the world had honed his distaste for the race responsible for the fall of his people to a razor's edge of vitriol. However, he also understood the value of protection in a new place, even if said protection was the sneaky knife in the back of the dandelion-eating hand-talkers. His spirits were somewhat buoyed by the addition of the pair of humans, however. Long allies of his people, he would tolerate one elf with the promise of two humans to watch his throat while he slept. He had left his home seeking a heroic death, like in the old tales. And perhaps he would find it. But not today. Today he was going to look at art.

He hoped it was pretty.

Despite Nuln's relative largesse, few of its common citizens have the time or inclination to spend an afternoon wandering a gallery. This is not to say that Nulners have no appreciation for art (quite the contrary) but nearly all of it is privately held. Many's the journeyman painter who makes a living selling dreck to his neighbors, who proudly hang their acquisitions over the fire. The upper class, of course, often enjoy access to the private (and opulent) galleries of the Countess' palace ? but they'd be unlikely to admit a halfling even if Hamit still had his invitation. No, what few open galleries exist belong to the churches and the guilds. It was the stonemason's guild, quite naturally, that had extended Hamit that invitation: for lack of any better leads he seeks it out, leading his fellows across the Great Bridge to the Industrielplatz.

The showing Hamit had been meant to attend was long over by now; the invitation had been late in arriving and the riverboat had been slow to travel to say the least. When the travelers finally arrive around noon (travel through Nuln's crowded streets is always slow by day), they find the guild's showroom now dedicated to an impressive display of ornate tomb markers, ranging from simple obelisks to elaborate carvings of Morr and his ravens. Most of those entrusted to Morr's gardens can't afford such an extravagance, but for the well-off death is just one more chance to make an impression.

A clerk lowers his copy of the Daily Relation (headline: VALANTINA THUG TAKES RAP FOR MINT KILLINGS) just enough to get a look at the motley crew assembling in the guildhall, and mutters "Just browsing, or here on business?" A few other potential customers wander the showroom, occasionally picking up a price tag and making a sour face at it.

The dwarf muscled past his comrades, sliding the spectacles off his nose and into a pocket as he did the same, only into a pack, with his map and quill via the other hand. He walked past the clerk to squint at tool marks on one of the stones, tutting slightly at the shoddy, clearly not dwarven, work. He spoke without turning towards the clerk as he walked around the gallery, taking in each bit of stone the way a chef would investigate the plating of a rival. He had long ago abandoned stone-mason as a career, but he still heard his master's voice echoing in the back of his head concerning a steady hand and a steady mind producing steady work.

"Hmph. Browsing for business. Yes." He smiled a little, but only on the inside, as he tugged at his long beard. "Maps. Charts. Public places, public lands, secret places, stars and planets?" The list raised in tone at the end, a question, maybe, in his clipped accent. The others had their own reasons for being here, and their own questions, no doubt. He wouldn't ask for them.

Yarogni was more than a little disappointed when their path led not to one of the swanky private galleries but instead to a guildhall. Any pickpockets they met here would be on the guild payroll and taking on the might of a guild was beyond the scope of some of the biggest underworld organisations in the Empire, let alone someone trying to start out with five accomplices, four of whom weren't even aware they were founder members of Nuln's newest crime family.

Feeling a little disconsolate, the Kislevite made a show of looking at some of the exhibits, making a note of the names of the artisans who'd produced the highest priced pieces, in case he ever needed some quick cash and could pay an urchin to burgle their houses.

"Mmm.... maps?" The clerk's face twists up in confusion, put off balance by Kazanin's rapid-fire demands. "You'll be in the wrong guild, dwarf. Head back across the Reik and see the cartographers, they'll set you right. Maps of whatever you please, for the right price. Second street on your right, just past the temple." He sniffs, burying his head back in the paper.

Yarogni cases the showroom, looking for any pieces of unusual value. There's a particularly lovely piece lurking in a dark corner, a huge marble slab larger than the dwarf with an engraving of Sigmar's hammer lined in gold, silver and jade. The yellowing and wear on the tag seems to indicate that this particular bit of business has been waiting for a buyer quite a long time indeed, and no wonder; even with Yarogni's flexible approach to business ethics, he'd be hard pressed to put that much coin together in a decade.

A thin, finely dressed older man sidles up next to the butcher, gently clearing his throat. "You don't look the part of a customer, friend, and if I may be so bold as to make some assumptions about your purpose here you'd likely end up ditching this thing in the Reik before you could find a fence for it. That's if you had the eight slaves you'd need to even budge the thing. If you're looking for money, I have a better offer."

The old man lays a stiff paper card down on the pedestal in front of Yarogni, before casually strolling out of the guildhall.

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Dazhyn wanders about the hall. At least art can be appreciated even if you don't speak the local language. Noticing the end of Yarogni's conversation, Daz walks over to see what the man had left behind. Of course - another card he couldn't read. He has Yarogni translate the card for him.

"Legal"? Oh, that's a great sign. Who bothers to put that on a job offer unless it's quite definitely not legal? Not to mention the fact that they've had business cards printed for what seems like a one time job.

I don't like it. Feels like a trap. Or a suicide mission.

Relax my friend, this could be just the opening we're looking for! What are the alternatives anyway? We need some cash and following these idiots around all day is getting us nowhere fast.

Yarogni rejoined the group and cleared his throat noisily.

Comrades! It would seem that lady fortune she is smiling on us today yah? The man he say he looking to hire and here we all are, looking for money no? Like peas in pod as they say. See, all legitimate work for legitimate businessman. You want come with us? See how the biscuit crumbles no?

In Karaz-a-Karak, the dwarf had known people like Yarogni. He'd worked for people like Yarogni. To acquire certain maps, he'd turned into people like Yarogni himself. The man's home language was one he didn't understand, but his intentions were as plain as could be. A cartographer was in high demand for the underworld. Secret places and secret things always so very valuable to people who live in the shadows of the great cities. Yarogni was clearly one of these men. He narrowed his eyes slightly and sniffed, walking over and plucking the card from his hands, flipping it between his digits before handing it back and grunting his ascent.

He may be an academic, but he certainly didn't shy away from the clearly criminal aspect of this endeavor. And besides, you never found anything interesting playing within the bounds of the law. A concept that constantly had him on the precipice of having to take the calling of the troll hunter for honour's sake. Luckily for him, so far, honour was all well and good because he hadn't been caught. You only had to worry about family honour if you were caught.

Hamit, after being told the description of the man whom had left the card, was comfortable with the situation. He was not a noble or an aristocrat, but he found their habits pleasing when he could afford them. It took learning to act like one to be able to obtain their business. He figured he would be useful in haggling with the gentleman about the work to be done.

Besides, he couldn't well experience the city without a few coins in his pocket.

And so the travelers trudge back to the opposite end of the city in search of the Oldenhaller Estate. As rumor has it, Oldenhaller heads one of Nuln's largest trading operations and likely has the ear of the countess herself.

After waiting nearly an hour in the foyer, Oldenhaller's doorman finally escorts them into an opulent office. Exotic Cathayan rugs cover the floors, and the walls are covered in hunting trophies and fine portraits. Oldenhaller looks the group over for a moment, twirling a jeweled letter opener in his fingers.

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"Gentlemen. The house of Oldenhaller is involved in many kinds of business on a variety of different levels. We would be most unhappy were certain of our associates to learn the nature of certain other associates. This meeting, and the work I require from you, never happened. If you take my meaning." He pauses for a moment, finishing off some paperwork while this sinks in.

"I require a certain gem. The details are unimportant, but you are not the first to volunteer in retrieving it; a group calling themselves the 'Totengeld gang' have reportedly acquired it as I requested, but have so far failed to make delivery to me. You will recover it from them, and bring it here by dawn tomorrow."

Rifling through his desk, Oldenhaller produces a small wooden box etched with elaborate carvings and pushes it toward the group.

"I have no time for superstition, but... just in case. There are certain rumors regarding this stone and its history. Talk of curses. This box is sufficient to nullify any magics on objects it contains ? for six hours. So, by all means, do take pains to return quickly. I would hate for something dreadful to happen to you. Again, this must be done tonight; I have a reliable lead on the stone's location, and I fear it may not be accurate for long. I offer you 100 crowns each on delivery.

Any questions?"

Puffing up his chest to look as...well, maybe slightly more threatening than a tiny little girl, Tan is insistent on getting a little extra scratch out of this.

"100 isn't enough to cover the trouble it took to get here. 150 sounds much more agreeable to me."

At least Tan'll be able to afford some might good sandwiches at that point. And man alive, did he love sandwiches.

Yarogni sighed inwardly at his new companion's attempt at bargaining. He knew you didn't try to shake down a man like this.

Forgive my friend, he new in town. We happy to track down gang and get back gem for you. After we do this then perhaps we talk some business no? Maybe we become associates too da?

Yarogni steadfastly refused to even look at the box. You didn't survive for long living as close to the Chaos Wastes as he had by mucking about with magic trinkets and anyway, it wasn't the boss's job to carry the gear.

Since paying attention to the conversation does Dazhyn no good anyway, he passes the time by looking around the room, looking for anything interesting or suspicious. Like a trapdoor under his feet, or a large weight above his head. Or maybe something actually hidden. He knew that these types of people liked the idea of pulling levers and dropping unfortunate visitors to their doom. They liked the drama of it all.

The dwarf smirked slightly at the magic inhibitor. His race was naturally resistant to magic, and outside of runes they didn't quite understand all the fuss. Whole thing seemed like a pretty nifty way to get yourself possessed and dead.

Either way, he was definitely up for this job. In that he needed start up funds and frankly this seemed more fun then tending bar. He showed his joy by scowling for three solid minutes.

"One hundred and fifty? I'll forgive your insolence this once, since it's not as if your kind knows the value of a crown. By the look of you, you won't be making it back to be paid anyway.

As for you, the question of my further patronage is something we can discuss when ? no, if you actually follow through. Perhaps the composition of your little... entourage will be a little different then, if you take my meaning."

Ignoring the negotiations, Dazhyn glowers all round the office in search of any sinister traps. His brief experience in the city had been nothing but hassle, and while it seemed preposterous to invite strangers in just to throw them down a well, no treachery seemed likely to be beyond these Imperials. He had plenty of time to get a good look around while Yarogni glad-handed the merchant, but nothing seemed to be amiss.

"What are you staring at, you slack-jawed... oh, forget it. I'm glad we understand each other, gentlemen. My man Heinrich will escort you to our best guess regarding where the Totengelds may be hiding out: underneath the dockside shantytown there is a network of old sewer tunnels and cellars they call the Asylum. We have a fairly good idea of which areas of the Asylum the Totengelds currently control, so you'll be entering the tunnels there. A certain unlucky gentleman has provided us with the Totengeld's password for this week, though that was the extent of his useful knowledge. It's 'Sweet Hanna', in the unlikely event that they actually bother with dialogue.

You begin at nightfall, so take the rest of the afternoon to gather any supplies you left in whatever stable the lot of you slept in last night, and purchase anything else you may need. I would expect violence. Be back here at dusk, and do take care not to mention any of this to anyone, hmm?"

Heinrich escorts the group out perhaps a little more brusquely than is necessary, leaving them on Oldenhallerstrasse to determine their own preparations for the evening.

The dwarf climbed aboard his pony and slapped Yag firmly on the shoulder, jerking his head in the direction of the local smith. "Supplies." He said simply, indicating that should probably be their first stop. He also planned to stop by the local cartographer's guild to see if anyone had mapped out the tunnels they'd be taking. For the right amount of coin, a cartographer was usually pretty good for keeping his mouth shut. If there was going to be violence, he wanted a nice, heavy weapon and the knowledge of what wall was safe enough to have at his back.

He sniffed as he pulled out his maps and began down the street towards the smiths, slowing his pace so the crew could keep up easily. A hand smoothed his beard as he squinted at the parchment. Tonight should be fun, at any rate. He, for one, was looking forward to the confines of the sewers. His kind grew up brawling in tight quarters, so this was slightly more to his liking. He may have been a mapmaker by trade, but when you grew up under the banners of the Oathbearers, you learned your way around hammer and axe; just as a matter of personal pride. Plus, tunnels like this often had secret places and secret ways. He liked those. It is what attracted him to cartography in the first place. Only a fool read what a map said. The wise man read everything it didn't.

Dazhyn gets the gist of the developments from his friend, and scowls when he hears about the sewers. So much for getting out with Hrim tonight. He proceeds to go searching a stable to put up Hrim and Sasha for the night, as well as a fighting dagger. If tonight was going to get rough, he may as well be some semblance of prepared.

Go looking for a Main Gauche - if i can't find one, just find a buckler instead Nevermind, can't use them as effectively as the dagger i have now anyway. Stupid weapon groups. Just find myself a leather hat instead.

Also scope out price on a stable, assuming they're not so cheap as to be negligible. Generally be paranoid as to why we are being paid more than twice the yearly salary of a mercenary for a one night job. Also, find out how much medical treatment for myself / the others will cost. Drag Yarogni around to all of this since i am absolutely useless on my own :(

The dwarf did not have high hopes to find himself a set of golden plate for the 9 gold he had in his pocket, so he settled on trying to track down a leather jerkin and the maps he sought. The leather jerkin would be easy, the maps... maybe not so much. Cartography guilds fancied themselves as hoarders of secrets and prized their maps greatly. He personally considered himself more of a navigator in training than a cartographer, truth be told. He was always far more skilled at reading the stars and maps than he was at making them. However, a trade was a trade, and he would make his way into the navigator's guild eventually. For now, however, he sighed deeply and steadied his nerves to deal with the cartographers. The best in the world were elves, and luckily they were not good at reading the deep emotions of the dwarf people. They missed the little facial twitches and relied on the calm tone of voice to indicate how we felt about them. Wankers. All of them. However, as his grandfather had said, in times of need enemies can be friends for as long as they are necessary. And hopefully it wouldn't be elves, anyway. Just a map was all he needed. Not that it was overly necessary. A dwarf in a hole was as at home as an elf was in a gay orgy in a field of daffodils.

As they approached a shop, he slowed his pony and put a hand on Yag's shoulder to hold him back a few strides from the rest. He spoke quietly, so the other's would be hard-pressed to hear over the din of the steets.

"Don't trust magic at face value. One of us should investigate what this thing is before we hand it over so readily." He took the hand off his shoulder and shrugged. "A thought."

He glanced over at the human once and glanced up at the darkening sky, commenting: "Lanterns." After all, not everyone could see in the dark as he could. With that he spurred his pony forward with his heels.

Having stopped to buy a sling on the way to Oldenhaller (due to the dangerous exursion last night, he figured he could rely on his other skills with stones), Hamit found that the group had left him behind. By the time he caught up, the man had haggled them and shut them out. Merely 10 minutes worth of briefing, and he had missed it all.

Strangely enough, they'd manage to bargain quite a deal for the work. But when he found out the nature of the work from the other halfling, he was taken aback. He needed the money, but did not nearly wish to trudge around in sewers and provoke fights with local cretins.

Perhaps he would just tag along and see what unfolds. He did need the cash, after being stranded in the city.

Shop for a sling. Pick up rocks?

Yarogni had no real interest in shopping. He had pretty much everything he needed on him already and what he didn't have he had no intention of paying for. Instead he followed his compatriate about town, translating where necessary and trying to avoid the kind of special prices usually reserved for tourists.

Haggling help on any purchases by Daz

Oldenhaller's groundskeeper is kind enough to keep Hrim and Sasha in the councilor's private stables for the night. With a certain degree of wild gesticulation combined with Yarogni's helpful insistence that the tanner fetch a "head shoe for brains safekeeping", Daz gets himself a leather skullcap and protects himself not only from violent hoodlums but the frequent droppings of Nuln's many pigeons and seagulls. Small consolation for a third of his savings.

That done, he half-drags, half-guides the elf to the city's Shallyan temple (thankfully, not far from the Oldenhaller estate), where the priestesses readily agree to treat Tan's alarming variety of bruises; the rest of them may be a little banged up but nothing worth bothering the Shallyans over. Of course private physicians will agree to see anybody who can pay their exorbitant fees, but 5 shillings a day is nothing to toss away casually, especially when half of them are quacks. Tan looks a little better by dusk. A little. The big purple lump on the side of his head had faded to a more mellow blue, what little of it you could see through the ointment-smelling bandages wrapped all round his head.

As he was heavily wounded, the nonmagical treatments of the Shallyan initiates can only do so much; 1 wound recovered by Tan. He's now lightly wounded, so the next time he rests he'll actually get something out of it. Assuming he doesn't get hurt again. Which he will.

Kaz's jerkin is more expensive, leaving him only 3 crowns to negotiate with the guild; the negotiations consequently don't go well. The tired-looking clerk concedes that the guild has some partial maps of the Asylum, but those date back at least 3 years and are likely unreliable by now due to the underground's essentially chaotic nature. Any number of passages could have been sealed off or blasted open by now. Regardless, Kaz's paltry remaining funds could scarcely pay for the vellum and scroll cases, let alone the labor cost of having one of the guild's scribes make copies for him. Worse, he certainly doesn't have enough to purchase even one decent lantern; hopefully the Totengelds liked keeping things nice and bright.

Hamit was a little put out about being left out of the negotiations; if he hadn't even been there, Oldenhaller was under no real obligation to pay him after the job was done. He's grousing about this to Bulkbelly, when the other halfling suddenly plummets into an open sewer drain. To his credit Tallowman doesn't even scream on the way down, and the frantic splashing cuts off after only a second or two. No one else seems to notice, too occupied with their own preparations. Humans were notoriously poor at discerning one halfling from another; Hamit could probably take Bulkbelly's place at the settling-up without issue.

The soft crunching noises from below make him even less enthusiastic about this evening's adventures, though. If that's possible.

At length they regroup at the Oldenhaller estate, where Heinrich waits to escort them to their evening's destination. In the end they find themselves only a few blocks away from the Reaver's Return, led into a dim alley behind an unmarked warehouse. Heinrich silently indicates a door on the warehouse's rear wall, then hurries away as quickly as his feet will carry him.

The dwarf slowly scanned the area before moving forward. He kept his eyes and ears open as he approached the door, his hand checking his hammer to make sure it was loose in its home at his hip, and then reaching up to tug the hood of his cloak forward over his face.

If he met no resistance as he approached the door, he would place himself beside it and let one of the others open it. Perhaps someone with a slightly more silver tongue. It had been his experience that hardened thieves very rarely ran away from the dwarven hero just because he scowled a little. Not like in the stories, o no. Not at all. He'd received a blackened eye for making that mistake once.

Yarogni had no time for sneaking around or negotiating. Club in hand, he strode up to the door and kicked it open.

With the dwarf ready for action at his side, Yarogni fearlessly kicks in the ragged warehouse door. Disappointingly, no immediate mayhem erupts. The door opens on a very brief set of stairs, descending into cramped corridor with a single door at the end. There's a note pinned to the door, but Yarogni can't possibly read it at this distance.

The dwarf ducked his head around the corner and sighed, rather audibly. Inside he thought: "Well, that was underwhelming." But on the outside all that showed was a slight twitch of some whiskers on the left side of his upper lip. He glanced at the human who had laid such fierce foot to the now splintered door and shrugged. In his head he couldn't help but consider the plight of his ancestor Methed'Mann of the Clan of Wu and his friend, the terrifying warrior Airic the Redman. Two warrior brought together when they were both accosted in an alley outside a local alehouse. The fight escalated when the Redman kicked in the door of a nearby crime lord, leading to a misunderstanding of epic proportions that could only be solved by axe and hammer.

The resulting affair led to Kaz's ancestor taking to troll slaying and traveling the land with his new friend. Their tales were the stuff of songs in the south-central area of the mountains of his homeland.

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The dwarf walked down towards the note, keeping his eyes peeled for any suspect activity from the walls, floor or ceiling as he did so.

This was more like it. Yarogni was never happier than when on a shakedown. Admittedly, he would have prefered some more proven muscle behind him but Daz was solid enough in a fight and the dwarf seemed pretty keen. If nothing else, most people hated elves enough that the pointy-eared fop would attract a lot of attention and as for the halfling, well, every gang needed someone to blame when it all went wrong.

Sidling down the stairs, the Kislevite examined the note.

Nothing around seems suspicious; just your typical corridor. The butcher and the dwarf peer at the posted notice on the door.

http://www.saxypunch.com/missile2/asylumnote1.png

The dwarf shrugged and rapped on the door firmly twice. He'd done this once, behind a waterfall. Felt like bloody forever before someone opened up. He glanced up at his human sidekick and shrugged, glancing back at the horde of drooling husks hanging conspicuously behind. He muttered something under his breath, an old Dwarven axiom, roughly translated: "Sometimes the whole world feels like a Canadian and a British person with shitty shoes playing with themselves."

Dazhyn, as always, keeps up with Yarogni and keeps an eye on his surroundings. He starts to wonder whether he should have brought Sasha along to track should they need the help, but decides that she wouldn't be much help in such an unfamiliar environment anyway. Daz hopes deeply that this job doesn't take too long. The Dwarf may enjoy sleeping underground, but Dazhyn would really rather not be down in this hole for any longer than is absolutely necessary.

Yarogni was a little disappointed that the dwarf had chosen to obey the note. A proper shakedown should be conducted by smashing your way in, beating the hell out of anyone you find, stealing anything not tied down and then leaving a note to let the people you'd just taken out know who the new boss in town was. Knocking politely didn't feature often in these things but then neither did attempting a heist with a couple of bumpkins in tow as your muscle.

Letting out a deep sigh, the butcher hid his club behind his back in at least a pretence of being here in good faith. There's be plenty of opportunity for smashing heads in later he knew but his hangover was making him grumpy and impatient. They definitely should have stopped for a pint on the way here.

Kaz knocked and waited. And waited some more. Quite a while really. Nothing much happened as a result. Well, some things happened. Dust settled. They all aged a little bit. A passing pie vendor attempted to sell the group meat pies with rat tails obviously protruding from beneath the crusts. A block or two away, a cat yowls.

But nobody answers the door, so in that respect nothing really happens.

Dazhyn grows tired of standing around and not doing anything. Making ready for trouble, he decides to kick down the door. It was rude, sure, but it's also rude to leave a note saying to wait for someone to open the door and then not have someone there to open it.

"Oh, door kickings!". It's go time now, ladies. "Alright. Time to make himself even more useful."

Pick up a rock and ready it to throw through at the nearest asshole

Dazhyn kicks down the door. Eventually. It's a pretty heavy door. After about 15 minutes of nonstop kicking, the latch finally gives way. It wasn't locked or anything.

Technically you needed to roll a 1 to actually break it but you'd get it eventually I suppose

Behind the door lies a small, disorganized room. A table in the center of the room has been overturned, and two wardrobes on the far wall lie open and ransacked. A few worthless items lie scattered on the floor. On the south wall standsdoor much like the one Daz just painstakingly ruined.

The dwarf was in no state to move across the room. His shoulders were rising and falling rhythmically as he used every ounce of his willpower not to burst out laughing as the elf flayed the door to pieces with the power of a blade of grass. He wiped his eyes with his beard, took a long breath to steady himself, looked over at the elf, laughed once more and then made his way towards the door, using his hammer to poke at the wardrobes and table to see if there were any nice clothes.

He'd eventually stand to the side of the south door and fling it open.

Dazhyn feels satisfied with the results of his kicking. And sure, it hadn't been necessary, but it had been incredibly cathartic. Sometimes, when you're stuck in a situation that is completely out of your element, you just have to wreck something to get your head back on straight. This was one of those times.

He looked around the room his handiwork had revealed. If there was supposed to be someone here all the time, it must be a pretty lousy job, sitting around all day in a room with no seating. Daz wanders over to the south door, and waits for someone even remotely capable of diplomacy to take the lead.

Now this was an interesting although potentially costly development. It was clear that someone else had got here first and that a shakedown had either already occured or was in process. Either way, it would make their trip to the heart of the den a lot simpler. All they had to do is follow the trail of devastation, safe in the knowledge that what they were looking for wasn't in any of the already ransacked rooms and pretty confident of not meeting any aggressive opposition, until they found the other raiders of course.

With the faintest hint of a smile crossing his lips, Yarogni headed through the next doorway, hoping that whoever had done this place over had left something to drink lying around. Watching his friend touch up a door had really given him a thirst.

Onwards through the new door, keeping an eye out for something to drink.

The door to the south reveals more concrete evidence of a raid; the next room is full of smashed furniture and strewn with half a dozen corpses. The blood is dry; the violence evidently occurred some time ago. To the south, a pair of smaller doors have been torn off their hinges and pushed into the next room; all that's visible within from this vantage is a large bookcase (with most of its books scattered on the floor). Another pair of heavier doors stand on the west wall, slightly ajar.

Hamit enters the room and observes the bodies. He begins to turn one with his feet, but a pool of blood oozes from underneath due to the disturbance.
Hamit jumps back, does a little leprechaun dance, and let's out a rather audible "EEEEEEEEEEEEPPP~!"


Inspect bodies

The dwarf huffed and went to explore the bookcases, pushing things aside with his hammer as he clucked his tongue. Someone did a right smash and grab here. This made him wonder exactly what their employer needed them here for. The whole thing smacked of a trap.

Hamit inspects the corpses, grimacing distastefully. None of the bodies was clad in any armor, or carrying anything so dangerous as a sap or as valuable as a single brass penny. Either the poor bastards were caught totally unawares or the attackers had been quite thorough in their looting. Or both. Two of the bodies are wearing cheap copper pendants in the shape of a fig leaf. The other four are decorated with nothing finer than playing cards; some unfortunate deck somewhere is missing all of its 4s. On each card is a note scribed in a shaky hand: "Greetings from Valantina Anti-Personnel."

Kazanin charges into the southern room, curious about the bookcases. Things are ransacked just as thoroughly here; aside from the mistreated books, a once-fine painting lies smashed on the floor. While some few of the books and scrolls here may be of value to collectors, a great deal of it seems to be simple accounting records of the Totengeld gang interspersed with the occasional collection of bawdy verse.

Slumped over a desk is a particularly odoriferous corpse; a pock-marked man of olive complexion dressed in fine clothing and a voluminous black cloak. The man's face is festooned with weeping sores, as is his left arm (the right arm is notably absent below the shoulder, terminating in a ragged stump). The drawers of the desk have been pulled out and lie empty.

The dwarf covered his mouth and nose with his sleeve. He actually furrowed his brow, which for a dwarf was almost like retching in public. He stepped back out into the open and commented: "Smells like the plague in there." Not a worrying statement at all, he reckoned. He took a deep breath of fresher air and marched off to the other, heavier doors, since everyone else was apparently drooling on themselves.

Yarogni had lived within rampaging distance of the chaos wastes long enough to know when to leave a plague-ridden corpse well alone. He was also aware however of how effective a deterrent to would be looters an apparently plague-ridden corpse could be.

Grabbing a plank from the busted door, the butcher gingerly prodded the corpse at the desk, trying to knock him over and away to allow a proper look at the desk.

Yarogni jabs at the becloaked corpse with a jagged plank, and it slumps wetly to the floor. Alas, the desktop and the drawers are empty of all valuables; indeed, all that remains is a pewter mug bearing the engraved slogan "#1 Boss" and a cheap hooded black cloak much like the one the corpse is wearing. This second cloak is neatly folded in the back of the lower right desk drawer, and allows the wearer to inform passersby that "[He] took the Bugman's Brewery Tour and all [he] got was this lousy cloak".

Kaz peers through the slightly-ajar western doors. The next room is unlit (not that this bothers dwarven eyes); the only things visible through the gap between the doors are three sodden mattresses, ripped open amidst a pile of their straw stuffing and their broken wood frames.

OPEN door
INVESTIGATE room
ASK DARKNESS ABOUT LOOM

With nothing else of interest in the room with the desk, Yarogni followed the trail of destruction, looking for signs that whoever had been here had found what they were after and left. He was getting a sinking feeling that they were far too late and someone had beaten them to the prize.

Kaz pushes open the door, with the Kislevite butcher right behind him. Just like the other rooms, this dormitory is utterly trashed. The beds are in ruins, and bloody corpses lay haphazard in the south of the room. One of them has a crossbow in hand, and Kaz notices with alarm that this fellow isn't quite dead! Though heavily wounded, a bearded man shakily tries to aim his crossbow at the intruding dwarf.

http://www.saxypunch.com/missile2/ulrich.png

A pair of heavy doors, barred with a long iron rod, lead out of the southeast of this room.

With scant regard for his own safety, Yarogni barged past the dwarf, launching himself across the room and attempting to kick the crossbow out of the man's hand. They needed answers and it was going to be a lot easier to get them from an unarmed man.

Hearing the kerfuffle ahead, and wondering how he had let his translator get so far ahead without him noticing, Daz hurries to see what was going on.

in the future, just have Dazhyn keep up with Yarogni, since he's pretty much useless otherwise.

The dwarf simultaneously threw himself across the room, attempting to kick the crossbow away from the near dead human. He wanted some answers, and you didn't get those when you caved in someone's face.

Leaving the dazed-looking elf behind, Daz catches up with the group just in time to see Yarogni and the dwarf kicking an unarmed wounded man. There was almost certainly a good explanation for this.

The crossbow flies out of the man's hand on the first thing; the next few are just for emphasis, really. "Ugh!", he wheezes, coughing up an alarming amount of blood. "I'll never tell you Valantina bastards anything! Go ahead and kill me!"

Yarogni felt much better after kicking the injured man a few times. The guy said he wasn't going to tell them anything but he wouldn't keep that up for long, although a glance over his shoulder at the rest of the crew reminded the Kislevite that a bit of street negotiation might upset the others to the extent they'd bugger off and for the time being, he still needed them.

Maybe a softer approach was in order.

Listen good Totengeld fuck. Maybe we don't want you to talk, maybe we just enjoy beating on idiots, no?

Sadly, Yarogni knew little of soft touch negotiation. With the man disarmed he was clearly no threat to the crew but the butcher went through his pockets just in case. Indicating that someone else might want to have a go at talking to the injured mobster, Yarogni turned his attention to the southern door. If this Valentina gang had indeed been here and were looking for the same thing as them, why would the door be barred from this side? Who bothers to lock a door back up after shaking down a gang?

Yarogni moved to the door and held his ear to it, listening for any sounds beyond. Turning back to the ongoing negotiation, he suggested that someone ask what's behind the door and more importantly, why it's locked, before going back to examining the door for any other oddities.

"The joke's on you, then! I'm already so badly wounded that I no longer feel pain! Your kicks are merely a dim thumping sensation intruding into a world of empty numbness! Ha ha! Ha ha ha ha ha! Ow."

Yarogni puts his ear to the door. There was a raucous conversation going on the other side, though the language was outside Yarogni's limited knowledge of foreign tongues (he knew "ale" in about 15 languages, but that was that); there were at least three distinct voices. Under the chitchat was the clink of classes and the all-too-familiar clatter of dice.

Meanwhile, back at the entrance to the Asylum, a passing Norseman kidnaps Tanrindil Tenderheart and whisks him away for mysterious purposes. He is never seen again.

While Hamit half observes - half wretches on - the corpses in the room, the others thrash their way into the adjoining room.

During their absense, it was him and the elf. Suddenly, however, he heart the footsteps of a portly man making his way into the room from the entrance. Hamit had a good ear for these things. Turning around, he is locked in the stare of a beardy, red man. There was something comical in his face, but Hamit couldn't put his stubby finger on it.

http://img6.imageshack.us/img6/7783/...repeelarge.jpg

The man quickly swept up the elf and stuffed him in a burlap bag. He muttered some vulgarities about his wife, then went the way he came.

With a bit of shock, Hamit simply retreated to the room with the others. He noticed the dwarf hulking over a human, pressing him. The Kislevite man was at the other end, ear to the door, with a confused look on his face.
Hamit moves there and attempts to listen as well.

language check

Yarogni could make out nothing of the conversation going on behind the door and freely allowed the halfling to have a listen instead. Looking around, he was convinced they were missing some people. Were there not two halflings earlier and he was pretty convinced they'd had an elf on board too. Shaking his head, he put it down to the drink although he was a little concerned at the remainder of the group's ability to perform a proper gangland takeover.

Nobody else seemed too bothered about interrogating the wounded man so muttering something about if you want a job doing then you should probably do it yourself in the first place, he continued the job himself.

Look little man, you listen good to uncle Yarogni. Look to me like you wounded pretty good ya? Yarogni thinks you might not be with us for long but is up to you whether that be gentle slide into death's arm or extreme pain for little time left, no?

All I want to know is who behind door and why is locked from this side. I am thinking you understand what happen if you no tell.

Attempt to intimidate wounded guy

Hamit listens at the door but finds it no more intelligible than the human had. Whatever language it was, it had far too many vowels for respectability.

"You don't scare me! If Ulrich Vogel has to go out he's — screw it. Who do you think is back there, the incorruptible remains of St. Horst? It's the damned Valantinas, and I managed to bolt the door after they left me for dead. But I wasn't dead; this was the flaw in their plan. They won't be getting back in here! Not that they'd want to, in retrospect."

Sorry about the long delays between GM responses, my life got significantly busier in the last month.

In retrospect? What you mean little dead man?

And how many men they are in there? Seems like you keep talking you maybe live a little longer no?

Yarogni laughed deeply, the effect ruined somewhat by the ensuing coughing fit. He really needed a drink.