[:plant:] [WFRP] The Oldenhaller Contract

FEATURING

Shin as Yarogni Bukoski, Kislevite butcher

and his travel companion

Hawkeye as Dazhyn Jelavic, a Kislevite goat drover.


Denicalis as Kazanin Hargundsson, a Dwarven cartographer from the World's Edge mountains.

Colonel Skills as Tanrindil Tenderheart, a gangly wood elf bandit from the forests of Laurelorn.

CetteHamsterLa as Bulkbelly Tallowman, a halfling charcoal-burner from the Moot.

Zephyrin as Hamit Tanglefoot, a halfling stonemason and sculptor from the province of Ostland.

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."

Most amazing jew boots

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.

There's nowhere I can't reach.

10 Dice Rolls Footpad (yellow) init

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!

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.

This thing is sticky, and I don't like it. I don't appreciate it.

5 Dice Rolls damage to kaz

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.

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 am a dolphin, do you want me on your body?

18 Dice Rolls about that crit

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)

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

I was speaking idiomatically.

4 Dice Rolls will power test!

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.

What kind of toxic man-thing is happening now?

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.

FELIPE NO

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.

What, you don't want my bikini-clad body?

2 Dice Rolls maybe?

"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.

Jam it back in, in the dark.

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."

There's nowhere I can't reach.

23 Dice Rolls on the way out??

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.

This thing is sticky, and I don't like it. I don't appreciate it.

2 Dice Rolls you savvy?

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.

I am a dolphin, do you want me on your body?

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.

I was speaking idiomatically.

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.

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"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.

FELIPE NO

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.

What, you don't want my bikini-clad body?

"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.



Jam it back in, in the dark.

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.



"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?"

There's nowhere I can't reach.

1 Die Roll haggle with me, will you

"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.

This thing is sticky, and I don't like it. I don't appreciate it.

3 Dice Rolls how well

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.

I am a dolphin, do you want me on your body?

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.

I was speaking idiomatically.

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



What kind of toxic man-thing is happening now?

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.

FELIPE NO

9 Dice Rolls arbritrarily good enough

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.

What, you don't want my bikini-clad body?

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.

Jam it back in, in the dark.