MrAbdiel
   The Power of One 
  Part 2 - "Transire Benefaciendo" 
   
 Chapter 1 - Oltre   

You know well by now that a trip by cart to Verezzo takes three days - first by Paesa di Silo, then a stop at the Pigly, before reaching Verezzo on the end of the third day; and all along those days stopping at toll stations to be denuded of another handful of copper at a time.  In the flying machine, that distance is conquered comfortably in a single day.  You glide over the tops of the silos in Paesa di Silo, and they do not wave as much as watch in astonishment as your trio zooms overhead.  And it might never get old seeing the toll operators staring up at the flying machine's wake, bewildered at the craft, sometimes shouting out what you assume is an insistence that you still ought to pay a toll.   You do not, of course.

You touch down at the great intersection by the Pigly for a late lunch, and you meet Bolo Hempfire once more; the halfling proprietor amazed at the craft you've brought, which quickly draws a crowd of babbling onlookers from the bar; this early in the afternoon, they are not pickled completely, but enough to enhance their sense of wonderment and to allow Cestié an opportunity to puff out his chest and explain some concepts of aerodynamics that he knows no one will understand but you, and he.  Bolo's boy, Rumpold, runs you out a tray of roast pork sandwiches and a pie for good measure, as you picnic on the hill across the road from the Pigly.  However fantastic the flying machine is, Cestié is reluctant to leave it unattended.  It's for that reason that, rather than stay in the city proper at the end of the day, the Signore picks a farm with a large barn on a good straight bit of road, lands there, and successful imposes upon the hospitality of the old widower who lives there to stash the machine in his barn and put you all up for the night.  The fellow - a simple enough man named Rufio wiling away his remaining days in ease and comfort on a much smaller farm than the one he tended in his youth - is won over by the promise of Bella and yourself putting his kitchen to proper use, such as it hasn't had since his oldest daughter last visited six years ago.

The day after you are off again. The Signore elects not to fly directly over Verezzo - marvellous as it would be to peer down at all the streets and people from directly above the city, he does not wish to invite confused crossbow fire.  And when you pass the city, and look back over your shoulder at Verezzo's Northgate, you are as far from Bella Collina as you have ever gone under your own power.  Cestié points out to you when you pass a pair of hills below, with a toll booth on each side and a road between.  This is where the Republic of Verezzo ends; one booth taxes people leaving it, and the other booth taxes those  entering  the Republic of Remas.  Flying low over their mutually shocked toll attendants, you catch a glance of the flags on each; the familiar white field and four coloured rings of Verezzo, and the unfamiliar flag of Remas - a field of thick red and white chevrons, beneath the stern masculine countenance of a golden sun.  You camp out one night in a field which Cestié tells you overlooks a historical battlefield - you see a memorial plinth in the moonlit plain beyond, and a small shrine.

 "The Battle of Riffraffa.  A awful day for Remans; the most shocking defeat to the Arabyans Tilea had seen since the old crusades.  A raiding force of Al Muktar's Desert Dogs landed on the coast and ripped through the local villages, raiding and plundering, finally falling on and roundly routing the Reman defender host assembled on that plain.  Supreme horsemen, you see; and it's no small feat for horsemen to master a host of pikemen.  They have to be moving in many small units in coordination to  sway the pikes to where they fear to receive a charge, only to receive it elsewhere.  Terrible day for Reman mercenaries.  Wonderful advertisement for Al Muktar, though; went on to fight for coin in much further fields!" 

The day after that, Cestié once again manages to charm himself into the graces of a farming couple close enough to Remas to see its mighty walls, and towers.  And just as well - in the barn of this charitable couple's home, the Signore shows you and Bella one of the wooden struts for the left anterior wing, and a fine crack along is length.   "You see?  Mm.  The Stresses of such sustained flying.  I wonder if we can add strength to these struts if we bind them up with twine, without adding much weight.  Still, I'll have to ask you girls if you wouldn't mind terribly heading down to the city in the morning, and bringing back a replacement strut, and a big spool of bailing twine.  It's nothing to worry about - this is the kind of thing we knew would develop, but we couldn't carry spares for without carrying a whole second flying machine in our back pocket.  But there's nothing in the flying machine that can't be replaced in a moderately sized village, much less in great Remas, except the mithril gearbox.  I'll stay here tomorrow and give the machine a full service - I trust you won't be too enraptured by Remas that you'll forget to come back with the parts?" 
 
 Spoiler: OOC Thread Hyperlink 
The OOC thread is  here. 
 
 
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 

And just like that, Bella Collina became a small dot in the rear-view mirror before disappearing entirely.

Up here one was given a grand, sweeping view of the countryside, the wind pressing against Taalia's face as her steel helm was snugly sitting upon her head. Behind her was Bella, her best friend who was smartly dressed in clothes that made her seem like some type of explorer which, in a way, she was. It was very likely that the mad creation of Cestie was the first powered air-borne long distance flight performed by humans over any significant mileage, and Bella, though not an engineer or contraption-minded, was a part of that. Indeed, when they had taken off to the waving adulation of the town, Taalia had felt the ground move away from her feet and the free skies open up above, and her mind returned to those crows she had spotted in the forest when she had first escaped the Skaven, squawking their hidden opinions to each other before taking off to soar in complete freedom to where-ever they chose. Now she too had been given that same freedom, and as the world became both larger and smaller far beneath her and the great open blue of the sky was her highway, the shepardess snuck a look over her shoulder at Bella and offered her a bright grin.

The first day of flight was thankfully uneventful. Though some might find it anti-climactic, Taalia was relieved. There were no problems, no torn gears or broken parts, no ignominious and sudden end to their historical great adventure that saw them plummet out of the sky to certain doom pancaked across the uncaring earth. No no. They had flown into the air, across the great blue and then touched down near The Pigly for one final little shindig with the halflings, towards whom Taalia was rather fond. She stood protectively near the machine, sharing Cestie's instincts of not wanting it to be left alone to the wandering hands of the curious, before they eventually settled for the night on the small farm of a widower whose final years now had this extraordinary story to share. Taalia and Bella happily put the kitchen and its ingredients for work, for as much their hosts sake as their own. Though a degree of rations had been brought along as supplies in case they went down on the periphery of civilization, it was the type of bread-like hardtack that one would prefer to use only in an emergency. Thus, when given access to a stocked cookery, the girls whipped up a large, shareable bowl of creamy, mushroom gnocci and chicken Bolognese with sides of fireplace crisped garlic bread.

It was a shame that they did not touch down in Verezzo. As they sailed past, but safely out of missile weapon reach, Taalia smiled to herself when she saw the patched up hole in the wall marring the face of The Tower, knowing that that had been her handiwork. That she would then land into the town within a unique and miraculous flying machine, two memorable events in one year...well, the might just think she was showing off now.

The following night was much more rural in their respite, with the group touching down in an open field that was flat enough to permit take off the next day. A tent was erected, a fire created with a couple of the hardtacks being crumbled up into boiling water and joined with honey to create a simple, but nice-enough tasting porridge-like meal that they enjoyed under the quiet stars of Remas. Heeding Cestie's tale about the Arabyans out-maneuvering the Remans in a legend-crafting battle made Taalia ponder about the situation, her mind asking questions like why the Remans didn't have cavalry of their own or missile troops that could pick the larger mounted targets off and dull their attack. Whatever the case, their failure had resulted in a dark day of defeat and further plunder of the land. Arabyans - Taalia had never heard of them. As if the pirates, orcs, goblins, skaven and trolls were bad enough, now there were raids by these Arabyans too? It certainly was an incredibly dangerous world. Taalia looked over at her guns safely stored on the flying contraption and felt a little more secure.

When the trio touched down again the following day and were in the warm graces of a welcoming older couple whom would host their contraption within their barn, Taalia was smiles and gratitude as always, offering either her own services for any tasks around the house (such as cooking, animal care etc) while Bella likely did similarly with her skills as a seamstress. However, the more pressing matter of repair and maintenance was soon brought to the shepardess' attention, as Cestie pulled her aside to display the crack on a wooden strut that had to be repaired, lest the next flight be the final chapter on their tale. Hearing what must be done, Taalia turned to look at Bella.

 "Fancy a trip to Remas, then?"  

Taalia would withdraw her armor from storage and don it. Following this, both her pistols were placed into their holsters on her hips, her shield across her shoulders and over her backpack,  Daybreak  sheathed, a dagger in her boot and  Leonardo  held in her hands. Taalia's angular face was accentuated by the steel helm resting on her crown, as she peered out from under the rim with her attentive, large heterochromia eyes. Next to Bella, she looked like a bodyguard escorting a lady of eccentric and indelicate attire.
MrAbdiel
 As it turns out, she would fancy it very much.

 * * * * * 
It's a pleasant walk across the gentle downslope to the city walls.  At the direction of your hosts, you head north first to the water and follow it on the well packed trail at the side of the River Remo.  The impressive, broad river is the greatest you have seen; twice on your walk, a riverboat heading downstream overtakes you and precedes you to the river; the sailors on board almost slothful in the ease of the straight and easy charter.

Huge stone walls present themselves when you come to the city's gates; twenty men could not stand upon each other's shoulders and reach the crenelations, let alone the towers that sprout every eight feet or so along the ring.  To your right, the wall becomes a great bridge high enough for even masted warships to go beneath comfortably, or perhaps be barred by some mechanism hidden in the walls.  A number of ferry terminals along the river here provide a crossing that does not involve paying the tolls into the city itself; but that is much your destination.  The guards are dressed in bronze cuirasses and scaled armor, with tall spears.  Bella seems to recognize them at once, and seizes your arm excitedly as you crawl forward in the queue one person at a time.

 "They are Ricco's Republican Guard - one of the most famous mercenary companies in Tilea!  They played the heroes' role in the overthrow of Prince Mondo and the establishment of the Republic - the only other Republic in Tilea, along with Verezzo.  But shortly after, they ran into trouble with the new Republican Council and Ricco was imprisoned in their prison Tower - then his troops rescued him, despite being outnumber ten to one, they say!  They have companies that go across the world under 'Ragged Ricco'." 
 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
Mark off two  scellini  for passage into the city.  Bella will pay her own two  scellini !
 


Still, these brazen mercenaries and the great walls are not radically different from Verezzo.  It's only within the city where the differences become pronounced.

Immediately, you can see so much more of the city because the streets are not narrow affairs choked with the stacked houses of Verezzo, but a much wider sprawl streets, shops, and domiciles mostly only one story high.  You can see most of the city from inside the gate - or aleast, as much as can be witnessed up to the interior walls of the city which fence off the harbor to the west and the older parts of the city to the east.  Still, even with these impositions, you can see Remas is greater than Verezzo - perhaps, full of a fourth again as many souls as that grand place.

 "Oh, Taalia - I can't believe we are in this place!  Can you imagine it?  Two thousand years ago, this city was here - the Reman Empire in its prime, built upon the ruins of an ancient elven colony abandoned when their kingdoms left the world.  Myrmidia herself was born into the world here, and united peoples from Estalia to Luccini.  Buying the goods for repair should be easy - we ought to do so in the afternoon, so we are not carrying the goods around all day.  But we can see a fair portion of the city, if we move with purpose.  I insist we see the great Harbour - there is a market there we can buy what we need, so we can do so later in the day.  But what would you see while we are here, Taalia?" 

Having apparently walked these streets in her imagination already, Bella is able to give you some options of how to spend your time in Great Remas.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: Options! 
You can squeeze in three of these great sights and experiences, with a visit to the Harbour at the end.

 The Great Temple of Myrmidia : "Technically the  high priestess still calls the Magrittan temple the heart of the faith, but the Great Temple is where Myrmidia was born when she walked the world as a mortal woman.  They say they have the a relic, there - a great, stone egg from which she crawled as an infant.  Doesn't it sound fantastical?  But perhaps we could see it..."

 The Temple of Solkan :  "Solkan is a strange God - the Remans have upheld faith in him as the lawbringer and enemy of the forced of darkness for a thousand years, but I'm told he is falling out of favor now - but the temple!  Look at it, you can see it from here, even over the walls - it reaches nearly two hundred feet in the air at the points of its spires, looking over the ocean.  They spent three hundred years building it.  Taalia, can you imagine?  Three hundred years!  How many generations of masons and carpenters went by in families solely devoted to that one building, who were born and died with the project incomplete, content in knowing they were part of something so magnificent?"

 The Temple of Shallya :  "Shallya's temple, too, is wonderful here, I am told.  The heart of her faith is in Couronne, but the masterful Da Venzio painted wonderful frescoes in the temple which are still marvelled at as a wonder of the world three hundred years hence.  There are worse divines from whom to curry favor that Myrmidia's sweet and gentle sister."

 The Bridge :  "The bridge at the mouth of the harbor is two miles long and over six hundred feet wide - the city's most wealthy merchants and political factors live there.  I doubt they'd invite us in for tea - but it would still be very grant.  And they have leaning towers that bend off the sides of the bridge like magic!"

 The Great Coliseum : "You can't see it past that wall, but the Coliseum is over there!  Build by ancients in the old Reman empire whose mastery of stone and construction we even now don't understand.  Only Leonardo di Miragliano was able to oversee its reconstruction.  And it is still used - we could catch a show!  They have ogre gladiators, and all kinds of beasts -  Oh!  That reminds me..."

 The House of Roars : "I never got around to visiting the zoo at Verezzo, but Remas has the greatest collection of exotic beast from all over the world; some for fights in the coliseum, others just for study and keeping.  Signorina Vanvitelli oversees the house, and leads many of the expeditions herself.  Even some tyrant lizards from Lustria - they feed them in events in the coliseum, setting it up like a jungle and letting them hunt bulls before the audience.  I feel bad for the bulls - but nature is not kind... though it may be glorious."
 
 
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 


The two girls walked across the verdant field towards the towering edifice of stone and mortar that rose up before them. Taalia whistled as if she had just spotted a particularly attractive man, giving her friend a nudge on her shoulder as she gestured to the perimeter of Remas. The imposing front only reached higher and higher the closer they drew, before the massive gates were towering over them with armed guards waiting with open palms for the fee to enter such a well-fortified area.

Taalia was surprised by Bella's apparent knowledge of Ricco's Republican Guard, her friend seizing her arm and uttering what she knew in a hushed, excited whisper. It was quite cute honestly, and when the two passed the guards at the door, despite the acquisition of her money, Taalia gave a tip of her steel-helmeted head to a couple of members of the famed mercenary unit.

It was then that they entered the city proper, a wave of scents hitting Taalia's face like a silk-covered fist. Immediately she could detect the hint of cooking food on small, side-road stores, but so too came the odor of compressed masses and horse****. But the few distasteful aroma's aside, Taalia grinned as she looked down the bright lit and broad corridors of commerce that seemed to stretch as far as the eye could see, which was a particular distance owing to the lack of multistory buildings.

 "Oh, Taalia - I can't believe we are in this place! Can you imagine it?"
 
The Shepardess turned to her friend, a grin across her face as she put her arm around her shoulders and gave her a tight, affectionate hug. They were two disparate souls either lost or discarded by the world, but had found a companionship in each other.

 "Yeah ago I did not even know such a place existed!"  she answered, her voice a little louder to be heard over the passing throngs of people.

But where where where should they go?

 "Oh, we must go to the Great Temple of Myrmidia and pray together for a safe journey! And the temple of Shallya!" 

That was two, but where would be the third?

Taalia grinned.

 "The Great Coliseum!"  she shepardess announced brightly, becoming visibly excited over the idea of entering the grand arena and witnessing one of the famed bouts.

 "I will buy us cooked meat along the way, yes?" 




OOC:
 
 Spoiler 

 Currency: 
37 durii
8 scellini
 
MrAbdiel
  The Temple of Myrmidia 

The Great Temple of Myrmidia is, you realize, an example of what the temples in Verezzo are trying to be - not just a monument to man's stonecunning and devotion, but an almost transcendentally wonderful structure sufficient to cause a blurring of the lines between heaven and earth.  White stones form the majorty of the structure, with great panels of black stone where huge engravings will render a sequence from a famous battle with details picked out in masterful gold leaf, all over the interior walls.  Titanic columns on the temple's inner chamber morph into likenesses of the goddess, such that there are a dozen incredible columnic likeness of the goddess holding up the top parts of their columns and thus the ceiling.  They range in their states of attire and strength.  Here, she is armored and proud, holding the column up in full strength.  Elsewhere, she is younger, driven to her knees by the 'weight' of it, rendered in rags on the very edge of her power's end.  You have arrived after some manner of service has ended, and there is no shortage of Remans moving about the building and gazing reverentially at one piece of art or another, conversing with the black and gold glad acolytes and priests of the temple, listening in as a lectionary recites aloud from a sacred text (usually the  Bellona Myrmidia , but you see other similarly exalted texts on the shelf behind the reader - The  Bellum Strategia  and  The Book of War ).

Central to it all is a great carved dark wooden altar, and above it the artifact to which Bella is drawn with breathless fascination.

 "Oh my... it's... what can it be, except...?" 

Above the altar, suspended in a cradle of stone leaning from a twelve foot high arch of dark granite, is the relic.  It must certainly once have been a single whole stone, too large for you to get your considerable armspan around; a grey, distinctly egg shaped boulder with the kind of uniform looking exterior texture one expects from a riverworn stone rather than one carved with tools.  It has been split almost perfectly in half in a bisection tallwise, with enough gentle jaggedness to the break that your eyes instantly match the shape on one edge to where it must have married to the other when the egg was unbroken.  But it is displayed open with the interior facing out to the room; and within the 'shell', after about ten inches of stone either side, is are the two halves of a small cavity which is not grey stone at all, but full of glittering, violet crystals that completely cover the cavity's interior.  You cannot imagine this would be a comfortable conveyance for a child, but that seems like a problem for a goddess to navigate.

 "The Cradle of Myrmidia,"  offers a young initiate in a black robe nearby, as he sets down a wooden ladder he carried in his one remaining arm; the right sleeve hollow, folded, pinned neatly to the shoulder.  He smiles a little.   "From this vessel, the goddess crawled in her mortal form as a mere infant, to be found and adopted by kind Reman goatherders - and there, through her life, to learn of suffering and fragility; and then, to teach of war, and medicine.  It is your first time in this temple, yes?"    
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 


Taalia moved up the massive steps of the temple, the mere ascent filling the shepardess' with a divine warmth that prompted her to reach out and hook her arm around that of her smaller friend, Bella. Looking over and down at her, Taalia smiled happily, the giddiness of the moment getting to the tall girl as she barely restrained what she felt visiting this most sacred of holy sites with her best friend.

Lingering within the beautiful cavern of what she swore would be manes finest, most divinely-guided work of the temples innards, Taalia exhaled and went rubber-necked as she peered about and squeezed her friends hands. For a girl who was used to genius of engineering and architecture being directed towards the most evil purposes of the Skaven, to be in such a blessed and beautiful creation from mans devotion to higher purposes, was nothing short of momentous.

 "Bella look!"  Taalia would claim as she'd point up at a particular painting recreation of some holy figure, before  "oh Bella, see?!"  she'd gesture at another, before finally the pair were delivered by architectural design to the sacred relic that held the gestation of Myrmidia herself.

 "It is your first time in this temple, yes?" 

Taalia stared in wonder, her heterochromia eyes transfixed and her mind seemingly in a hypnotic gaze.

 "Singora?" 
 "Singora..?" 
 "Hmm?"  Taalia finally snapped out of whatever trance had gently held her attention, the towering girl blinking a little before offering a friendly, if goofy-cute smile.

 "Yes, yes Singore, my apologies, it's just..."  looking back at the pod, the violet crystals lining the within.

 "I just..."  she drifted off. A girl from another world arriving in Tilea, taken in and raised by humble farmers? No, any comparison was a conicidence, and borderline blasphemous.

 "Yes, yes it is our first time here, Singore. We are traveling through from Verezzo, and wished to pay our respects at and witness the beauty of Myrmidia's temple." 
MrAbdiel
  "Well - if you seek beauty, then I expect this hallowed place will not disappoint.  The goddess calls her people from across the world to this place; for peace, or wisdom, or to witness the beauty of it.  And, given that Myrmidia's words are not accessible on the page to those who cannot read, the works of Tilea's artists past tell much of her story in ways even those with no learning at all can witness.  Here, you see..."   The initiate gestures to one of the pillages.  The Myrmidia there seems younger; she braces the column above her on one arm layed across the top of her head, the other arm holding a young goat in its elbow and a herding staff in the hand.   "...The young Mymidia, raised by gentle goatherds; at this time, she knew no war at all, for she spurned violence like her sister.  But her parents were lost to tragedy; and her aunt and uncle who took her in came to hate her, and took every opportunity to spite her, working her dawn to dusk on their petty farm.  And when she came of age..." 

He turns his gesturing hand to another column; this, the one with the kneeling, and almost crushed Myrmidia in rags.   "...Even these cruel guardians gave her away to a worse fate still.  Her aunt and uncle gave her away to their local lord, hoping in gratitude he would ease their taxes.  But this lord was not a kind man, and he subjugated gentle Myrmidia to greater indignities..." 

His gesture moves on to another pillar, this Myrmidia standing tall and proud again, this time fending off the pressure of the column above on the flat of a round shield, a spear in the other hand held idle and close.   "...Until she could bear it no longer, and took a ceremonial spear from the lord's collection, and struck him down.  While not resenting her sister's sweetness, she came to understand that between the open hands of the peaceful and the good, and the claws of the monster and oppressor, there must be the calloused fists of the soldiers; and she henceforth never went about without a spear in hand.  From there, her legend grows.  Most know her only as a mighty general who united the southern kingdoms; but before this, she travelled and grew in wisdom.  It is Myrmidia who discovered the elven writings in the ruins of Tinea; and submitted them to the cult of her mother Verena.  And now, two thousand years later, all doktors in Altdorf and physiks in Kislev and healers in Luccini all learn their skill in anatomy from the drawings and text contained in those scrolls." 

The initiate gives a serene smile.  Perhaps he survived the loss of his arm due to having a medic who understood blood vessels and trauma from just those texts.  It seems likely that the medicine Antonuccia learned was from the same source; and that the Madre Angeletta's surgical knowledge, while alloyed to Ishean herblore and natural medicines, must echo from the same source, even if second hand.

 "I suppose I've had a long time to think about such things - but I'm still excited to see new travellers coming in.  If you have any questions, I shall be happy to try to answer them.  In the interim, don't mind me-..." 

With one armed coordination developed through hard practice, he hoists up the ladder, and lays it against the stone arch; and then climbs up without hurry until he is beside the cradle of the relic.  Leaning against the arch with his empty sleeve, he takes a silk cloth from his vestments and begins a ritual he must enact daily; carefully, gently, reverently dusting away any motes that would irreverently dare to settle on the stone and crystal of the sacred  Omphalos . 
 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
Are there striking parallels?  Yes.  Are they precise?  No, no...  Are they close?
 Well... Myrmidia had black hair, for one, so it's probably fine.

It's probably fine.

She's not Myrmidia; she's a very naughty girl.
 
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 

Taalia listened with awe in her eyes as the initiate informed her of the details of Myrmidia's 'mortal' life, her time of development and ingratiation into the society that adopted her with both displays of love and wickedness. The parallels to her own life aside - which were shamefully blasphemous to even broach - the shepardess let her mind wander to the cross-roads of the goddeseses own divinity and her mortal shell. That she were divine and heaven-wrought, yet required incubation in a crystalised chamber before further growth and development was curious to say the least, as one might expect a perfect being to already be formed as they should be, not a mote more or less. But...such a presumption rested on the gods being impeccable and infallible, which they did not seem to be. The Norscans had their own grim and bleak gods, the Empire had Sigmar, the Bretonnians had, as far as Taalia understood it, a Lady dwelling within a Lake and bestowing blessings and fortune to those who strove to find her favour, and here in Tilea there was the presence of Mor, Verena and Myrmidia, Taal and Rhya, a pantheon that anthropomorphized elements of life, helped to explain the facets of the world around them and gave men better natures to incline themselves towards instead of giving in to rapacious and greedy thoughts. Together they conceptualised death and the soul, knowledge and justice, industry and strategic conflict, fertility and nature, agriculture and mans connection with the wild. Truly, what else to life was there? Taalia had seen the... things  conjured forth from the black and twisted relationship of the Skavens connection to the world around them (or indeed, the world they had created), that thing that lurched forth from the pit of corpses, blood caking and streaking across its features as it hauled itself from a tear in reality to foster upon its disgusting followers an euphoric call to spiritual arms. If a peoples gods were a mirror of their collective nature, then the Skaven truly were irredeemably unfit to exist in this world, however merciful individual members may be.

Ah, but that was the clinch, wasn't it? Myrmidia's story was not just her own - it was  theirs . Divine and immortal as she may be, her developing years had been shaped by them, the mortals of the material plane, and eventually her scripture and virtues would mold us as much as we had shaped her during her formative years. Had she been given an easy experience during those initial two decades, would she have become a goddess hardened by wickedness and cherishing decency? Or would she have emerged as a much more care-free, happy and free-spirited soul whom believed in the best of everyone, a young, social butterfly goddess of drink, festivities and frivolity? If that were the case, then the gods were certainly not perfect, for a perfect being would be what they were, regardless of the environment in which they grew.

 "I suppose I've had a long time to think about such things - but I'm still excited to see new travelers coming in. If you have any questions, I shall be happy to try to answer them. In the interim, don't mind me-..." 

Taalia nodded, her heterochromia eyes still fixed on the incubating chamber before her, a sacred relic touched by the divine.

 "Yes, of course, thank you Singore. May Myrmidia bless your path,"  she smiled, before turning to Bella.

 "Shall we pray here together?" 

Should Bella acquiesce, then Taalia would follow through with the appropriate ritual at the designated area. She prayed for safe travels, she prayed for safe preservation of loved ones in Bella Collina, and she prayed for Mymidia's guidance.
MrAbdiel
 You and Bella spend some time in prayer at the Temple of Myrmidia.  Bella isn't much of a warrior, exactly; but the love of Myrmidia is so universal in Tilea that it hardly matters, and you settle into an alcove beneath a fresco of one of the Twelve Battles apparently described in detail in  The Book of War .  There is no music filling the space at the time; but there is the surrussus of others in alcoves nearby at similar prayers, and that commonality unites you to your fellow Tileans as you cast your thoughts back to Bella Collina, and to the road ahead.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
You can mark down  The Blessing of Myrmidia  as a trapping, even though it is obviously not a trapping in a physical sense.  Once, you can add 20% to your Weapon Skill for one turn.  Importantly, you can do this  after rolling ; so a judicious use might turn a post full of failed parries and missed riposts into a series of narrow deflections and telling hits.  You will not gain this automatically every time you visit a Myrmidian Holy Place - first taste is free.  But piety may increase the chances of receiving it again.
 

 * * * * * 
 The Temple of Shallya 

Shallya's temple is less of a monument to the enterprise of masonry while still being extraordinary and grand in its own right; a cathedral of white stone with extensive wings east and west so that the layout of the building is a cross whose crossbar is twice as long as the upright.  But the 'short' run, north to south, is the temple proper; the wings reserved for medical sequestration of victims of various plagues and unfortunate injuries under the care of the sisters here.  And they are primarily sisters; Shallya's initiates are strongly over represented by female applicants.  Bella asks the question to one of the sisters as you ascent the steps, even as you notice a longer, curved stone ramp that leads up to the same entrance for the benefit of lamer visitors than yourself.

 "There are men who serve the White Dove of Mercy, in fact; but they certainly fewer.  There are some monastries, but they also are sent frequently for itinerant service instead of temple attendance."   The very young initiate explains to you and Bella; a girl of no more than sixteen, glancing back over her shoulder to make sure the other, older sisters who are greeting visitors on the steps do not see as she leans in to whisper an addendum:  "Most often men who declare a desire to serve in the temple are doing so for a reason less than a divine calling.  And those who are genuinely called are though to be... distracting, for the sisters who serve." 

Bella gives you a wry look as you pass by the sister toward the entrance.   "Distracting... I'll bet." 

But within, the temple is certainly the equal in beauty to the Myrmidian temple.  There are fewer sculptures, and they are often rendered in wood instead of from stone; but every wall is a massive fresco depicting in startling beauty and clarity some divine event of healing, or martyrdom, or mercy from Shallya's historical servants.  And on the ceiling is the greatest painting of all: the feminine form of Shallya, tastefully shrouded from nudity by dancing, untethered silks and spiralling white doves descending from a thundercloud sky like an angel of light penetrating the mortal gloom.

In stark contrast to all this incredible beauty is the human suffering that is drawn to it.  The average societal stratum here is much lower than at the temple of Mymidia, and many of those visiting are doing so for immediate concerns - bandaged injuries, or pale fevered loved ones.  The side wings are the sanatoria, but the smell of chemical disinfectant and herbal incense is strong here, drowning out less pleasant medical smell that crowd to the edges of the temple.  At the rear of the temple, positively mundane compared to all the human created art, is a tall, finely wrought aviary cage containing hundreds of white doves, nests for them to brood in, hewn limbs from trees for them to perch upon.  The cage is open at some places towards its top, and the doves seem to come and go as they please.  It might be considered a sort of miracle that the birds are not, infact, caking every perchable surface in the temple with their own heartfelt offerings.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
In addition to any impressions Taalia might have, give me a Perception test.  +0%.
 
 
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 
 "Distracting... I'll bet." 

Taalia smirked knowingly in response to Bella's cheeky little bit of sarcasm. The girls had spent many nights together drinking wine, practicing their singing and cooking food as they gossiped about the town, spoke about their days and shared inner thoughts that only close friends would convey. As such, the shepardess had a  bit  of a better insight into her friend than anyone else would, and so when Bella asked her little question, the white-haired former slave smirked and rolled her eyes, until snickering softly at her wry little quip.

 "Thinking of applying?"  Taalia whispered in jest to her friend as they ascended the marble steps, before the girls eyes were drawn to the beautifully illustration commemoration that occupied the entire canopy illuminated above.

 "Ohhh, Bella..."  she uttered in an excited whisper,  "...to be able to paint ones devoted soul in such a way..."  she uttered, shaking her head in disbelief and reverence for the sheer craftsmanship required to not only devise such a monument but to conjure it into existence across the expansive, cavernous roof. Indeed, to even stand before the sculpted and painted magnificence was to almost feel small, tiny and insignificant, that no matter what one did they could never reach such heights as to even be considered worthy of standing before and basking in the heavenly glory that gazed down upon her across the luminous ceiling.

But, there was another sensation. Another emotion that dispersed across her body from the core of her soul: awe. Inspiration. This was not an imposing, concrete mountain designed to cower and demoralise onlookers into obedience. No, this was a rampart of upliftment, a cathedral to the mother of mercy and her serene ways that brought relief with a touch and cures to the ailments that had struck down a mans body or spirit. That was the difference. Other gods glared and intimidated followers into obedience. Myrmidia and Shylla, as per their sacred sites, offered forth guidance and inspiration. It was a subtle but powerful single degree of difference that would cast a great influence over any journey.

In many ways it was a distinction that was draped across the mantle of their own adventure to Nuln and Altdorf. Theirs was an expedition founded on optimistic pursuit of dreams and adventure, and though Taalia was not naïve enough to believe that there would not be trying and difficult times ahead, it was a frame of mind that differed significantly from one who put their first foot on the road and had the lure of money and women to compel them.

 "Come, show me how to pray to Shallya,"  Taalia whispered to her companion. If Bella was not familiar with the personal rituals, then the shepardess would politely attract the attention of an initiate who could demonstrate the means through which one offered whispered invocations to the celestial patron of the temple.
MrAbdiel
 Bella is pleased to teach.  She knows a peasants' prayer for most of the divine family - Old Father Morr, master of death and dreams; Verena, mistress of justice is truth; their world-weary and hardened daughter Myrmidia, and her gentle and balming sister Shallya.  Ishea and Karnas, too; but it is clear Bella's favorites are that quartet of classical gods even if she bears a wary respect for the earthier gods of field and forest.  Many of Verena's prayers, as you've learned, are long and verbose for the sake of fullness and clarity.  In the prayerbook you've read, most prayers are built around the third and second person neglecting the first - ( Verena, place  your  blessing upon  his  home ) - anticipating literate acolytes or laypriests praying over those who cannot read those prayers and haven't the afforded time to memorize them.  The Shallyan prayers that Bella has committed to memory, some of which are rendered in framed parchment on the walls in large clear letters, are first-to-second person ( Shallya, may  your  blessing fall upon  my  home ). They are smaller, simpler, and recited three times.  And in this case, they have tactile and material component s that Verena's, and Myrmidia's do not.

Bella prays with her wrists crossed in front of her stomach, palms up and fingers together so the blades of her hands form 'wings'' and the crossed thumbs a 'neck' in the likeness of a dove.  She also guides you to the cage of doves, for the purchase of an  intercessore .  This is a prayer combined with an offering, of sorts; Bella purchases one of the pretty, and very tame white doves from a handler for a single silver piece, returns with it sitting pliantly in her palms to the alcove of prayer you occupied before, and offers a short prayer over it before whispering to the dove the name of someone to whom she is seeking to direct the goddess's particular merciful attention.

 "Polo de Mirici, Clerk Guildsman of Bella Collina."   You think back on Polo, whose gave up his hands to blade and bludgeon in the battles against the pirates and in doing so clawed back to himself a modicum of his honour as a man to be relied upon in combat.  He had walked through canonfire like the rest of you, and Andreotto's fire magic had poured courage into him, enough to find his own.  You had fought both in that grevious combat, and also exhaustingly in the aftermath to save lives, and limbs; Polo's hands among them.  The last time you saw him, the wounds were closed and healing well; but they were not yet safe from late infection completely.  So Bella releases the dove, or rather launches it with a generous upward toss; and it takes to wing, circles the interior of the temple, and then flies out one of the high windows into a shaft of sunlight and the sky beyond, presumably to deliver this prayer directly to Shallya's ear.

A cynic would find such a ritual foolish.  For one, it is clear that the same doves purchased come flying back in some time later to their handlers, are rewarded with feed, and placed back in the cage.  In this way, people wander in and give money to the Shallyans a bird they don't even get to eat, and then give it back for free.  It's almost a rental.  Furthermore, there does not seem to be an absolute value to these birds.  While you are there, you witness both a wealthy looking young man and the paramour on his arm purchase thirty of the doves in display of ostentation; and unless his extended family is struck with plague  or he is an uncommonly thoughtful and caring fop, he has not invested in each of these birds an individual task.  The duration of the prayer seems much like Bella's, so perhaps this mighty armada of avian angels carry between them a single  very important  name.  Not long after that, a coalition of fourteen ragged and shabby beggars shuffle in together with a comfort that suggests they are used to the routine; and they scrape together from their collective pockets enough copper to sum to a  scellini  and a single dove among them.  They huddle over it together for a long time with one of the initiates holding it for them (they seem almost ashamed of their dirty hands and definitely reluctant to stain the bird in some way, opting instead to make the prayerful dove-hands for the duration).  They confer quietly long enough that, when this dove is launched, you half expect it to stumble and strain through the air with the over abundance of prayers heaped onto its feathery flanks.

 "If the gods aren't able to tell which supplicants are making meaningful sacrifice and which are giving only a miser's share, then they can't be all that godly, I suppose.  And the money they collect must be essential for their charity and medicines, I have come to figure.  Oh - I'll get another, while we're here.  For Ernesto." 

As Bella slips off to buy another dove, you continue to take in the temple - but your eyes are drawn to a group of young men who make their way into the temple helping a shuffling, heavy set older man who leans on the young men with one arm and holds his gut with the other.  They make their way to an alcove featuring a plaster sculpture of the goddess; a bust with arms additionally features, with hands crossed in the dove pattern.  The young men and their older friend array themselves around the alcove obscuring it from view; and your instincts tell you that something about they way they meaningfully array themselves in an overlapping line so no one can see past them is an action performed with forethought.

In just a couple of minutes, as Bella is returning bird in hand, your suspicion is vindicated. Prayer complete, the young men begin helping their shuffling friend away... With a small change.  The image is not the same as it was before they got to it; instead of Shallya's palms open and flat in supplication, they are upright; with pinky and ring fingers tucked down, index and middles crossed.  Since no man is capable of altering a plaster rendition after it has been set, you can only imagine the fellows smuggled in this admirable quality of imposter under the 'sick' man's robe, perhaps braced by his arm; and are taking the original out the same way.

It's a strange theft.  For one, it's a plaster figure; not a gold or even wooden one.  If its value can be measured in gold, it is no more gold pieces than can be counted on the upright fingers of the imposter-image's hands.  Secondly, the arrangement of fingers seems meaningful.  You've seen that before - on your longest held possession in this world, not counting the crooked knife you pulled from your back as you fled to the surface.  The little snarl of plant roots that looked to you like a hand with its five fingers in just this arrangement is still with you; and now, you see it again; brought to bear by six mischievous fellows who are about to get away with an incredibly petty heist indeed.

 
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 

Ignorant, but well-meaning Taalia self-consciously watched her friend and attempted her best to mimic the movements of the ritualistic prayer that they were both offering to the gentle and merciful Goddess of the temple. Her efforts were mostly on point and followed through, but there were a few instances where her replication were less than impressive. One such occurrence arose when the time came to perform the requisite hand signal, the shepardess looking at Bella's interwoven fingers and attempting to do likewise, only for her hands to mix and mash together in an ever more convoluted serious of gestures that might have earned a stifled snicker from her friend. Visibly growing irritated, Taalia narrowed her eyes and grunted softly in frustration before simply holding up her hands before her, palms facing her, and crossed them past each other until her thumbs met. Seeing the general shape of a...bat? Something with wings, Taalia brought it down into her lap, rose her flanking sheet of fingers, pricked her thumbs upwards and smiled once and nodded in satisfaction that she had  mostly  managed to replicate this divine signal.

However, when the four youths and their portly, older ringleader attempted their theft, Taalia had actually been considering offering the small crowd of hobo's a gold coin. This temple was a sacred realm of mercy and charity after all, but the girl couldn't help remember back to her time in the Oxen Quarter of Verezza and how her efforts to provide some respite to the less fortunate only seemed to attract  more  people who felt themselves worthy of her charity and extended their hand with an open palm to receive as such. The experience had been... conflicting  for Taalia, to say the least. Conflicting in that she genuinely wanted to give assistance to those who needed a helping hand from those around them, much as she had when she had emerged from the Skaven Under-Empire, and those who were merely lazy or lived in a fantasy world of victimhood where their poor situation was everyone  else's  fault and if they were just simply  handed  some money then they would absolutely spend it wisely and all would be better for it. The problem was discerning between the two groups, for the latter could easily string together some sob story that would pull at the heart-strings and camouflage them as a member of the former camp.

Perhaps it was better if she did not intervene with coins, Taalia thought to herself. Besides, the group had managed to cobble together enough of a donation to purchase the favour of a single dove. Surely the gods would see into the hearts of those gathered and be able to separate the deserving from the freeloader.

It was then that Taalia spotted the theft taking place, her mind needing to undergo several reverse-steps to make sure what she was registering was truly what was taking place. Surely this group were not  stealing  from a holy site like this? And from a goddess of mercy and healing?! A group of homeless beggars went to the trouble of pooling their resources and handing it over to the church in return for just a sliver of divine mercy, yet here these four arrogant bastards were in an act of blasphemous desecration for their own petty gain?! The longer Taalia beheld this ruse the more her blood boiled, and it was only a mental reminder that this was holy ground that stayed her gloved hand from moving to the hilt of her sword, drawing it and screaming bloody thievery.

Plus there was  something  about the silhouette the new fingers of the statue created, something about it that drew Taalia's mind years back in time to that oddly shaped root she had discovered by the river in the first twenty four hours of her freedom...

Pursing her lips, Taalia started to move, her trajectory carried by her long legs that ensured she managed to intercept the men and place herself between them and the temples exit.

 "Excuse me, Singores?"  Taalia spoke, wearing that bright smile of hers, despite carrying two guns on her hips, a sword, a shield, clearly wearing mail armor, a steel helm upon her head and a blunderbuss over her shoulder - she had a winning, infectious smile.

 "I am a traveler through these parts, and I am starting a tradition where I offer respect to the gods with the locals of every place I visit. Would you fine singores do me the honour...?"  she started, before her eyes moved over to the nearest initiate, or group there-of.

 "Singora? Singora?!"  Taalia spoke, projecting her sonorous voice to gain their attention.

 "These men have said they wish to pray with me, would you please come over here and lead us in procession?" 
  OOC:  
Readying her action to draw her blunderbuss on the group if they try to make a run for it.
MrAbdiel
  "Oh, ah, that's not -"
"Bless you, but -"
"Really, we can't-" 

They struggle to object without drawing attention to themselves, flustered and falling over themselves; but when you call over a sister of mercy they deflate and look despondent. Your readiness to produce a weapon immediately feels overguarding; when discovered by the sister, the crew of miscreants adopt the demeanor not of thugs backed to a wall, but children caught in the act of dipping a finger into the honey jar.
 
"What is - Oh!  Giuliano Mancini, you ribald sneak!  What did you do? Undo it at once!" 

The middle aged Shallyan seems to recognize the older man, and immediately charges up with a wagging finger and scolding attitude."

 "Ah, ah, alright, alright; peace, peace woman!  No harm, no harm."   The younger men glower at you, having spoiled their fun; and get about undoing what they have done.  The 'fat' man, not fat at all but indeed clutching the sculpture under his cassock with a cushion over it, releases the Shallyan likeness from his keeping and the young men place the original article back, taking the false one back.   "Very well, Ambra.  Just a jest, of course; I suppose we'll take this one and have it smashed so you needn't fear our toothless humor again." 

"That's Sorella Ambra to you, you... you  cheeky  man!  Man of such... such cheek!  And you can't destroy it, it's a likeness of Shallya, however unfortunate you have rendered it for you deed.  Leave it behind!"

Giuliano has found his mood again, and begins wheeling and dealing.  "Well, now you're robbing me. You can buy it, if you like.  Say - five  scellini , at such a discount considering our history."

Sorella Ambra is on the prettier side of middle age, but her face flushes red and her blue eyes nearly bug out of her head when he makes this pitch.   "You scoundrel!  I will pay you for it in the medium of not having you dragged up a tower and flogged for your ceaseless, petty blasphemies!  Get out, get out!" 

She starts pushing at him; shorter and weaker and not at all made for battle, her ferocity is much like that of a small dog that, confronted by a larger dog, seems unaware that it is small.  But the ribald  cheeker  raises his hands in surrender, laughing gently and encouraging his confederates to keep their chins up as he allows himself to be chased out of the temple.  Sorella Ambra returns to you, composing herself, looking down at the cross-fingered imposter statue left behind; and then up to you, and Bella clutching the dove by your side.   "Well... Thank you,  signorinas , for spotting them in the act.  I suppose we'll just have to put this... Erm.. In the back."  
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 

Taalia narrowed her eyes suspiciously at the motely crew as they squirmed on the spot at her apprehension of escape. It was clear to any of them now that she  knew . But what she didn't know was the frat-boy like innocent and playful nature of their thievery, clearly intended as mischief rather than self-serving enrichment.

Indeed, when the initiate drifted over with her diminutive stature containing within it the heart of a lion, Taalia covered her mouth with her right hand and stifled a laughter into it. Her demeanor noticeably softened, going from judicious to merely entertained as she watched the little charade unfold before her. When the fellows were leaving, Taalia had a smile across her face as if she were a class-mate tut tutting a chastised class clown, but finding the antic amusing nonetheless. She even snuck a look over at Bella, her cheeks now brushing a soft shade of red as she shook her head a little.

 "Singora, singora..."  Taalia gently grabbed the attention of the initiate, a bewildered smile across her face.

 "Please, explain, who were they? Why such scallywagery?" 
MrAbdiel
 The sorella huffs, and gestures to the false statue once more helplessly, then forces a hospitable smile to answer your question.   "Oh, just Giuliano Mancini and his Ranaldites.  They do this nonsense often enough out of their own idiot piety; mostly here over other temples because they know if they tried this business in Mymidia's temple, they'd be lucky to come out with enough fingers left to cross." 
 "Ranald's work?"  Bella asks, as curious as you in this matter,  "I fear I'm too provincial to know much of Ranald at all, sorella.  Is he to be... feared?" 

But the sister waves the idea away with one hand.   "No, no... Scorned, perhaps; but not feared.  Ranald is the lord of scoundrels, and sneakers, and the downtrodden who most need to appeal to fortune.  Naturally, that is a wide swathe of humanity.  There are gentleman pickpockets, and striving beggars, and professional crime lords, and merry travelling do-gooders who all give homage to Ranald; and having no real temples or episcopate, no one exists with authority to gainsay who is 'really' serving him.  But most of my time dealing with Ranaldites has left me with the impression that they are generally good, if on the rougher side of good.  They like to antagonize our temple like young boys pull the girls' hair out of idiot affection.  Shallya, after all, is the reason Ranald is a god.  Or so they say.  The legends vary.  There are two gods who have known mortal lives; three, if you are generous.  If you are inclined to consider the moustache-men of the Empire, they have their God, Sigmar, who fought befriended the dwarves and fought a great war against orcs, and drove the Norscans into Norsca, and did many deeds, so they say; and as reward, his god, Ulric, raised him up to glory.  Of course, you can go to Luccini and find they worship Lucan and Luccina; many tribes worship their ancestors as gods, but few have an Empire and a record of miracles to back it, like Sigmar does.  But Sigmar was a man, who became a god by deeds.  And Myrmidia was a goddess who became mortal by choice to gain wisdom, lived, and then died; and the tears of her sister Shallya falling on her face restored her to divinity.  But Ranald's legends say he conducted some ruse to gain Shallya's attention, feigned a suffering death, and when she came to weep for his death, he drank up her tears and stole a morsel of godhood for himself.  Other stories say he caught her in a trap where she raised him to godhood to avoid marrying him; and there's another where he wins godhood from Morr in a bet, by making the old man smile.  But whatever tale it is, Ranald is also sliding into the pantheon of mankind on his rump before the curtain can fall; and usually, Shallya's kindness and generosity is exploited for it." 

The sorella looks back at the statue, vexed.   "...And now I have this; with Shallya's face, so I can hardly destroy it; but with Ranald's sign, so I can't honor it.  Is this the joke?  Hrmph..."   She rubs her temples, and calls a favor from a couple of temple-goers to carry the statue to storage for her.

Bella looks to you, as the scene returns to its placid equilibrium.   "I should like to see what temples there to the foreign gods, in the places we go.  Sigmar, in the Empire; and Ulric too, though I understand his and Myrmidia's are rival priesthoods.  Bretonnia has their Lady, too - though I am not sure which Lady she is, whether she be Shallya or some other.  The elves have all their own gods, too; and the dwarves.  I wonder if halflings have gods.  And I wonder if their gods rely on the human gods, like the halflings themselves." 

The dove in her hand coos.  The seems to have forgotten it, until it does.   "One more prayer, and then the Colosseum?"  
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 

Taalia snickered, shook her head and rolled her eyes when she learned more about this 'Ranald' fellow, and the plethora of his followers, from miscreant to loveable rogue. It seemed odd that such a deity would attract a base of worshipers that were so different in their philosophical or personal outlook on life. Myrmidia, Verena and Morr were rather self-contained and structured. You wouldn't find a crime lord worshiping Myrmidia with some weak excuse that his strategical dealings were the purview of a godess such as she. But yet, that'd what Ranald cleaved unto himself; a band of adherents who could be entertaining and likeable swashbucklers, to petty thieves to even more dark-hearted and sinister individuals that looked out only for themselves. When Taalia had earlier considered deities being an anthropomorphic reflection of the virtues that a society venerated, perhaps Ranald was in a similar avenue, only his mirror was on an individual rather than collective scale. That way, even the do-gooder wanderer and the callous thief could see themselves within him. Maybe this was a warning? Those who failed to gatekeep the virtues of a deity risked them becoming so diluted that anyone could claim membership with any weaselly rationality.

 "I should like to see what temples there to the foreign gods, in the places we go. Sigmar, in the Empire; and Ulric too, though I understand his and Myrmidia's are rival priesthoods. Bretonnia has their Lady, too - though I am not sure which Lady she is, whether she be Shallya or some other. The elves have all their own gods, too; and the dwarves. I wonder if halflings have gods. And I wonder if their gods rely on the human gods, like the halflings themselves." 

Taalia smiled at her friend, "we'll offer prayer and tokens at a shrine for each!" she pledged collaboration with Bella's quasi-pilgrimage.

 "One more prayer, and then the Colosseum?" 

The Shepardess nodded, hooking her arm with Bella's in agreement with her plan.

 "I'll shout you a tender shank for the stadium!" 
MrAbdiel
  The Colosseum 

A tremendous work of stonecraft and engineering insight, the Colosseum is another of those works that must have taken more than the lifetime of its inceptors to build.  Indeed, if the stories are true, then it escapes builders even today how it was constructed in the first place; only the legendary Leonardo di Miragliano able to compose and execute a plan to restore it.  The great arena is surrounded by stadium seating under huge canopies of shading canvas that ripple and flap in the wind.  You walked through great stone archways and a long tunnel painted with frescoes of gladiators in combat, before you and Bella and a number of other violence-seeking pilgrims emerged into the interior to find seats.  It is not packed to the gills, you are glad to see; the seating moderately full.  The lamb shank vendor explains why, as he hands over the steaming fare to you and Bella.

 "Well, the big exhibitions - when they bring out the Carnosaur, or a giant scorpion or such - those fill the place, no trouble.  Or when it's a matter of honor between competing aristocrats, or a bunch of ogres who are told not to hold back.  Really the more lethal it is, the more people want to see it.  But this is a 'friendly'; though I wouldn't be fooled.  These companies go at each other pretty fiercely, when they're inter-state bouts.  They're just not.. deliberately lethal." 

A cheerful fat man with a marvelous quaff of hair begins hollering from the arena floor; his impressive lungs piercing through the riot of conversation and drawing attention to him.

 "Signores and Signoras, welcome! Welcome to the mighty Colosseum!  To those first visiting - prepare your eyes for spectacle and brutality!  For those returning - welcome back, ye bloodthirsty savages! And to the Maiden of Battles - may our games please you!" 

The crowd gives an affirmative cheer; not raucous, but responsive indeed.

 "Today - Today, and this hour, a much forecast deciding match for two grudge-bound gangs; with each team taking one of the preceding games, it is the victor of today's match up that will carry the right to face the Miraglianan Menace in the Supreme Final of the season's league!"
 
The Remanese boo heartily at the mention of the 'Miragleanan Menace'; but the boo dissolves into general affirmative hooting and clapping as a dozen arena attendants spill out of doors onto the sand floor and start seizing hidden levers, chains and ropes, and go about operating some series of hidden mechanisms within the floor and walls.  As they do so, the announcer introduces the combatants.

 "Respendant in Red and White, returning champions of last season's league and - dare I say - hometown heroes, I give you - from the Company  'Ricco's Republican Guard', the Ravagers of Randovalio! " 

Eight strong, tall, lean mercenaries wander into the arena; each a man of violence without question.  Dressed in uniform leather armor with red and white tabards and ornamental tassels, they do indeed have the crowd's affection - the whooping and cheering for them is enthusiastic and sustained; and the leader of the gang - Randovalio, perhaps - raises a big hand in salute to the crowd's adoration even as he leads his group to the weapon racks crowded under one wooden shelter at the end of the arena.

 "...And returning after last week's shock upset to tie up the present series, in the golden yellow tabards, my Remanese friends, please honor our republican cousins, from the Verezzan company  'The Golden Gallants', it's Luigiano's Lancers! " 

Jogging out opposite the Remanese combat team are eight hardy and broad shouldered men in golden yellow tabards and leather armor; though of the eight, the coloration of their trim and ornamentation varies from red, yellow, blue and green.  Like their counterparts, they head to the weapon racks; six of their number start preparing to enter the fray; two get about stretching and waiting on a wooden bench - presumably to substitute for injuries.

The Verezzan team receives less honor from the crowd.  The Remanese boo and jeer - unflattering suggestions about the habits of inland shepherds are among the calls from those around you.  But even with that distraction, you realise with amazement that you know one of them.

Daniele da Floriglio was at the  Pigly  with a number of the  Golden Gallants  on your first night there, on your way to the city.  You remember mixing with the crowd and buying drinks in exchange for gossip - the middle aged, middle sized, middlingly handsome sergeant was an above average conversationalist, and unlike many other drunken patrons, had no secondary expectations of your buying them a drink.  Somehow, he has found his way here, representing his mercenary company in this bloodsport; though he sits on the bench as one of the reserves, and the team is led by a massive, bronze skinned young man who must be Luigiano.

You and Bella watch as the attendant's labors start to produce fruit; the cranking, pulling and hauling they are doing is changing the landscape of the arena, activating what must be mechanical platforms that slide away in panels and are replaced by others our of the walls or floor that add new texture and hazard to the arena.  Now, in the middle of the circle, there is a yard drop to a tar filled circular basin which is rapidly filling with water.  Either side of it, at the 'halfway' mark of the arena, is a pillar of wood with four long wooden arms that rotates lazilly in place around chin height on a normal man.  And a final twist is added to the combat when a brawny dwarf with a shining bald head, a long grey beard, and undoubtedly multiple human lifetimes of combat experience wanders into the pit, tosses a leather ball into the water, and then turns to shake his fists to the crowd. The announcer offers this non-clarifier:

 "And of course, as with all decider matches... it's another Spud round!" 

Everyone except you and Bella seem to know what this means.

  "Spud!  Spud!  Spud!  Spud!  Spud!"  

Your shank vendor has wandered off to other clients, now; Bella can only look at you with bewildered excitement at all the happening as the combatants prepare for war with each other.  And Spud, apparently.

 "Taking bets!  Taking bets, here - one scellini gets you one and 'arf, on the Remanese - one gets you three, on the away team!  Taking bets, taking bets; match's more fun when there's something on the table, signores; taking bets!" 

Bella frowns a little; her soft nature immediately causing her to feel for the Verezzans, even if she were not inclined to in the first place.   "They certainly don't think much of the Gallants.  Didn't they say they won the last match?  It must have been very close, and the first of the three very one sided..." 

The bookie - a halfling with a good shouting voice,  a tray of vellum slips, a lockbox on his belt and an excellent eye for faces - hunts around the stand nearby, taking bets large and small from the Reman crowd about you.

It's not like betting on them will improve their chances of winning.  And as best you can tell, the odds are calculated so that no matter who wins, the real winner is the bookie themselves.

But on the other hand, you might never be here again... 
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 
  The Colosseum 
  
Taalia's eyes widened and her grip around her friends hand drew tighter still as the pair of Verezza girls emerged into the vast cavern of the Reman Colesseum. Already the crowd, half full as they were, had a wave-like echo from their voices that rolled around the breadth of the arena that gave the scene a life and spirit of its own that had already drawn its mantle about Taalia's heart and threatened to whisk her away into the fantasy of its grandeur.

 "Ohh Bella, look!"  Taalia would gesture to one particular architectural spot of brilliance, before another caught her attention and drew a pointed, gloved finger with another  "and there!"  Next to her shorter and seemingly calmer friend, Taalia looked like an over-grown child with eyes wide and nerves alight with excitement as the two took their seats in the bleachers. With marinated lamb shank in one hand and a purchased flagon of lager in the other, the shepardess fit in as an enthusiastic spectator, having removed her steel helmet and placed it at her feet so that the sun would not glint off of its polish nor over-heat its precious, human contents within. As such, the girls braided and styled white hair was on display and her scars were visible as she excitedly gobbled up the delicious, tender and flavoured meat and guzzled down her honeyed ale.

 "Look!"  she gently nudged Bella when the first and apparently local team emerged onto the field, their handsome and smart uniforms speaking of their discipline their violent trade required. Following them came those from Verezza, their team!, and among their number was a familiar face that Taalia had to squint at for several seconds before recognition clicked in her brain and her eyes widened. For a brief second her mind was propelled back to that initial trip she had made to Verezza, the very first little adventure she had undertaken solo, and the fun time she had had at The Pigly in the dispensation of drinks and sharing of gossip. The very recollection of this event conjured recent memories of both their departure from Bella Collina as well as the stop-over after her release from prison. Very warm memories indeed, fond motes in her mindseye that transformed Taalia's expression from one of shock to a simple, sincerely happy smile.

 "La vittoria dei Golden Gallant!"  Taalia shouted happily with that infectious beam across her face, her spirit clearly seized in the grip of the nature of this arena and the endless competition within its heart. If she received a few dirty or surprised stares as a supporter of a foreign team and outing herself as a Verezzan, she didn't care. The guns on her hips and blunderbuss by her side would be deterrent enough for anyone but the most drunkenly thin-skinned idiot.

Such was Taalia's apparent surge of adrenaline and joy at her current station, when the cheery halfling wandered down the stairs with shouts to advertise his clans booking, the shepardess set her ale down and drew her gloved hand up to grab his attention. She didn't click or whistle at him. Even if she were in an advanced state of inebriation the girl would not be so rude to a people she had an affection for, but when she had seized his notice, Taalia reached into her purse and withdrew  three duro , hiding the coins in her palm as to not advertise to anyone around her how much she had on her person, as she surreptitiously 'shook hands' with the halfling.

 "On the Golden Gallants!"  she beamed.
MrAbdiel
 Three duro is a non-trivial bet!  It gains whistles of amusement from the folk around you who notice, along with some mutters of contempt for your choice of team to back.  Still, it would be wrong, perhaps even superstitiously bad, to refuse to back one's home 'team', even if the nature of the team play has yet to be revealed.  This is a combat match, after all.  Surely, it's more about beating each other to submission than about a game?  Yet the Remanese have found a way to have both.

The first thing you notice when the brawl begins is how fundamentally different the way these men fight.  These are small squads who have relentlessly trained with each other in small unit tactics and drilled all their fundamental combat disciplines to the bedrock.  Your battles - against the troll, against the mutants, against the goblins, against the pirates - have always been alongside scrappy individuals, or militia volunteers - people who know how to fight, but are not professional fighters. The same is true even of the enemies you fought - the goblins, troll, and mutants weren't organized by any stretch of the imagination.  And the pirates were all more accomplished fighters than the Bella Collinans - but not  warriors , exactly.  Less competent fighters would make for a short match that was over quickly.  Their skill at defending themselves and each other, combined with limited, low-lethality weapon choices of short birch cudgels, crook-topped staves, lengths of rope with knotted ends they swing to trip each other, and the normal compliment of fists, feet, elbows and foreheads, sums to extend the match to a longer, more dynamic brawl where occasionally one member of a team will be laid out and dazed, and they will be hauled off by attendants as a substitute runs in to take his place.

Soon, the nature of the combat is revealed.  A panel of five judges are watching the whole thing from the front row of seats, presumably tallying up approval of the teams martial performances.  Some things seem to be 'illegal' in such a match.  You see both teams seem to be observing some limitations - they don't attack each other from behind, or strike for the neck, or attack a man who is down.  They also dive into the pool and wade through, fighting vigorously for possession of the ball - the grasp of which doesn't seem immediately meaningful, until  Spud  the barrel chested dwarven veteran with thick leather gloves comes into play.  Spud's whole purpose appears to be to support the fighter who is holding the ball.  When it changes hands, Spud changes sides; immediately tackling, punching, disarming and in two cases  suplexing  those who threaten the ball carrier.  The fighters try to ward him off, but he both seems to be a superior combatant in a higher order entirely (fighting without a weapon, for starters), and not 'points effective' as an expenditure of energy - especially since he could be on anyone's side with a turnover.

In the first 'segment' of the game, things progress quite evenly.  The teams swap over their players to their reserves swiftly and often to let their members recover and to become steadily more battered and bruised in roughly equal proportion.  One of the members of the Remanese team takes a cudgel to the forehead so square he is knocked right now and is carried off the field to recover, leaving the Remans with only one reserve and a tighter rotation.  With this, they seem to lose the edge in the second round; the Remanese team growing agitated, spending less time in control of Spud, and failing to legitimately take any of the opposing players out of the game until right before the ringing of a brass bell to register the end of that round.  At that moment, a big, red faced Reman collides with one of the Verezzan lads so hard the audible separation of his shoulder bones reaches you in the sands and he collapses to the ground, howling and broken.  The crowd convulses with mixed feeling - a good 'break' for their team, but not the most honorable one.  An attendant calls this strike foul, as it came from a charge connecting just behind the victim's shoulder; and dismisses the red faced Reman from the field.  The Reman disagrees and, in a fit of peak both monsterous and childish, turns his cudgel on two of the Verezzans who are crowding around their injured team mate and not at all ready to defend themselves, outside of the timing of the match.  The brawl that follows involves the entirity of both teams in a disgraceful whirl of limbs and weapons, but when broken up, the outcome is that the Reman team has lost one man to injury and one to disqualification, so their fielding team for the third and final segment is the six bedraggled men remaining.  But the Gallants have lost one man to injury and two to unconciousness - being tended to by able medics off the field - and their team rounds out to five... one less than they need, to legally field a team.

The crowd boos, as the attendants argue with the Gallants.  They want to win; but they don't want their day at the games truncated by a technical loss of this kind. They want to see more heads kicked, and more teeth fly.  They want more  Spud.   You can't hear the conversation ongoing below between the remaining Gallants and the attendants, but it is headed and desperate; accompanied by many wild gesticulations.  Tilean gesticulation is something you well understand by now - they feel cheated, as if the surrounding city is in come way culpable, and they are demanding the attendants see what they consider reason rather that adhering to their rulings.

 "Ah, pity, pity!" , says an only slightly drunk older Remanese gent who is, for the second time now, mistaking Bella for the granddaughter sitting on the other side of him as he rambles,  "Lost three fighters to a string of fouls - entitled to a reserve substitute, but 'course all the Gallants are lined up in the villages on the Pavonan border, not hanging out in a Reman alley waiting for their miracle debut, har har!  Pity, pity; if it'd happened the other way 'round, they could've annointed any bloody Reman they liked; but fighting Verezzans are in low supply, alas..." 

You see Daniele da Floriglio pacing in a circle, rubbing his bruised face with his palms, gazing up in settling despair at the booing crowd; seeing no option in his future but to forfeit. 
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 

Taalia was drawn up in the spectacle, the spirit of sport and competition seeping into her mind and animating her in ways she would have otherwise thought of as undignified and silly. After all it was just a silly game. A bunch of men in uniforms hit each other with sticks while a mad dwarf changed allegiances in accordance with possession of a 'spud', and to this end they could become grievously injured, even killed.

But it wasn't  just  a game! It was a  competition ! It was tribal warfare at it's most friendly, where lines were drawn, flags were waved and allegiances were solidified as  our  guys beat the hell out of  their  guys, thus proving  we  are better! And this rampant affiliation drew its influence across the whole crowd as Taalia cheered and boo'ed, covered her eyes, buried them against Bella's shoulder at times and even drew both arms up when cheering during a particularly extravagant display.

But then - disaster. Taalia's eyes were wide and her gloved hands covering her open, gasping mouth as the seemingly youngest lad of the team took a body-charge from one particularly dishonourable and goonish member of the Reman team, the  Crack!  heard from even where she sat in the bleachers and her mind immediately returning to poor Ernesto and his back injury that might leave him a cripple for life. Seeing this clear violation of good sportsmanship, Taalia cupped her mouth with her hands and "Boo!!" loudly with others, before the rest of the scrap unfolded and revealed the terrible price for ill-discipline.

Disaster. Again!

Both teams were badly mauled, with the Remans almost coming off worse. But then the rules factored into it, and a quick head count revealed the shocking truth: the Verezzans were down one. They would  have  to forfeit.

 "Ah, pity, pity! Lost three fighters to a string of fouls - entitled to a reserve substitute, but 'course all the Gallants are lined up in the villages on the Pavonan border, not hanging out in a Reman alley waiting for their miracle debut, har har! Pity, pity; if it'd happened the other way 'round, they could've annointed any bloody Reman they liked; but fighting Verezzans are in low supply, alas..." 

Taalia turned her head to take in what the rambling old drunk was blabbering, the sight of his own grand-daughter peering in irritation with narrowed eyes in her grandfathers direction a doubtless source of comedy for another time. But if what he said was true...

There were times when people were faced with the choice of playing it safe, or doing something incredibly stupid, brave, rash, opportunistic or a mix of all four. When she had thrown that poison wind globe back in Rashabangs workshop was one time. When she had charged the troll had been another. Blowing a hole open in the wall of The Tower and then waving down to the people was likely the most recent.

And this was another.

Taalia didn't think, she just acted.

 "Hold my ale!"  she said to Bella, gesturing the mug out for her friend to seize before she stood upright and strode to the railing where she leaned over it and bellowed down to the beleaguered man.

 "Daniele!" 
MrAbdiel
  "W-wha..?"   Bella dutifully takes your ale as you storm off to as close to the field as you can get.  Daniele holds his face in his hands for a moment, lost in his thoughts - but eventually your voice penetrates the din of the crowd and the middle-aged gallant's eyes flash with recognition - you are a hard figure to forget.  He jogs over.

 "Taalia?  Taalia, right?  We met at the Pigly - but you were caught up in that mess of a trial, after, weren't you?"  
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 

Taalia wore her bright and infectious smile. It was nice to be recognised! He even remembered her situation following her departure from The Pigly! How sweet.

 "I'm back from the dead, wooo!"  she rose her hands up and twiddled her fingers.

But she quickly corrected herself. Now wasn't the time for humor. Now was the time for action.

 "Do you need another?" 
MrAbdiel
 Well... he  had  tried to recruit you once before.  And here you are, in your panoply, looking competent to fight.  His eyes blink, then flash, and he offers you a hand to clamber down into the dust of the arena, then races over to the ongoing conversation between the chief attendant and Luigiano, leader of the Lancers.

 "Hey!  Hey, we've got a reserve sub!  She just needs a minute to get into uniform, but she'll brawl!"   Daniele presents you to his leader, who looks surprised and a little skeptical - but he does have to look  up  to you, so that helps.

The hard-working, exhausted chief attendant rubs his face.   "Come on, Daniele; the league's had rules against crowd-pulls for years now.  Favours home teams too strongly, ironically enough, but they are what they are.  You can't just anoint someone from the crowd a formal member of the Gallants and dive right it.  She's got to be a tax-paying Verezzan with atleast  three ..."   He raises  three fingers on his hand, to emphasise,  "...remunerated lethal engagements.  If she ain't done merc-work, she ain't doing merc-play." 
 "You can send an accountant to Verezzo to confirm her taxes with the clerk's guild after the bout - if we're lying, we'll give back the winnings.  As for the engagements, err..."   Daniele looks at you helplessly at that one.  He remembers scoping you for mercenary work... but definately can't say if you've been in three lethal fights and been in some way financially compensated for them.  That much, he is hoping against hope, you'll supply for yourself. 
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 


What Taalia was doing was nuts. It was legitimately insane. To think that the careful but ambitious industrial-scale farmer girl from a year ago would simply hurl herself into an arena to fight a potentially lethal game at the behest of the intoxicating spirit of competition and the arena, was verifiably crazy.

Yet here she was.

When Taalia's towering figure was drawn onto the arena floor, the wave of reactions rippled across the crowd. As she was huddled to the others, the shepardess undid her holster buckle to remove the pistols from her hip, and set her blunderbuss down with the Galants equipment also. Under her arm she had her steel helmet, her braided, white hair and youthful features visible as she couldn't help but look around in awe at being on the floor before a crowd of thousands. Her heart pounded against her rib cage and every good modicum of sense she possessed implored her to withdraw back up the wall and return her rear to the bleachers...yet here she stayed.

Then the topic came to the fights she had been in. Lethal ones.

Without thinking, Taalia reached to her collar and underneath it, her fingers gripping something and withdrawing...the tooth of the troll they had killed.

 "A troll. Mutants on the road. The Skaven that attacked The Tower in Verezza and twice against the pirates that attacked Bella Collina. That's where I got those!"  she gestured to the brace of pistols resting next to her blunderbuss.

Her shield was still on her back, her beautiful sword on her hip.
MrAbdiel
 The chief attendant considers your explanation while Daniele looks on, eyes wide, open hands raised in supplication to the man.

 "...Don't make me regret it, Daniele.  If this turns out to be less than legit, there'll be repercussions." 

Daniele doesn't wait for further warnings of what those repercussions are; he just flags you to follow him over to the Gallants' bench; and fishes out a set of the same style of light leathers and uniform the other Gallants are wearing from a heavy sack.  It looks about the right side; though somewhat rumpled from being at the bottom of the bag without a wearer.

 "Grab this - I'll show you the change room, and tell you how it's all going to go down from outside the stall while you get changed.  Oh, Lady of Battles, you appeared at the right time - either to save the day or to allow us to fail good and proper, anyway!" 

Suiting up in the unfamiliar uniform in a small wooden cubical, you listen to Daniele's forecast of the events to come.

 "Okay, okay; well, you probably already figured it out from watching, but we pair up out there to look out for each other.  So you'll be sticking with me.  I guess you're a shielder by preference, so I'll get you a shield and cudgel.  We're up on points, especially after that foul maneuver; so all we need to do is hang on, or drop one of their goons fair and square and they'll be down to five and unable to continue.  Luigiano will be rushing for the Spud; if we can get it, then we can just run down the clock while the Spudletter gets his licks in.  It's all sporting, so no swings intentionally to the head and neck, though incidental connections are fine.  You're free to use cudgel, fists, feet, elbows and knees out there.  You can bash with your shield too - but I wouldn't recommend it, since the flimsy things bust apart with a good hit and that'll leave you with an empty hand out there.  Hoo, boy...  Ah... Any questions?"  
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 

With her exploits unlocking enough street cred to at least pass the bar of entry, Taalia was swiftly whisked away to a change room where a set of old leather armor and a tabard was shoved into her grasp. Already the girl scrunched her nose at the scent - pwah!  Gross!  she hissed inside her head, while the scrappy, slept-on-a-floor specter of her past glared at her current state from a hidden part of her mind.

 "Stick with you..."  Taalia responded, her mouth forming an O-shape in surprise as she pulled the leather armor over the padding that had formed the undergarment of her mail - this set clearly made for a, ahem, male occupant.

 "Ride out the clock..."  she pulled the tabard over her new leather cuirass.

 "And whack any bastardo that gets too close..."  she emerged from the change room, her armournot the greatest fit, but the short-comings obscured behind the team tabard, while her braided, white hair was drawn behind her angular, pleasing features that offered that grin, her scar running down the side of her face.
MrAbdiel
  "Great. Great. Well, I don't know how this is going to go - but I'm glad you showed up when you did.  You're a Gallant now, one way or the other!" 

* * * * *

 
 Spoiler: OOC: Arena Combat 
Some notes on this exhibition combat!

1. The cudgel is an improvised weapon (SB -4 Damage).  The shield is an unrimmed shield, so it can bash for (SB -2 Damage), but does so at a risk of breaking.  Wielding them together gives you a free parry.  Both of these efforts are 'non-lethal', by which I mean they are recognized by onlookers as sportsmanly and restrained, as is attacking with the 'normal' Unarmed attacks (Also SB-4, but the enemy counts their armor double).

Importantly, non-lethal blows don't do Ulric's Fury as normal.  Instead, if you confirm a roll of a 10 on the damage dice, you do your maximum damage plus a 1d5 roll on the critical location for that hit.

On the other hand, unleashing your TRUE POWERS and striking with your "Natural Weapons" talent for SB+0 damage, you'll be much more effective - but you run the risk of the crowd, and more importantly the attendants, spotting you launching obviously vicious, lethal, frankly savage attacks.

We'll abstract this into a few sets of rolls to flash through the round.... mostly because I haven't made an effort to 'balance' this non-lethal combat at all!
 


The other Gallants, or  Luigiano's Lancers  in the context of the team, give you nods and appreciative recognition... if some doubt, at your unproven nature.  And then out you go on to the field, sticking with Daniele as the hostile audience crows for your demise.  It is probably best that they drown each other out - the chance that any of the braying shouters from the stands have constructive commentary is very low.

 Round 1: 

You line up, and the dwarf - the  Spudletter  - tosses the ball into the pool.

 "Luigiani and his partner will contest the ball - we're just blocking our opposite numbers, on the east side here." 

You brace for the attendant to call the game to action...

 
 Spoiler:  On a Successful Perception Test...: 
...You notice that, despite both sides lining up as three opposite pairs, the larger of the two Remans in the middle pair has his eye on your pair.  He's a hulk of a man who would be frightening to fight in lethal combat; only a little less so here.
 But as you catch his eye, he gives you a wink.

Is it a lascivious wink?  Maybe.  Maybe he feels bad for you, as a rookie, and is warning you of something about to happen.
 


Then the attendant blows on a wooden whistle, and everyone rushes forward.  You can barely spare focus away from the pair of Remans bearing down on you and Daniele - and you prepare to defend yourself!

 
 Spoiler: Sports! 
 https://youtu.be/f1C6b2Wd8HM 

Give me three rounds of combat against your opposing goon.  If you beat a  (1d10+4)[ 14 ]  Initiative, your first blows go first.  Your opponent, like you, is bat-n-boarding it.

1.   Vs40  - (1d100)[ 1 ]  for  (1d10+1)[ 3 ] 
  Vs40  - (1d100)[ 6 ]  for  (1d10+1)[ 4 ] 
(if he goes first, this is a charge, and gets +10.  If he goes second, it's a swift attack, and he makes that second swing.)

2.   Vs40  - (1d100)[ 56 ]  for  (1d10+1)[ 2 ] 
  Vs40  - (1d100)[ 94 ]  for  (1d10+1)[ 7 ] 

3.   Vs40  - (1d100)[ 95 ]  for  (1d10+1)[ 9 ] 
  Vs40  - (1d100)[ 24 ]  for  (1d10+1)[ 8 ] 
 
 
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 


By now, Taalia had become desensitised to the prospect of violence and bodily harm. She had personally been in hundreds of scraps and plenty of proper, life-or-death engagements, from her first use of the poison windglobe half a decade ago, to fleeing assassins, to the half a dozen combats she had participated in since dwelling on the surface. Being exposed to such quantities of bloodshed from a tender age had a way of numbing one to the visceral horror of its spectacle. Whether this brutalization was of benefit or not was up debate, but in the situation the girl now found herself in - it was most definitely a benefit.

Her shoulders a bit closer together, leaning forward, her shield prepped to defend both herself and Daniele next to her, Taalia let the sounds and sights of the crowd melt away out of her periphery as she focused on the enemy combatants. The dwarf, the Spudmeister, was of secondary concern, only to elevate in threat should their man fail to acquire the prop that secured his temporary allegiance.

Her nerves calming, focus gained, a breath exhaling from her lips - the whistle blew!

Taalia surged forward next to her group-mate, the enemy combatants swelling in her vision as they drew closer to meet them, cudgels swinging and shields blocking. It was now that Taalia attempted to use her, 'weapon', such as it was, its weight, gait and dimensions very different from the tools of death she had learned to use. It lacked the grace and response of a sword, the quickness and reach of a spear, the speed of a knife through the ribs. It was basically just a club, as primitive a weapon as could be, and it showed.

Taalia swung out with it, trying to improvise her normal skill with the weapon she had, her initial blow poking through some defenses, but the rest frustratingly clattering against shields and pushed away by shielding. However, her own defenses fared much better. She was used to the application of a shield, she knew how they worked and felt. She turned her own this way and that; causing incoming blows to glance off her protection harmlessly rather than absorb the blow by a direct block like an amateur might try.
MrAbdiel
 You clash with your opposite, trading blows off each other's shields.  A combat that would be over in a few seconds with lethal violence is doomed to protraction.  You manage to sneak one blow around the shield with enough force to cause a wheeze and perhaps a bruise, and fend off all your enemy's responses. But it's not until the field shifts that you feel some returned pain - the big man from the central pair on the enemy side did not rush for the spud, but came charging around one of the contraptions into you blind rear angle.

"Lookout!"  Daniele calls at the last minute, and you juke away from a shield bash that might have sent you sprawling; as a result, it merely clips your shoulder and sends you spinning and wincing.  The big assailant gives you a look that seems suspended between sadistic glee and apology, but behind him the crowd roars - the skinny little whippet of a Reman has beaten both Gallants to the spud, and the dwarf launches himself into the pool with an elbow drop onto Luigiano's back.  Suddenly, it's a game of 6 vs 7 instead of even odds; and the Remans rally back to the spud to mount a defence.

"Damn!"  Daniele grunts, "No easy win, then.  Alright - it's all about teasing them away from the spud now to make a steal possible.  Come with me!"

* * * * *

Some tiring back and forth has left you not much the worse for wear, but the spud has remained resolutely in the enemy's possession, much to the crowd's delight.  The Gallants have done their best to pry of members of the Ravagers to expose the spud carrier; and the opportunity comes for you and Daniel as the enemy team is pressed by your allies, and you and your partner circle around behind. The spud carrier is fending against Lancers from the front, and is exposed from behind.  There are only two obstacles.

One: The Spudletter watches your flanking movie with a wry grin.  He is required to fight to protect the spudcarrier, not to warn him of anything.  He will certainly oppose your efforts.

Two: The enemy formation is facing as it is because it has its back to one of the columns with the hinged, spinning flails!  First, you'll have to pass the mechanical obstacle before you can contend with the dwarven one.

 "This is it!  Let's go!  Keep the dwarf off me!" , Daniele commands, and then runs forth.  With admirable agility, leaping high with legs straining almost to an aeriel front-split, the wooden flail swings under him and misses him by a whisker, leaving him to resume his charge for the ball.

He almost makes it look easy!

 
 Spoiler: Second Round! 
First: Give me an Agility roll to avoid the flail, or else be slapped!  And after that, advise me how you plan to keep the Spudletter occupied - do you want to try to goad him into chasing you, or full defense and bunker down, or something more clever?
 
 
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 


Taalia remained focused on her opponent, the heart-rate throbbing in her skull as she parried here and deflected there. Her footwork had improved out of sight since her first ever true combat against the goblins all those years ago, as she was now more measured and deliberate, talking forward, slipping back, sure-footed each time as she kept her left shoulder near Daniele and providing cover for this 180 degree side of him. She even managed to poke her cudgel over the shield of her opponent, knicking him on the forehead and drawing a ripe bead of blood that mixed with the sweat of his forehead as a small thrill of standing her own against professional arena fighters cheered her confidence from the back of her mind.

 "Lookout!"  Daniele calls at the last minute, Taalia's reflexes pulling her out of the way at the last second as a cudgel intended for her head instead clipped her shoulder, a bright spark of pain running down through that half of her body. Drawing back, her defenses still safe, the girl glared through the eye-sockets of her leather helm at the larger combatant and the look in his eyes that she was all too familiar with. It was the same glare that would fall upon her from the Skaven foremen or fellow ratling slaves that saw in her just a weak, furless ape for them to trample across and propel their egos higher up the social order.

But, Taalia wasn't a slave any more. That skinny girl had grown and developed, and now she glared back with a venom in her eyes and steel in her jaw.

* * * * *

The Gallants seemed to be herding the enemy team towards a column, a slow, boxing maneuver that could, if it continued, neutralise their newly acquired numerical superiority. The dwarf, though clearly of no opinion one way or another, seemed to relish his position as some mercenary-for-hire whose allegiances were won and services greatly desired. Were the spud not in anyones hands, he would do nothing. If it were possessed by one of the team, he would attack their enemies - all while facing no such assaults himself. Who would attack him? No one. There was no point. His services were the  point  of the spud. And as Daniele and Taalia approached their flank of the column, the older veteran told her the plan, before his nimble proceeds carried him over a low-swinging flail that would have taken his feet out from under him.

Keep the dwarf off of him. Right. She could do that - couldn't she?

Watching the flail swing in and out of that mechanical groove in the column, Taalia took half a step forward, timed her jump and tumbled forward - sailing like a fish leaping out of the water and landeding on half her shoulder, rolled forward down her back and rose onto her feet in one, semi-graceful movement. Blinking, clearly not having expected to make it, Taalia dashed forward, keeping her body close to Daniele's and placing herself between him and the dwarf, ready to head the stunty fellow off and temporarily sacrifice herself so the team could make a stab at getting the spud and gaining control over this four foot, meaty menace.
MrAbdiel
 You turn to face the dwarf, interposing yourself; and the old stunty gives you a wild grin.

 "Yeged stonesunya donglitz agiverdah!"  he barks at you with mirth, in a string of what you think might be mostly Tilean so heavily accented it is completely impenetrable.  You open your mouth to offer a reply, hoping perhaps to distract him long enough with an exchange of words instead of blows - wouldn't that be nice - but then he lurches forward at you with startling speed and starts swinging away with his meaty fists.  It's all you can to do to defend yourself against the four foot, meaty menace!

 
 Spoiler: OOC: The Menace! 
The Spudletter has to move to engage you, so his first attack is a single charge attack.  I'm going to expect Taalia uses Full Defense for the following round of attacks on her.

Spudletter's charge:

  Vs99  - (1d100)[ 88 ] , for  (1d10+3)[ 8 ] !

You may dodge/parry this attack normally.

A second round of attacks!

  Vs69  - (1d100)[ 24 ] , for  (1d10+3)[ 9 ] !
  Vs69  - (1d100)[ 73 ] , for  (1d10+3)[ 10 ] !
  Vs69  - (1d100)[ 99 ] , for  (1d10+3)[ 13 ] !

You may dodge/parry these attacks normally; and we'll see how you shape up!  Currently, you only have 1 point of armor - though the Spudletter's attacks are unarmed, so it counts double to two, on all locations.
 
 
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 


In an ironic twist it was almost the Dwarf that babbled nonsensically at Taalia in such a way that would have ensnared her mind and rooted her to the spot.

 "Yeged stonesunya donglitz agiverdah!" 

Narrowing her eyes within her helmet, a wave of puzzled text scrolled past the shepardess' eyes as the dwarfs incoherent babbling reached her from that deep, gutteral throat.

Then he charged.

Taalia only had experience fighting  alongside  dwarves, never  against  them, and so it was an...unusual sight for one of such shorter stature to come thundering down upon her like a heavy oaken barrel on short, but able legs. The Spudmeisters first swing would have been a painful one, but thankfully Taalia recovered enough of her senses to bring her club about and swat the hamfisted glove that would have smacked her hard in the knee.

But what came next was a relentless procession of hamemrblows - again and again and again. The dwarf punched and threw his considerable weight about, smashing his body up against the girl in an attempt to take her out of the fight in accordance with his temporary allegience. Such was his feorcity one blow even made it through her defences, the girl hissing through gritted teeth as she felt that thick fist impact her right thigh.

It had been one thing to see the dwarf in action from a distance, but it was quite enough to actually receive it in person. All in all, Taalia was a surprisingly skilled combatant, demonstrating both skill and vigor. But she recognised a superior opponent when she saw it and she knew she had to do something to buy Daniele time that  didn't  involve her attempting to knock the dwarf out senselsss. (as if such a thing were even possible)

And so, Taalia swung her club...but it was easily batted away. Then she stepped back...and back...and back, carefully using her long legs and footwork as she drew the dwarf away.


  OOC:  

Taalia is on 13/17 wounds.

Taalia is  disengaging  3 squares in the safest direction.

Note that charging requires at least 4 squares to build up momentum. So next round the most the dwraf could do is hurry up to her and do 1 attack.

She can't beat him, so she's stalling for time.
MrAbdiel
 On the dwarf comes, with fury in his fists.  It's like nothing you've endured before; the muscles in the dwarf's arms and especially core thick and corded and disasterously strong.  He's short, but not at all, slow; and given than you are defending Daniele's attempted steal of the spud, you are largely forbidden from using your superior stride to escape.  So  wham , on comes the first blow on the dwarf's short charge; and you swear you felt the stone mauls swung by the mutants on the Silo road hit as hard.  Against most unarmed opponents, you could let their fists swing at your legs and just endure the bruising for a better vantage to win the fight.  Against this wrecking machine, you have no choice but to lower yourself to put your shield up to take the blow, and the shock of the blow through the shield is painful in itself.  Then  wham wham wham  he keeps swinging, one fist after the other; and in retrospect, you take a little pride in having manages to prevent his swift blows from getting around you shield, or his feet from kicking your knees sideways, or one furious headbutt that would have contacted your midsection hard enough to send you sprawling and throwing up.  The blow that gets through is barely your fault; you see the fingers of his left hand clap on the edge of your shield, and then the right fist comes forth with such speed it actually buckles and snaps off a third of the shield's timber, scattering shards and splinters against your cheep as the blow follows through to thump into your shoulder and rattle your ribs.

And then all at once he has relented, and you see why - Daniele has snatched the spud away from its keeper and started legging it away; and the Spudletter is already haring off, cackling, to pummel his first pursuer.  Glad to be on the dwarf's side rather than against him for once, you secure what is left of your shield and rush to catch up to Daniele as the game swings back toward the favor of the Lancers.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
After all that, the Spudletter only got one blow through - for 9 damage, -4 Toughness and -2 for the armor for 3 damage.  By my calculations, Taalia is 4 wounds down.
 

 * * * * * 
The crowd's roaring disapproval of your team's fight-back is consistent through the rest of the segment; Daniele and the other professional players offload the ball to one another skillfully to keep the Spudletter's wrath shared around and the enemy team on the defensive.  But toward the end - what you hope to be the end, because time has become a spongey mess in this breathless contest - Luigiano gets cornered and the spud stolen from him, and the Reman who snatches it doesn't wait, but turns and hurls it high up into the stands; where a brawl immediately breaks out over the coveted pigskin.  The Spudletter is after it at once, vaulting over the fence surrounding the arena and charging up into the stands, swatting aside enthusiastic sportsgoers in his singleminded quest.

"Damn!  Damn, they know they're ahead on points!"  Daniele interprets a clipped shout of some kind of team-argot you do not comprehend, from Luigiano.  The Remans are locking up into a crescent of shields against one wall of the arena.  You don't need Daniele to explain, but he does even as you rush toward them.  "They're trying to run the timer down - and the segment will be over before the spud gets back!  It's all in now - we have to put one of these Sun-lickers down, now!"

So it's down to this - and when you and Daniele meet up with the other lancers and crash into the enemy line, of course you're lined up against the big galoot who swung on you early on.  He's battered from the exhausting contest; but squaring off against him, he gives you a simpleton grin and that wink again.  Everyone is trying to batter everyone down, now; and to do so without being caught doing so in an unsportsman like fashion.  It's hitting, and getting hit, and scrapping and striking - but you were raised in such circumstances.  However frenzied these dying moments of the game... there is no fear in you.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
You are squared off against an enemy - and as soon as someone on either team goes down, it's game over.  Time to prove your mettle!

You act first, given that they're braced and you get to charge in.  No outnumbering bonuses either way.

On a 1-50, your opponent's shield is still intact.   (1d100)[ 87 ] .

At this stage in the game, he still has  (1d10+1)[ 4 ]  wounds remaining.

Open it up with a charge, and we'll see who falls!

EDIT: Well, he's pretty beat up, at least - and he has no shield, so he'll have a harder time fighting back.  Go git him!
 
 
MrAbdiel
 The last fight is a frenzy of blows, shoves, soaked impacts and desperate maneuvers that leave you lungs burning and your body aching all over. The big Reman brawler opposite you is brawnier for sure; but he looks to have been softened up considerably by your teammates, and the Spudletter.  Perhaps that headstart will compensate for his familiarity with the weapons of the game, making it something like a fair match.  Helpful is the two thirds of a shield you still have, which your opposite number does not; and whenever his club bashes into the splintering edge of that deflector, your return attack can only be opposed with a forearm or caught on the body.  One good blow slips through and you crack him on the noggin, and he teeters back and to his knees; but he springs up and returns to swing at you before you can put him away.  It's about thirty seconds of back and forth, spread over an eternity of low-lethality violence, before you are able to drive a knee into his stomach, empty all the air from his lungs, and send him to the ground, clutching himself. You crank back your leg for the kick to the head that would be needed to, hopefully, put him out of conciousness; but an attendant beside you blows sharply on a wooden whistle and brings the game to a halt.  For a gut-freezing second you fear you've done something wrong; but the explosion of joy among the bloodied and battered gallants a moment later, the hurricane of backslaps and howls of victory, tell you the opposite is true.  You put your man on the ground, and he was not fit to recover swiftly enough to satisfy the judgement of the attendants.  The Reman team can no longer field six players; and given than this player has been taken out of action in the fair course of play and not through a foul deed, they have no recourse to replenish their reserve.  The game is over.  You have won.

 "Hahah!  See, I told you - I told everyone - hey, you did it!"   Daniele, whom you have had one conversation with earlier in your life before today, is lit up with delight for you that shines out of both his blackened eyes.   "Amazing!  Amazing; they'll be talking about this one for years, ha ha!  Luccini will still whip us in the final, but we've never final'd before!  Ahh!"   He pauses to lean forward holding his ribs, and catch his breath.  Just like that, it's over.  The Reman team is sullen, but not openly bitter; they mill between the Verezzans shaking hands and offering short remarks of congratulation in decent sportsmanship.  The brute - now recovered enough to stand with some help from a friend and wheezing reparative breathes into his narrowed lungs, makes sure to offer you  his big mitt to shake.  He can't offer commentary in his state, but he does give you that simple grin that seems, in this new context, to appreciate your moxie.

It's good that the Reman team is appreciative.  The crowd is not.  Their home team has lost the fight in the grand colosseum, and they boo raucously.  The bones of mutton shanks go sailing into the arena, scattering on the sand.  The displeasure of the onlookers is not riotous, though it is uniform; except for a handful of scattered Verezzan die-hards, including one dark haired girl whose cheers for you are lost in the ballyhooing drone of the losing fans.  You can't hear her, but you see her bouncing up and down on her chair, waving her yellow scarf about.  Around her is a halo of grumpy Remans who might be inclined to shout down or even accost such a display of spirit; but something about Bella - perhaps her youth, her radiant gentleness, or the unroughened fact of her femininity - shields her from the initiation of crowd violence which breaks out in scattered patches elsewhere in the stadium.  As the locals start filing out and off to local drinking venues to complain, she bundles her pack and yours left at the seats, and begins navigating down to the arena's side to meet you.

Luigiano and Daniele invite you for an after-event drink, and to join them as they check on their bludgeoned comrades to tell them the good news - but the sun is slipping from the sky, now; and as a tourist in this place, you have other places to be - parts to buy for Cestié, and then a walk back to the farm where the flying machine rests.

 "Well, you really bailed us out of a bad pinch, there,"  Daniele says as he shakes your hand and prepares to release you to your errands; your personal things restored to you, the now sweaty, bloody borrowed uniform yielded with the armaments;  "Luccini's team are incredible; so the chance that we'll swat them is slim to none; but the pot for the runner up isn't bad either.  We'll cut you in for, oh, let's say ten percent of the outcome either way, and have it sent to your clerk friend in Bella Collina.  It's a two hundred  duri  pot for the runner up; a thousand for the winner, so it's a golden gift either way.  And hey - if you ever feel like travelling the world and fighting professionally more seriously... You're technically inducted to the Gallants, now; so don't let another merc outfit poach you!" 
 * * * * * 
Back at the farmhouse, you find Cestié kicked back on a comfortable stack of hay bales; smoking from a pipe under the stars with an empty bowl that once contained stew in his lap.  He seems happy as a clam - certainly, now that you and Bella have made it back safe with the things he needs.

 "Ah!  Welcome back!  Our hosts put some stew aside for you, and it'll still be warm.  Now you've seen the big city - are you impressed?" 
 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
Two weeks from now, there is a 12% chance that the Lancers will will, and you'll have 100  duri mailed to your name back in Bella Collina; otherwise, a more modest 20.  Not bad, for fifteen minutes of frenzy!

And gain 150XP for your adventures in Remas!
 
 
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 


Taalia's blood ran hot in her veins as the sun beat down upon her leather-protected skull and the burning ichor of fatigue gnawed at her muscles. She had barely managed to fend off the dwarf - no mean feat - only to watch him scatter away into the stands in a clever ploy by the enemy team to buy themselves time and run down the clock to secure the win through the collection of points, rather than by downed enemy combatants.

Hustling with her temporary squad, Taalia listened to the words spoken, breathing heavily as sweat clung to her sunkissed fair-skin and and the raucous bellowing of the crowd rolled around the arena like a storm.

The plan was simple and direct: form up and charge. The enemy team would hold their positions, so it was up to the Gallants to seize the day and crash through their ranks. All they had to do was bring low a single man on the enemy team and they would fall bellow the necessary numbers and would be forced to concede by default. It wasn't the most clean or glorious processions to secure victory, but Taalia was learning quite quickly that cleanliness in the arena was simply a mirage. For her part, Taalia was on the furthest flank. As she was so far an 'untested' member, or at least one who had not earned her stripes, so to speak, of camaraderie among the men, it was unusual to her that she would be trusted with such a deceptively important position - but it didn't matter. A handful of moments passed and she was stationed on the furthest right wing of their charge, her left arm still grasping her rickety, falling-apart shield in an attempt to employ it for her own protection and that of Daniele's, were she able to extend her aegis to his salvation in the necessary time of need.

The whistle blew, the time was now. The Gallants surged forward as the crowd roared in recognition of this final promise of desperate violence, as Taalia's tall figure crashed into her brawny, hulking compatriot. He was the stronger of the two of them, of that there was no doubt. Taalia, by virtue of her gender, lacked the formidable raw bulk and power of the male-build arrangement of shoulders and arms, with their muscle and tissue connections. Instead, her form was more like a predatory cat, sleek and agile, but possessed of enough strength that she could, with training, both resist the man and pose a threat to him. And training was exactly what she had received ever since her first mad brawl with the goblins all those years ago.

Her experience against the mutants, her practice with the knights, her battles with the pirates...they had all polished her form. She was less of an ape that wildly swung and hoped it connected, having become more refined and patient, parrying and deflecting with her weapon and trying to feint-out an opening or exploit one that arose.

The bruiser swung his weapon at her, its downward arc reflecting off of her own club before she focused its back-swing down with her shield. Another blow came was summoned from the momentum, and Taalia once again had to bring her own cudgel about to parry the blow away. A small opening presented herself and she took it - but the end of her stick grazed off the mans collar bone. That was when his own came through, using the pommel of his weapon to draw out a misplaced deflection from the shepardess so that the end of his club could strike her near the face, the girl hissing under her breath as the sharp, hot pain shot through her face and down her body as her right eye swiftly developed a dark, deep black-purple ring about it. Taalia stepped back, he stepped forward, swinging again, but this time he over-extended. Perhaps eager to follow up with his success, he swung his cudgel down in an attempt to strike her upon the helm - a ruthlessly vicious blow were it to land. But this time the girl was quicker on her feet, pulling herself to the side, using her shield to push against the back of his now down-facing hands in order to neutralise his weapon as a means of defence, and brought about her own club to strike him right upon the centre of his chest. It was a deep impact, a thick, hard whack! that resonated through his heavy chest and knocked the wind right from his body. She followed this with a quick knee to his belly, and the man toppled over onto his side.

The referee's whistle blew soon after. The Remans were one man down. They'd won!

Taalia joined the Gallants in an arms-across the shoulder huddle of celebration, her grin wide and her words mimicking the men around her as her spirit sailed off with their triumph before the boo'ing and rancorous whinging of the home-crowd who just watched a great upset defeat. Their favoured sons? A Verezan who  just so happened to be there  who could step in -  and  they go on to victory?! What should have been a respectable victory for the home team turned into a nail-biting upset loss, and Taalia offered her infectious grin and broad waving to the crowd in return, her eyes settling on Bella and blowing a kiss up at her friend who waved her beautiful scarf.

For the forwarding of future fortune from their up-coming finals match, Taalia only had one thing to say.

 "Add to the letter that it is to be used for the school. Polo will know what that means!" 
 oOo 
The trip back to the farmstead was filled with chatter as Taalia, still high on the euphoria of both the activity and sensation of winning, spoke endlessly of the experience to her friend. The insanity of even hoping into the arena. Standing there before thousands that cheered on your misteps and pain. THe rush of victory. The glory of prizes. IT had been nothing short of exhilierating, and Taalia chattered Bella's ear off about it the whole way back to the barn.

Emerging into the farm, Taalia smiled at the sight of the slovenly tinker and his luxurious spread across a comfortable bale beneath the beauty of a star-light night.

 "Stew you say?"  Taalia spoke, looking over to Bella and wideing her eyes with a grin to indicate she very much liked the sound of that!

 "I think I might need two!"  she spoke with charged energy, before Cestie doubtlessly noticed the dark ring around her right eye.

 "Oh, this?"  the shepardess laughed and shrugged, smiling bashfully as if she had been caught staring at a handsome boy in class.

 "I'll tell you all about it..." 
MrAbdiel
 Signore Cestié is appropriately amazed and horrified and then amazed for your adventures; worried for your injuries, but given that it's not much more than bruising, not so worried in the end.  He listens particularly to your arena encounter as you work on the small repairs and maintenance required for the machine.

 "Well, if you were going to get into a fight - I'm glad you found the best possible fight in town.  Haha!  Prize and all.  Too bad we can't stay in town for weeks to see the final.  That would be more conflicting for poor Bella, though." 

Bella shakes her head and offers a soft little laugh.  She looks up briefly from the glass bottles of liquors she bought at the market in Remas, for the trip - heady  grappa  brandies, one bottle for when you cross the mountains, one for when you arrive in Parravon; one for when you arrive in Nuln. She swaddles them in cloth so they won't clink and chip on the journey.

 "Hah - maybe a little.  But I never have been to Luccini city, Signore Cestié.  And always lived so close to Verezzo's border - I think I'm a full convert now, so  Luigiano's Lancers   still have my cheers." 

Cestié's day of light work has not been without its own surprises.  He introduces you to the discovery he made, when removing a stressed strut in the light frame of the machine - a little birds nest, tucked away behind the canvas.  A plump little blackbird with a yellow beak, the kind that chirped at you with their curious, bell-clear tones in the forest, sits in the cluster of fine twigs and grasses, chirping once in recognition when Cestié pulls back the canvas to to show you.

 "They must have started nesting before we left from Bella Collina - she must have some eggs under there, or she'd have abandoned it for sure.   The male has followed us across the country, though I'm confounded as to how; he comes by to chirp at us and bring her the moths and bugs he catches.  I thought to move the nest out and leave it here, but I'd have to break it to get it away from the struts there; and it feels cruel seeming they've endured this far." 

The plump little mother songbird gazes up at you, and chirps its consonance with the idea.  Strictly speaking, these are more occupants than the machine is designed to carry - but your keen instincts for the basic capacities of the machine suggest that you can probably get away with it.

 * * * * *

 Trantio  
A few more days of easy skyborn travel punctuated by idyllic picnics on tall hills and the occasional stop-over at ammenable farmer's homes carries you north beyond the borders of Remas.  Cestié insists that with the spyglass, you can see Pavona in the far east, even though you are not going that way; but either the old man's eyes are better than yours, or he is still so giddy with the success of the machine that he is convincing himself of even more perfectly clear and idyllic views from the sky that are possible.  Or else he's playing with you.  But Pavona passes by in the far east as you fly over the Trantine hills; rippling mounds of earth whose slopes are populated by olive trees and and whose flats are topped with neat orchards of citrus and fruits more exotic still.  Cestié plan is to touch down outside of Trantio and find a place to hold and inspect the machine overnight, just as with Remas; but it's in these skies that the machine's first test of rigor is met.

Harsh winds blow from the west, meaning the machine creaks quietly as it is forced to 'tack' slightly into the wind to prevent being blown too far off course.  Then the rain begins; light and passable at first, but then increasingly troublesome.  The tightly organized farmland loses its grip on the hills as you are pushed further east, and now there are fewer, scattered farmsteads and structures visible below through the haze of downpour, hard to see in the premature dark afternoon of gravid clouds above.

 "We've no choice!  We have to put her down, Taalia -  she can take the wind, but if we keep getting shoved east, we might end up pushed all the way to the river Bellagio, or the Tetroverde wood - either would be a disaster!  Take the yoke, while I look for a place!" 

The place you settle for is an unloved, but not unremarkable villa perched on a hill; with a nice flat landing and takeoff zone within the confines of a partly collapsed ring wall, surrounded by the disordered remnant mess of what might once have been a very nice set of orchards.  The landing is acceptibly bumpy - good thing you replaced those parts, in Remas - but you are forced to spend a few minutes strugging in the rain with Cestié and Bella to detach the wings from the aircraft so it can be wheeled under the looming, creepervine-overgrown balcony above the main entrance without bashing the wings on the columns supporting it.  The rain has stripped the remnant warmth right out of the air, and being now somewhat soggy doesn't help much either.

Bella pulls her cloak around her shoulders, glancing up at the big redwood doors, still partially ajar.   "Such a nice home, to abandon - some young noble's place, perhaps.  Why leave it?  What I would give for such a place!" 

Cestié darts about making redundant checks on the machine, after its trial; but is not so distracted he cannot answer.   "Eh... Well, Trantio's often at war with someone - but this isn't exactly a strategic point for the Pavonans to stick a flag in.  Lots of the rural merchant class moved west toward the city, these last few decades.  Wild orcs raiding from the mountains, when the dwarf holds are frozen over and can't keep them thinned out, see..?  But one thing orcs don't do is take up long term residence." 

Bella checks the birds (they're fine - the mother and father birds tweeting irritably about the weather, the eggs presumably almost ready to hatch any day), but then glances to the large country villa, and back to you.  It would certainly be warmer inside - safer, dryer.  But as an unknown quantity, as a location of mystery and a certain amount of eeriness, she looks to you to instigate some kind of exploration effort. 
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 

Taalia had a blast spinning her tale to Cestie, the older mans sometimes shocked or horrified reactions bringing out a little trollish sense of humor in the shepardess that rarely found the oxygen to emerge. She drew the fight out, exagerated her wounds and the enemies skill - all the more heroic that she and the other Gallants emerged victorious.

That Bella revealed her development loyalties lay with the lancers, Taalia would smirked and snort lightly through her nostrils in amusement.

 "My beautiful Bella...no one is perfect,"  she'd grin in a gentle, affectionate tease.

When the most adorable little stow-aways ever were revealed, Taalia gasped in beloved warmth, her eyes widening and her mouth opening, as she brought her hands over to cover herself as she  "Awwww!" ed in appreciation for their new feathery companions. The symbolism of the this particular species being here during both her arrival and departure from Bella Collina was not lost on the girl, and as much as she wanted to, she restrained herself from reaching out and stroking the little bird upon its soft chest for fear that she would contaminate the nest with her own particular odor that would confuse and drive off the parents from their precious cargo. After all, it was likely their particular scent that had served as a way-guide for the hard-pressed father bird whom had embarked on his own far-reaching, herculean journey to catch up with his family that had been unknowingly ferried off.

The shepardess also resisted the urge to provide the little nest with a small tear of cloth as an extra layer of warmth. Her time on the farm had taught her that the birds instinctively knew about the thermo-requirements of their little eggs, and that her gesture, however well-meaning, may tip that delicate balance in the wrong direction. So, instead she drew a small bit of cloth around the scaffolding of the machine where the birds had nested, applying it in such a way as to further block out any wind pressure that could have disturbed the little feathery family in their cross-continental flight.


 oOo 

Taalia's idea seemed almost clairvoyant, as it was only a matter of time until the troupe in their flying machine encountered their first patch of bad weather. The shepardess had been on board during some rough winds before, and they were certainly a frightening affair when they were first encountered, with the way the scaffolding of the machine would creak under the torturous pressures applied to it, or the rough turbulence would rattle the very much living contents about in stomach-churning jolts that made one question how safe it was to take to the skies in such a contraption.

Likewise, she had flown through rain once or twice before. Indeed, Cestie had insisted on it, and the girl had agreed. After all, if they had not tested the machine under such arduous conditions, how could they be sure they wouldn't be blasted out of the sky if they made such an effort and encountered this meteorological menace?

But combining both? That was a frightening affair, and what made it more enveloping was the rapidity with which the cloak of the storm was upon them. One minute they were sailing half a kilometer above the verdant green and yellowed fields of the Trantino landscape, and the next the ominous clouds, fat with rain and cold, slicing wind, came at them like a roiling specter in the sky.

 "We've no choice! We have to put her down, Taalia - she can take the wind, but if we keep getting shoved east, we might end up pushed all the way to the river Bellagio, or the Tetroverde wood - either would be a disaster! Take the yoke, while I look for a place!" 

Taalia had  fantastic  hearing, and even she struggled to piece together everything Cestie was yelling as the winds wrapped about them. Nevertheless, she registered enough and brought her left hand forward in a thumbs-up gesture of agreement, as she tried her best to look deep over her shoulder as she could to their inexperienced, first-time-traveler companion, Bella.

What must Bella be feeling right now? Myrmidia only knew. Being this high up with this storm bellowing down upon them, the contraption suddenly feeling more like a flying coffin than an instrument of free passage. The animalistic fear of insecurity was natural to all, Taalia remembered how it ate away at her insides and set her nerves alight the first time she encountered these things during tested, so it was her best guess that Bella would be putting on a brave face while internally regretting even taking to the air in this damnable machine. She could be enjoying a glass of wine and delicious gnocci in her warm little hovel back in Bella Collina now,  another  handsome gentleman caller soon to arrive to try his luck and win her heart, but noooo she just  had  to be adventurous...

 "We're setting down!"  Taalia yelled to her bestie, hoping that this would set her at ease, if even temporarily, as the shepardess' hands wrapped around the yoke and  felt  the churning power of the storms perimeter as she slowly inched it down and about to slice their way in a descent through the vast banks of cold rain and mist.

However, where the skies held violent turbulence and striking pyres of lightning, what awaited them down below was much more unsettling.

 oOo

   

As Cestie busied himself tending to the machine, ensuring every gear, bolt and precious bit of necessity was still in place and functional, Taalia stared through the slightly ajar door and to that eerie villa not more than a few dozen meters away. Though once a beautiful and welcome dwelling, the domicile had since deteriorated in the absence of its prior occupants and now stood as a lamentation-filled mausoleum leering over its bleak, former lordship. There was something about its haunting misery, its lonely vigil in these disputed territories, that got to Taalia and slithered under her skin, for its hallowed walls could very well hide the residual aspects of whatever forces had once driven the prior occupants from its splendour.

 "Such a nice home, to abandon - some young noble's place, perhaps. Why leave it? What I would give for such a place!" 

Taalia didn't respond, but she had a few ideas that could answer the question.

 "Eh... Well, Trantio's often at war with someone - but this isn't exactly a strategic point for the Pavonans to stick a flag in. Lots of the rural merchant class moved west toward the city, these last few decades. Wild orcs raiding from the mountains, when the dwarf holds are frozen over and can't keep them thinned out, see..? But one thing orcs don't do is take up long term residence." 

One did not live as long as Taalia had beneath the lash of Skaven slavery by not developing a sixth sense for danger. Those who couldn't spot an arse-whopping coming didn't last long - Taalia lasted longer than most. It was this same extraordinary perception that was tingling across the girls shoulders and down her spine like cold fingers as she stared at that abandoned villa, her eyes fixated upon it and her face a hardened expression that would look out of place for the normally friendly girls average disposition.

 "Wait here, with this,"  Taalia answered finally, reaching over to the storage of the flying machine and withdrawing her blunderbuss. She held it up for either Cestie or Bella to take, before gesturing to the container from which she had drawn it.

 "My firearm is in there too,"  as she drew up the belt-and-holsters of her pistols, drawing them around her waist and buckling them secure.

 "We have a total of a hundred shots. I don't like this place. I will check out the villa. Even if it is empty, we're staying in here tonight. There is only one entrance that we can barricade and bottleneck, and I will take tonights watch. If I'm not back in ten minutes, barricade the door and do not emerge until you're certain the coast is clear. I will knock as so..."  and she held up her left hand, and then used her hand to 'knock' a three-stroke-double-tap sequence silently against her palm.  "Do not open this door for any other signal and assume it has ill-intent." 

It was clear by the look on Taalia's face and her tone of voice that she was not putting this up for debate. This was what was  going  to happen.

 "It's probably nothing, but I didn't survive sixteen years trusting 'probably'." 

With that, Taalia collected a few things and crept her way towards the Villa, long-forgotten creeping instincts returning to her with surprising ease.

  ooc:  

Taalia will take:
- Her shield, which she has out.
- Her sword, which she had sheathed.
- Her Good dagger, sheathed in her boot.
- Her pistols, one of which she has in her hand. She's got a pouch on her belt with a few extra shots.
- A rope.
- No lantern, she's got Night Vision, she doesn't need it.
- She's wearing her armour.
- Her lucky charm.
- Her backpack.
MrAbdiel
 Bella takes the blunderbuss.  She has limited experience; but it's not a wildly technical weapon, and it frees Cestié to take up the musket, when he is ready.  Your raven haired friend listens as you make your wishes clear, and elects not to garnish your commands with questions for now, in this tense moment; she nods, and offers you only the small blessing she can as you slip through the doors...

 "Be careful, Taalia..." 

The interior is gloomy, but not unnavigable to your sharp senses.  The entry hall to this villa is badly damaged by time, and interlopers; only scraps of a moth-eaten rug remain, and the splintered remnants of what might have been a rack for visitor's cloaks and capes.  The rest has been stripped out and stolen by whoever has wandered this place before.  But as you get past this initial room, you find the deeper places to be less looted - some intact vases, rugs, tapestries; some salvageable finery, and a crooked-hanging, time-saddened portrait of a broad shouldered man with greying black hair; looking sensible and strong behind his much shorter wife, and a girl who, in the rendition, must be a daughter not much older than ten or eleven.

The old occupants, you must assume; but the picture would be considered quite good; and the frame atleast worth some mess of silver.

Somewhere within the halls you hear a clickety rattle; and a rush of wind that might be a whoosh of air through a crack in the roof, or a great wheezing breath....

 
 Spoiler: OOC: ROLLS! 
I demand some rolls!

- Perception Roll+0 (Hearing)
- Perception Roll+0 (Sight)
- Perception Roll+0 (Smell)
- Search Roll +20
- Navigation Roll +20 (or, lacking navigation, an Outdoor Survival Roll +0).
 
 
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 

Taalia carefully stepped through the decaying monument to the previous inhabitants wealth and prestige, the inside of the villa hinting at the beauty it once possessed. As she disappeared between those weather-beaten doors, the world outside seemed to drain away as it was replaced by the quiet solitude of a lonely, abandoned house. The scent of dust was heavy in the air, and the girl made sure that she stepped both quietly and slowly, lest her size give away her position to some hidden occupant or her weight send her foot through the rotting floor.

When Taalia came to witness the painted portrait of, assumedly, the prior owners, the girl paused and stared at the dust-caked curiosity with an unusual interest. She had never really seen paintings of this quality before, and the captured essence of the family lingering in their decaying opulence struck something sentimental within the shepardess. Physically, the family may have moved on for whatever reason, but a part of them remained. As such, despite the evidence value in the frame or perhaps even the painting itself, Taalia chose not to try and profit from its current dubious ownership. Besides, it was unlikely she could fit it on the flying machine anyway.

However, the shepardess did slowly approach and brush the portrait aside gently, as if curious as to whether anything lay behind it.

Then the whistle came to the girls sensitive ears.

Whipping around on the spot, her shield up and pistol pointed ahead, Taalia's eyes scanned back and forth through the aged innards of the home, as she proceeded on with her inspection...
MrAbdiel
 You whirl about, shield up, pistol up; tracking the barrel around the room and finding no target presenting itself.

Then what caused the sound?  You strain your ears in the quiet that follows, desperate for answers.

The sound in the distance is... what...?  Metal on something.  Metal on metal, atleast; a clunky clatter of metal on floorboards, and metal on metal; and a softer, meshy slap within it.  You would say the movements of an armored man - but the sounds are not heavy enough, and too hollow.  Perhaps some kind of trap?  An effigy using chain, and plate, somewhere further inside?

Your nose tells you that somewhere in this place is rot.  You are familiar with the smell, certainly, from the worst parts of your life.  And it's waning rot, at that; the kind of musty, unpleasant smell that follows the worst, ripest rot which sees all the moisture stripped out of a corpse as the scavengers get to it.  Past that ripe rot is the waning rot when the skin and remnant flesh is moving to mummification...

...But even that amount of smell strikes you as too 'fresh' for the state of this house.  Anyone who was killed when this house was abandoned would be rat-picked bones, by now; and cast almost no smell at all except for those leaning down to sniff them.

A long time ago, this villa suffered some calamnity.

Some time between then and now, someone or something came in and died, and lies still within the walls.

Another traveller seeking shelter?  Some looter trying their luck?  But how would such a traveller die, if not to be killed by something here?  Maybe the something that made that wheezy rush.

Moving from this open living room you find a dining room with its skewed table and scattered, verdigris covered bronze vessels and pots and broken old crockery. But more than that, you find when you look back to the living room, you have mistaken its size - it's much larger, and you suddenly doubt you have searched it properly.  Retreating a few steps, you stalk around the cavernous hall and decide, for a fact, this room must take up most of the villa.

But how could it?  From the outside, the villa seemed to be a moderately sized afair built into a T shape.  If this central hall was the junction, surely it was too large even then to fit in that shape...

This is the second most convincing argument to doubt your senses.  The first presents itself when you turn around: a humanoid form of gauzy white vapor; the shape of a man with none of the substance, and fear in his eyes - contagious fear that seems to want to flood into you as he opens his mouth to release a ghastly, wheezing moan, and his hands fly up to reach for you!

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
Zoinks!  The Ghost of the Villa!

 (1d10+4)[ 10 ]  is his initiative.  Roll Initiative, and also roll a Fear test - which is a flat Willpower check, or be frozen with fear on your turn.
 
 
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 


The more Taalia thought about this villa, the more that eerie sense of dread from external viewing slithered back into her skull. That sound - what was it?! And the smell! The girl had smelt  foul  before, she knew all the odiferous mélanges of death, decay and ruin from her time as a slave and in the aftermath of battles - the glamorous stories of combat leave out how dead bodies soil themselves as the muscles, free from their central nervous systems command, relax and empty the internal contents, mixing that stench with the vile odor of internal organs and bodily humors. But this was something else, far more advanced in its desiccation, a petrification that shouldn't be possible.

But furthermore, the dimensions of the house were not adding up. If she didn't know better she'd say her mind was playing tricks on her -

The shuffle. The groan.

Taalia spun about again, her eyes wide as some  thing  had shambled into the central area. Amidst the decaying ruin of dinner tables and rusted cutlery, rotting tapestries and a cold wind blowing in from a storm thundering outside the walls, stood a pallid, groaning corpse, its dead eyes wide in recognition of warm flesh and its filth-caked, clawed fingers reaching forth to seize it.

Fear crawled at the back of Taalia's skull like an infestation of maggots, a dozen wriggling little fingers that threatened to seize her senses and rob her of any action. But the girl pushed on; she cast aside the primal fear the brewed up from within and immediately squeezed the trigger on her pistol, the loud  Crack!  echoing off the walls and blasting smoke and shot forward.

Swiftly, she dropped it and crossdrew her other pistol and  Crack!  the second blast went off.

Perhaps it was the the fear eating at her system that put her aim off and caused the first shot to whiz past the things skull, while the cloud emitted from the first shot made landing the next one near impossible. Whatever the case, both charges missed their mark, the bullets blowing holes open in the mould-lined plaster behind the shambling corpse.
MrAbdiel
 The terrible countenance is just a few feet away.  In an instant, you bring your pistol up and fire!  The report echoes through the house and the muzzle flash almost blinds you in contrast in the dark - but the shot must have somehow missed.  You let it fall on the leather lanyard tethered to your leather cuirass, your hand shoots to the other pistol, and loose that shot too.  This one finds the mark.

Or rather, both have found their mark.  Blinking, you can see the impact point of both pistol balls in the plaster of the wall directly behind and beyond your target.  They have shot through him, disrupting nothing of him, harming him not.  This is no man - this is the transparent remnant of a man, some echo or spirit; nothing of the form that can fear lead or steel, but retaining some instincts of recognition, and you are forced to respect, hatred.  You see now the way the spirit's 'hair', if it can be called that, falls; the set of his shoulders; the spitting image of the man in the painting... except for the hollow eyes, and the ethereal form.

Is this it?  Have you come all the way from the pits of misery, embarked on this quest of hope and adventure, only to die here, in this cursed country villa because of a poorly timed storm?

The spirit takes a step toward you.  As he does he reaches up with his hands - not to you, but to his own face - and with his fingers hooked into his mouth, pulls his jaw down to his navel, revealing a horrific, inhuman, ghostly cavity of a mouth filled with a whirlpool of sawing, shifting teeth.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
This creature seems immune to bullets.

He uses his action to produce his Terrifying Form.

Make a Willpower Test against Terror.  Failure means you gain 1 Insanity point, and run at full speed away from this monstrosity. Success means ... you don't!  But you might want to do so anyway!
 
 
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 
 Crack!  the first shot blasted out, illuminating the darkened chamber with the muzzle flash.

Nothing.

Taalia holstered her pistol and withdrew her other in a practiced, fluid motion -  Crack! 

Nothing.

The shots went right through it.

The girls eyes widened...and widened...and widened, until they were each the breadth and depth and glazed-over image of a silver coin as the true nature of the 'man' was revealed. He was no shambling corpse, no desiccated horror returned to a state of undeath with a hunger for the living. No, this was far,  far  worse, as the image of the man flickered with ethereal power and his silhouette expanded into its ghostly horrors: the mouth pulled wide and the inner darkness between stars manifested as an all-encompassing maelstrom of teeth and formless tentacles into which the soul would enter and disappear into the finality of oblivion.

Taalia fled. Shield and gun in hand, she fled, as whatever primordial instincts animated the human species from the swamp to the field seized control of her mind, turned in the direction of the entrance way and sent her body  hurtling  in its direction. Where once she had entered with quiet, steely curiosity, now she rocketed out of that house as fast as her long legs could carry her.
MrAbdiel
 You cannot spare the motion to glance over your shoulder to see if you are being chased.  You only run - through the too-big living room, through the entry hall, to the big double doors and then -

Into a new room, some kind of bedroom with rotten and shredded sheets and a ruptured feather mattress.  Have you gotten turned around some how?  You must have - but the howl is behind you again, and you know if you look back you will see it giving chase, so you charge on and away; over the bed and out the door into a hallway and another bedroom and another...

Finally you seize command of yourself, in a room you do not recognize.  An impossible room - another bedroom, not like the last two; but it has no windows, and you swear you have been running in the same direction for half a mile.  And what villa has bedrooms with no windows?

There can be no escaping the suspicion, now.  Either the house itself is the vector of some dark, spatial magic ... or else the spirit has done something to you mind, making you unable to see your escape.  You can't even hear the rain anymore.  Somehow, once again, you are in an endless, sunless dungeon full of rot and ruin and monsters.

For a moment, you think you smell rat urine.

But the smell resolves, and it's that waning rot - and the source of it, here at your feet.  The body of a young man in a black stain of old dried blood; who seems to have fled just as you did and dragged himself under the bed, only to be dragged halfway out.  A piercing wound from a wide blade has gone through his back and ended his life; in the process, it has slid open his now-crusty backpack and spilled a handsome bundle of dusty silverware and petty treasures about his bloody resting place.  A looter, or adventurer - but now, a dead man; his withered, rotten face still retaining a collapsed expression of misery and terror.

You can't hear the spirit, now; and this bizarre dungeon leaves you no trustworthy visual cues as to which way leads to 'out' if there is any at all.  But your hearing is still good, at least; and the sound of that metal shuffle and scrape you heard before is present somewhere.  Somewhere east of you...

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
You have fled from the presense of your Terror; though having failed the test, if you find it again, you will be oblidged to roll again or flee and gain another IP.  In the meantime, you could try to find your way toward the sound you first heard (which seems not to have been emitted by the ghost, but something else deeper in this place); or fearing that to be another horror, try to keep away from it.

If the former, you may do so without penalty given your previous excellent hearing roll.

If the latter, make me another  Navigation  Outdoor Survival Check.

For other options, please make a suggestion and stay on the line!
 
 
MrAbdiel
 Letting your breath settle doing something as mundane as checking over a long dead body, you examine the stricken looter.

Most of his petty possessions are degraded from time, especially those which have sat steeped in his crusting blood.  There is a compact, decent dagger in his boot which he never drew in his desperation, it seems.  At his waist, an empty leather scabbard suitible for a small handaxe lies empty and dust choked.  The remnants of a tattered paper map sits folded in his pocket - it has a number of locations marked off which seem to correspond to other villas in the hills already looted, or marked with interest with smudged charcoal.  Perhaps in his day, this fellow belonged to a band that was looting as many of this abandoned places as it could, and he merely drew the short straw for this particularly cursed place.  Aside from these and his own decrepifying adventuring goods (a rusty grappling hook and old rope; oxidized lockpicks; a dry old leather bridle that must once have corresponded to a horse), there is his spilled haul; mostly silver and glazed goods from the house, perhaps a few  duri  worth.

You consider taking them; but you consider your conversations with Andreotto that transpired after your brief encounter with whatever mischief spirit tore through your home that fateful Mystery Night.

That had been some kind of roving mischeif spirit; which Andreotto suggested are not the same as 'ghosts' proper.  Such spirits are the remnants of those who died in some terrible way, or were improperly committed to Morr after their death; or else were conjured directly from rest by a master of dark magics.  In the latter case, they may be dangerous and deadly tools for wicked magicians given how impossible it is to do them harm with conventional weapons, and how - as you have experienced - some have capacity to invoke mind numbing, supernatural terror and shock.  But other times, the spirits of the dead crave something - some wrong put right, before they can rest.

Could the looter have disturbed this ghost?  It's unlikely robbing the dead man's house would make him happy, but given that the looter came to do his work long after the place was abandoned, it does not comport with what you know for a spirit to lay dormant in a place waiting for a  reason  to be restless.  Surely he would have gone on to wherever they go when he died - or already been haunting, since his death's immediate event was the cause of his arrested departure.

So it seems likely this poor sod ran afoul of this cursed madness just as you did - you must hope to do better.

The wound that killed him seems to have been a single, decisive stabbing blow from a wide blade.  A short sword, most likely; too wide to be a dagger, or the point of a sword without having stabbed two further feet into the floorboard.  And too narrow to be a blow from the man's own axe.

You are rolling the body back slightly to check (the point of the killing weapon struck the board beneath, but did not overpenetrate - shortsword most likely, for sure) when you hear the shuffle of movement just outside the entrance to the room; the entrance through which you came.  You hold still, glancing once to the second exit to your east rather than that southern one for a moment  - and whatever moved outside the room has also stopped moving to maintain its own silence.

If it is there at all. 
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 


Taalia's mind was a hive of activity as she inspected both the body and reflected on her knowledge of the arcane arts, and how they applied to her particular situation.

Her immediate and initial thought was that what she had encountered was a ghostly apparition, and decaying house was home to a necromancer who was using it as his haven of private research with the occassional acquirement of the odd tomb robber here and there.

But when given time to think and reflect on what she knew, on what Andreatto had taught her, the shepardess' mind started to change.

Ghostly spectres were terrifying. All who encountered them spoke as such. Yet the one  she  had received in that dining hall had been uncomfortable, until it actively performed a gesture of intimidation. One that, much to the chagrin of Taalia's pride, had worked.

Secondly, having reflected on her prior notice of the odd dimensions of the houses external apparent size compared with its internal space...such dimensional alterations were not really known this far south from the realm of chaos. Were she travelling in the north of Kislev, where Andreotto had assured her that magic and the touch of chaos was much, much stronger, then it would be little wonder that reality itself would shift and warp in fantastical ways. But this far south? No, her mind was being deceived.

And thirdly, the body of the tomb robber. Though she felt sympathy for the lad for having died in such a horrible way, as one human to another, she had a more neutral position on his demise, as he was, after all, a grave robber. The family that once inhabited this house had fled and this man had come in, armed with information and targets, to steal their possessions. He was a thief, profiting from others misfortune. Yet, he had died horribly, perhaps in a way that was disproportionate to his crimes. Therefore, Taalia had a more neutral disposition towards him, and as she inspected his body and noticed the killing blow being delivered by a short sword, she thought back to that ghost: it sure as Myrmidia's boots wasn't wielding a blade. Such wounds would not be caused by the ethereal, nor would a fresh cadaver be allowed to decay beneath the touch of time were an active necromancer in the vicinity.

With all of this considered, Taalia came to one conclusion: this was the work of Grey Magic, the Winds of  Ulgu .

She needed to find a way to disbelieve or pierce the veil of the shadowmancers illusions in order to escape. But even then - was the shadowmancer still alive? Or was she encountering the residue of a trap or prior mind game that he had played, yet lingered on long after his own death? Either possibility was terrifying, but admittedly the latter could be more securely navigated due to the absence of an active antagonistic agent who wielded the most deceptive of the winds of magic working against her.

Hearing the shuffling nearby, Taalia froze, but chose not to look  directly  at the thing.

Once again, were it an ethereal spirit, why would it 'pause' ? Why would it fear her detection of its presence? Were it an actual ghost, it would simply phase through the walls, unimpeded by material barriers, and sink its ghostly hands into her body and rip her soul from within.

But that's not what happened.

It  paused  in its hunt, seemingly concerned that it was being detected.

Why would an ethereal, untouchable ghost be so concerned?

Unless it wasn't.

She had two options: find a way to escape, or confront the illusion, or at least, confront it in such a way that informed the nearby generator of her innocence, or at least, worthiness of being allowed to part. Afterall, what if she escaped this house, but the agitated wizard came after Cestie and Bella?

She still needed time to think, Taalia knew she did not have at her disposal the means to confront the wizard. Remaining quiet, she rose from her kneeling position and slowly started to make her way back to the opposite door, intent on vanishing back into the labyrinth, and search for a way to penetrate the illusionary terrain and make an escape.
MrAbdiel
 You wrack your brain for the small conversations you had about spirits, with Andreotto.  Mostly, he had advised you not to turn your attentions in that direction.  Necromancy was a forbidden discipline that ran on  dhar  - twisted dark magic - and many an apprentice wizard had found themselves on the pointy end of an  explication tribunal  for what was, in most cases, just another expression of the kind of academic curiosity that made good wizards.  But occasionally, those wizards discovered things about necromancy they liked, and then they were too far gone - other wizards could  see  or  smell  the dark magic, and before you know it they were hiding out in abandoned villas or petitioning even darker patrons for succour.  True study of necromancy is left to the wizards of Shyish, the Amethyst Wind; the Death wizards forming an unusual alliance with their religious counterparts in the clergy of Morr, over policing the issue with the utmost gravity.  You have some ideas about spirits - poltergeists are not ghosts, and neither are spectres, and none of those are wraiths - but a precision knowledge of these things, and especially a useful depth of knowledge to be able to tell what is usual or unusual about such a spirit, is unfortunately beyond you.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
Academic Knowledge: Magic will take you a certain distance; but certainty belongs to those with Academic Knowledge: Necromancy!
 


You consider your options, based on your present theory: that this spatial distortion is a warping of your perceptions through the use of  Ulgu , and that both that affliction and the hideous spirit (be it real or also an illusion) are likely the production of a single wizard being the source of both.  Not wanting to confront your pursuer just yet, you stay low and slink out of the room using light, long steps to propel yourself away.  In the quiet, even this would be audible; but you wait for another round of that rattle-and-scratch sound from deeper in the villa, and use it to mask your departure.  As you gain some distance, your very keen ears hear a soft shuffle and thump in the room you departed - your pursuer is neither as quiet as you, nor as competent in darkness, it seems; and you are confident your skill at moving in dark places will keep you ahead of them as long as you don't run into anything to slow you down.

But how to penetrate the illusion?  If you cannot trust your senses to find a way out, but you  can  trust them to move room to room and avoid a pursuer, then whatever magic this is must be limited - you aren't locked up in imaginary chains or falling down and imaginary pit, for example.  They can bend the rules of the house's truth, but not entirely break it; and your instincts tell you that the way out must be found within - but that you don't have all the pieces of this deranged puzzle yet.  You navigate stealthily through an unfamiliar hallway, and somehow find yourself back in the 'living room' - thankfully, with no unliving occupant.  You gaze up once more at the portrait; even dare to examine it more closely.  There is nothing behind it; and tentatively poking a corner of it with a blade, you find no billow of freed magic or obvious release from this place.  Oh, to have the 'sight' Andreotto described - that skill, you hope, awaits you in Altdorf, if you survive this trip!  But the portrait does not seem to be the source of things.  Still, your inspection yields a new clue - the man in the portrait does have a short sword strapped to his hip.  A curious thing; shordswords are not uncommon weapons in Tilea at all, but the style of his officious outfit would more suit a longblade like a rapier, or sabre.

And now that your eyes know what they are looking for, you see in the dusty dark on the ground near a cracked old urn and the withered, ancient remnants of what were once fresh flowers, the scabbard from the painting - but no blade.  It's an old scabbard; wood bound with copper rings gently beaten into place to keep the carved halves together.  The copper is now crusted with verdigris, but it seems more like something you'd see in one of the old paintings or on a statue like those you visited in the temples in Remas - a relic of the  old  Tilea, the Reman Empire, perhaps passed down to this family through time.  The blade itself is missing - but you bet your socks a relic like that must be involved in this nonsense.

It was certainly involved, in all likelihood, in the death of the last explorer who ventured into these halls.

Three exits present themselves from this chamber.  Back the way you came, your not-quite-quiet-enough pursuer slowly finds their way through the room you left.  To the north, the shuffle-rattle of metal sound begins another round of its mysterious repetition.  To the south, the wheezing groan of the spirit visits the extreme of your hearing.

You will have to confront one of these sounds - or atleast, have to try to sneak by them, trying your luck at evading encounter to see what more the guts of this awful place presents for you.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
Well, you successfully stealthed, smart'd, and navigated - these are the fruits.  Dare you confront your pursuer, or test your theory about the reality of the spirit?
 
 
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 


Taalia felt her heart bash against her rib-cage as she quietly navigated that veritable maze of illusionary magic and make-believe corridors. That she couldn't hear the storm outside anymore was distressing enough, but when she re-emerged into the dining hall again, Taalia immediately swivelled her head about to see if the doors could be flew through to finally escape this mad-house.

Then there it was again - the shuffling!

Taalia could  hear  the "ghost" shuffling about, unable to fully see in the dark. What type of ghost could not do that? They were supernatural creatures, weren't they? What ghost had to stumble about in the dark inside an illusionary maze?

Unless...what if whatever that thing was,  wasn't  the shadowmancer? What if it was a pet or minion, or perhaps even some press-ganged creature of some sort, shambling about within the labyrinth of its masters own creation?

But it couldn't be. She had  shot it ! The shot passed right through! Now it was stumbling about, unable to see in the dark while poorly navigating its own illusionary home? But if it really was ethereal and matter phased through it, why did it need to shamble down hallways? Why didn't it simply move through the walls and straight to her?

But, naturally, the girl didn't try. She had already done so earlier, when seized of her terrified panic, and all it had taken her was down into a house of horrors. That left the painting, and the revelation of the short sword. had that robber been slain by this prior owner of the house? But why would his corpse be left there if such a thing had occurred?

Maybe that's what the Shadowmancer wanted, Taalia thought. Either the wizard was protecting something within this house, or he had gone mad, and her going through his little fun-house circuits was his solitude-based idea of entertainment. And, as the robber's corpse bore testimony, the wizard was already a murderer. Thus, her concern was with Bella and Cestie. If she simply escaped this house without dealing with the madman, he'd simply inflict his magics upon them, and they would all perish.

Suddenly, two ideas popped into Taalia's mind, one more severe than the first. Though she wanted to jump to the more extreme option, that was the last resort.

Taalia looked at two items in the dining hall. The first was one of the tapestries, or cloths available, that she went over to and retrieved. Wrapping it around her fist, she approached one of the windows and  Smash!  right through, using her protected, armoured fist to smash out the last vestiges of frame-bound glass, to make it look as if she had just smashed the window and escaped through it.

And then she quietly went back into that maze, in the opposite direction of the "spectre" and where she had come from.

She put the tapestry around her sword and used it like a stick to 'feel out' the walls as she passed them, the way one would use a long stick to check for the depth of water, the multiple layers of cloth diminishing any sound an otherwise metal stick would make clanging off the walls as the girl searched for any clues of 'hidden' doors or parts of the house that were shielded by the illusion.
MrAbdiel
 You bind your weapon, and smash one of the tall windows in the living hall to simulate a recent escape.  Beyond the window, you see the grey clouds above and their silent storm; but the ground outside plunges into a dark gloom your eyes have trouble penetrating.  If you went that way, would you actually exit - or just get dumped somewhere else in the house?  You don't know - but one way or another, it suggests your have passed that way, while you go another.  The hall you creep down leans toward a disused ballroom, with parquetry floors now warped and discoloured with time.  But you  barely have time to take it in from the doorway before instinctively throwing yourself beside it in the hall.  Beyond, in the ballroom, is the same spirit; though its mandible has been returned to its proper place on his transparent, morose face.  In the moment you glanced him, he is pacing - as if his feet need the floor, or atleast respect it - in some ghostly pantomime of frustration.  The wheezing wind seems to be his 'breath' or something like it; it hitches and heaves with the spirits agitation, and grows louder as it approaches the doorway.  You compress yourself into the corner beside the door in the hallway; trying to make no noise, and to become as small as possible...

 
 Spoiler: OOC: Unbidden Memories 

 
 Originally Posted by More than ten years ago... 
 The cell was carved into rock by some nameless, cursed generation of slaves before you; and the work they had done is uneven enough to have profited you in that desperate moment. You recoiled even as your swift moments seem to cause the madman - the  werething , if the Norscan rhymes have any truth - to take offense. He scrambled after you as you wedged yourself into a crevice in the cell's corner that may once have been the dream of escape for a predecessor; now, a hope of safety for you. And all this happened in the pitiful gloom of the cell, made discernible only by the murky gloaming of lanterns down the end of the hall where another shift of slaves did their part of the toil that waited for you. Screeching and snuffling, the man crowded against the crack in the stone and blocked what little light remained for you. Plunged into black, you felt cracked nails and fingertips pawing furiously to seize you, giving you no option by to kick wildly back to spurn and delay. Then his grip, iron-tight with insanity, cinched around your ankle and began hauling you out of safety. Your cunning and quickness, and mental fortitude had seen you through trials that had broken so many others; but locked in a cage with a madman, all these virtues felt insufficient. The brute reality of  strength  asserted itself on you like it had when you were first hoisted from the devastation of your village by the warrior with four eyes. 
 
 


...And then comes the spirit, not through the wall to seize you at all but through the doorway - and having missed you flattened into that corner, proceeds down the way you came.  Attracted to the sound of breaking glass?  Something else, down that way?  Was it drawn back to the scabbard, or the painting, or...?

Whatever its purpose, it seems to ignore you and go on its way.  You might follow it at a cautious distance, now that it has overlooked you, and perhaps gain insight into that purpose... or you might search this now vacated ballroom, with its dilapitated Tilean grandeur, while it is unoccupied by any evil guardian.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
If you choose to follow the spirit back the way you came, you can coast on your earlier Move Silently success for a little while longer.  If you want to stay and search this room, I'll need a fresh Search roll.  +0, since you're doing it quietly.
 
 
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 


Taalia's breath seized within her chest like a cold, bony hand around her heart as that spirit drifted past, its otherworldly perceptions failing it at that most crucial of times, much to the girls advantage.

Allowing herself to exhale as she saw the spirit round the corner at the end of the corridor, the girl peered back quickly to the ballroom within which the spirit had dwelled in forlorn frustration. Was this area important to it? She had not seen this area before, its novelty an electric shock through her system that maybe she was making progress in pursuing whatever attachment tethered this spectre to the mortal world...if it really  was  as such.

Swallowing gently, the girl rounded the corner and headed into the ballroom, her eyes swivelling back and forth as she searched for something,  anything , that could serve as a gesture for how to either escape this mental maze or put this ghost to rest. Preferably both.
MrAbdiel
 You let the spirit go on its way, and use its absence to take a chance scrounging around this previously unseen room.  A great rectangular hall, with a long table down one side and a shorter one along the short end of the room joining it to form a great L shape.  It is not set out as if it had hosted a party recently, but moldering linen lies in bunches and snarls over the table surfaces where some ancient commotion has ruffled it from its patient repose.  Opposite the corner of the "L", just to the right of the door by which you have entered, is a small stage made of wooden boxes pushed together, perhaps fated to be packed away after use but never quite making it due to some lazy member of the house staff.  Three lonely wooden lecterns stand bereft of any sheet music; one of the dusty sentinels decapitated with its wooden tray laying on the ground beside it - the wood having split, you think, after some glue used to repair it in an even older time finally aged past its credible usefulness, in the house's abandoned languor.

You find in one of the boxes an old, dusty scrollcase featuring what you think are musical pages for what must have been very lovely and exciting parties - admittedly, however, the fanciest festivities you have seen have been the raucous country festivals of Bella Collina, so your imagination may run beyond your reason.

You are left wondering why the spirit (if it is real, and not a hallucination) lingered in this room; but your wondering is interrupted by a spinechilling shriek from backdown the hallway.  It is not a sound you have heard before; but your instinctively place why it is familiar to you: It is Bella's scream.  She did not scream in terror when the troll loomed over her, ready to smash her flat or puke a liquifying stream of acid over her; but she screams now.

Is this another trick?  Has the curse, or the magic, or the  magician , done some spell to make you  hear  what you most dread to hear - the sound of your best friend, in terrible peril?  Or was it Bella's stumbling steps following you and pausing for stillness - unable to see well enough in the terrible gloom to know for sure it was you she was following?  You told her not to come in - to wait for your knock.  If she had become worried that something had happened to you, would she have respected that restrictive command?

If the situation was reversed... would you? 
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 

Rummaging quickly through the ruin of a diminished bloodline, Taalia tried her best to spot something,  anything , that could be of value. Maybe this wasn't shadow magic after all, maybe this was Necromantic or Amethyst weaving that had created some bastion.

Or, perhaps, it was genuinely a spirit that was simply the residue of agonized lamentation that could not yet pass on into the next life.

As Taalia moved through the ball-room, she came across the sheets of decrepit vallum that displayed the music of the bygone house-hold and the warm, festive atmosphere the singer-trained girl could imagine they would conjure when collectively manifested in the modest ballroom. For a moment, the girl felt a spark of hope that perhaps she had come across some clue, some lost secret that would grant her insight into how to banish or tame the wandering spirit, or banish it from her sight were it actually residual shadow magic.

But...no luck.

These were sheets that required the attention and work of multiple musicians, as the breadth of the music could not be summated by a single, lone operative like herself.

Taalia exhaled, disappointed, shaking her head as - the scream!

The shepardess immediately looked up towards the direction of that room. At first she thought that perhaps the spirit, or whoever conjured it, had devised some cunning scheme to manifest some great spell-borne illusion that dredged up inner desires from within the onlooker and turned it against them. However, were that the case, what did that say about Taalia if her direction was Bella, and secondly, that was doubtless the reason the spirit had suddenly wandered off in a shuffling daze: it had sensed the entrance of another into the house, Bella.

Dashing from her spot, Taalia barrelled down the hallway and to the rescue of her friend...
MrAbdiel
 You pound back down the corridor, and in a matter of seconds (you swear, crossing less space going back than you did going forth...) you are back in the hall with the portrait.  There, emanating enough dim light to silver the room in a quarter-moon's glow, is the spirit in the semblance of the man in the painting, though with his back to you, you cannot see whatever monstrous visage he is presenting.  This is an oddity requiring thought at a later date, because the spirit is translucent - why  shouldn't  you see both sides of it, as you can see dust on both sides of a window pane?  But this pondering will wait - through the translucent being, you see Bella; having emerged from the bedroom with the corpse from which you emerged not long ago.  Her face is pale, her expression locked in astounded horror.  She points the blunderbuss in her hands at the spirit, but her fingers shake and refuse to obey her.  You know that pulling the trigger will not harm the spirit - though it might harm you, on the other side!

As of the moment, neither notices you - not because your approach was stealthy this time, but because Bella is paralyzed in shock and the spirit looks toward her with the same unhurried, wheezing malice it did towards you, on your first encounter.

 
 Spoiler: If you pass a Perception test, +20%: 
...But along with these, another figure is present - you hear that shuffle-rattle of metal close to the northern exit from the room, on slow approach to the hall; hidden from your eyes around a blind corner, but not your ears.  It will be in the room very soon, too; whatever it is.
 
 
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 

Taalia's heart bashed against her chest as she ran down that hallway, almost in as similar state of panic as when she had taken flight earlier. The thought of Bella, her bestie, in perilous danger from that thing, after  she  had offered her the chance to come on this trip, ripping at Taalia's heart-strings as her brain seemed to throb in her skull.

But what was she doing here?! Why hadn't she heeded Taalia's initial warning to  not  venture anywhere near the house? Why hadn't she listened!?

Barrelling around the corner, Taalia was confronted by the situation she had dreaded most: Bella was indeed inside the house. Worse yet, she was being borne down upon by that  thing . Even worse yet, she was gripping that blunderbuss...which could potentially send its shot right through the apparition and straight into her own rescuer.

But oddly enough...Taalia felt no fright of the spectre. At least not when viewing it from this direction. Again - why? This thing seemed to defy all the rules what, admittedly little, she knew. It was not until it took on its monstrous visage that panic set in through the mind.

And why wasn't it  attacking  Bella? Why was it simply standing there and glaring down upon her? Was its ability to terrify a channelled effect, one it had to maintain focus and direction upon a target in order to sustain?

But then she heard the  other  shuffling - a  second  figure approaching from the north, the metal scraping upon the floor. Was it the spirits master? Was that the purpose of the apparitions apprehension of her friend, to keep her in place and at bay until some other fiend arrived to partake in whatever ghoulish delight it fancied?

The master - it  had  to be the source! Then Taalia thought of the corpse she had found, how it had been  dragged  out from under the bed, petrified with fear, and stabbed once with a short sword whose scabbard belonged to the prior owner of the house.

She couldn't escape this house. She couldn't find any clues that offered suggests of salvation - nothing. Just forever in this illusionary maze until she passed out from exhaustion, starved to death, or whatever this other thing was finally caught her.

Hating herself for doing it but feeling her prior slave instincts take over, Taalia said nothing and rushed up towards the centre of the room, right where she could face down and see whatever, or whoever, was shuffling down that hallway, her gun and shield up and ready...
MrAbdiel
 You dash up to the middle of the room, thankful for the precious moments you had to reload your weapons and wishing you had a target that might actually suffer from shooting.  As you track your pistol to the entrance where you hope such a target to emerge, you catch a little of the spirit's glow; and Bella's eyes -which know your shape in the dark as her dear friend, with atleast a little illumination - find you.

 "Taalia..!"   She croaks, her voice suddenly hoarse when it had screamed not long ago as the terror that freezes her limbs starts to thaw at the glimmer of hope your arrival provides.  The spirit aborts its grasp to turn to see you; the mournful parody of the man, in his officious coat and uniform, seeming just dimly to recognize you from the earlier encounter.

Your name spoken in such a way chills you for a moment, dividing your tention away from the doorway; and in that moment, the source of the shambling sound reveals itself: another dead man.

This one, dead in a different way.  Rusted scale male shuffles and clicks against the  bare bones beneath, and the rotted remnants of a gambeson; a lipless, skeletal mouth clicks wide with a wordless cry of battle, and with the scrabble-click of skeletal feet on hardwood floors, the dead man rushes across the floor at a charge, its rusty blade held high.

You track your pistol back on it, trying to line up its skull and hoping that bursting that will be enough to 'kill' such a thing where shooting a rib off seems likely to do little.  The last thing you need is TWO undead horrors chasing you and Bella around this awful place!  But your night-eyes resolve a fact as you aim - the skeleton's blade is not rusty, but bronze; merely dirty with age and neglect.  A leaf shaped bladed; a  xiphos , as the classics call them; a weapon of the ancient times before the Tilean states.

To your surprise, the skeleton charges at the  spirit , and swings the old blade in a vicious arc.  It misses - but it misses because the spirit reels back from the swipe as if it has something legitmate to avoid about the blow, rather than allowing the violence to pass through it meaninglessly, as happened with your pistol balls.

This new challenge plays out infront of Bella's eyes as her sense comes back to her, and her shaking legs begin to activate.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
That low initiative worked out for you, since the spirit WHIFFED bigly and you got to witness the weird politics of the cursed villa play out in front of you.  Do what you will with this information.  Bella acts at the same time as you; she is likely to defer to your best suggestion, and try to get and stay near to you!
 
 
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 

There was  another  of those wicked things lurking about within the house?! Taalia's eyes gawked at the sight of the lightly armored skeleton click-clacking its boney heels upon the floor in locomotion towards them, its deathless gaze a pitiless visage within which one would find no concept of mercy. Outside was the thunderstorm. The rain. The tapestries billowed gently against a breeze whose origins the girl couldn't even perceive should she look out the window, as if the house itself were conspiring with the newly arrived walking corpse.

Bringing her shoulder up and shouldering it, Taalia drew a bead on the things skull with her pistol, her finger about ready to squeeze the trigger - but the thing acted first, and in a way she had  not  anticipated. It surged past her as if she were not even there, it's deathly focus now revealed to be solely upon the menacing ghostly image of a man long gone who threatened Bella in mind and body, that sword it grasped swinging about. It looks like they had just met the individual responsible for the grave robbers death.

...and the ghost  trying  to avoid it.

Taalia narrowed her eyes. So it  was  afraid of things...it didn't bother avoiding her shots from earlier, but why now? That sword! The empty scabbared. Somehow, through the metaphysical barriers of life and death, that spirit possessed either a fear of, or vulnerability to, the sword that had once been its own in this mortal coil.

 "Taalia..!"  Bella's croaking voice broke the shepardess from her mystified stupor.

Acting as quick as she could, Taalia dashed over, consciously avoiding the two undead beings locked in apparent combat. She brought herself between Bella and the melee, bringing her shield up as a modicum of protection, for whatever good it would do, as she spoke over her shoulder,  "stick behind me!" 
MrAbdiel
 Bella, reanimated by your call and given opportunity by the duelling monsters before her, skitters back two clumsy steps and then seems to find her feet again.  She is operating by spook-light, but there is enough for her to race around the conflict and over to you, where she crowds in behind your right shoulder, the muzzle of  Leonardo  protruding past you.

 "Taalia!  Taalia, what are they doing?"   Bella asks, her voice still dry, but lowered as if she fears calling attention to them.  The bare answer is obvious - this spirit and this skeleton are fighting.  The meaningful answer, the question of what they are accomplishing by doing this, remains unsolved.  The skeleton takes another pair of furious swipes at the spirit; but it drifts back and to the side from the assault, and lashes out with its empty hand.  The fingers of its spectral hand stretch and contract at the beginning and end of the blow, and the strike seems to pass through the bones of the shoulder and part of the rib cage.  It passes through the remnants of the armor, and through the bones; but the blow does not seem to be without mass entirely - one of the rips cracks and splits off, skittering along on the floor.

...And as you watch the pair dance and strike at each other, you watch the detached rib skip and hop across the floor, pursuing its parent skeleton.  It flops end over end like a bobbling, ossified leech; too slow to catch up, but utterly undeterrred.  Perhaps, given the opportunity, it would skitter up to its point of departure and reattach by the same profane power it moves.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
It is Taalia (and Bella's) turn again.  The enemies seem occupied with each other.  Of the three directions exiting this room, the only one you haven't been through is hallway from which the skeleton just emerged.
 The other passages lead back to the ballroom, and the bedroom (presuming they have retained their dimensional integrity!)
 
 
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 

Taalia shifted her body to allow Bella to slip past and then behind her, the muzzle of  Leonardo , thankfully, facing somewhere  other  than Taalia's body.

 "Taalia! Taalia, what are they doing?"  
 "Not focusing on us!"  she returned, watching in fascinated morbidity as the rib was scattered off the skeleton, clattered upon the floor and then seemingly animated itself to tumble-weed back towards its possessor with the assumptive purpose of restoring the skeletons full constitution. For a second, Taalia remembered the Troll of Bella Collina and the way in which its tissues would stich match together, regardless of grievous injury. Was this some...undead variety?

Knowing they couldn't stay here, Taalia spoke over her shoulder,  "grab my back; follow me!" 

Feeling Bella's hand grip the back of her armor between the shoulder blades, Taalia brought her shield about to form a barrier between the two moving girls and the duelling undead. They skittered around the side of the room and towards the corridor from which the skeleton had emerged.

It was the only area of the house into which she had not been, and now that it was vacated by the currently-distracted skeleton, maybe they could resolve the mystery of their illusionary imprisonment?
MrAbdiel
 Bella follows you into the blind darkness, panting as the breath that was shocked out of her works its way back into her lungs on the run.  But you see, at least; guided by the sourceless gloom that refuses to dip to pure darkness for reasons that do not present themselves.  You round the corner and find a flight of steps going down to a floor below.  The peeling-paint plaster walls of the interior gives way to mortar and stone retaining walls flanking the short descent on long comfortable steps.  They force you to slow down a little so that Bella doesn't trip.  On the steps, you encounter more dead - these, idle and thankfully inanimate.  The first is a skeletonized carcass that seems to have died crawling up the steps toward the hall above.  The ancient robe it once wore is flat and moth-mangled on its body, but you see the bloody stain turned black both in the remnants of the cloth and in a trail back from the cellar below.  Two steps past this body is another, this one in decayed and ruined leather armor.  This one has a loose crossbow quarrel embedded in the ribcage - shot dead as it rounded the corner, the first casualty of some ancient fight here.  Beyond him is a small cellar with several ancient casks on racks; some long broken and dry, some still intact.  Two more leather armored skeletons lie about, attesting their death in the same conflict.  Past them is a huge, heavy door built into the stone and mortar archway.  The blood from the robed skeleton stains the stone in a dusty, blackened trail all the way up to the door, where it seems to terminate (or rather, initiate) in a great arterial fan of the stuff.  A fair amount of this room's floor is splattered with bloodstains, discolouring the dusty stone in the ancient conflict that took place here.

 "I see nothing - where are we?  Oh, Taalia - what is this place...?  It's not even a  mystery night ..." 

The room goes no further than this; the heavy door has no lock, but does not budge; it seems to be locked from the other side.

Above, you hear a frustrated, ethereal shriek; the battle between the dead men continues.

 
 Spoiler: Succeed on a +0 Visual Perception Test... 
Even in the dark, your eyes pick out two things - one is that the floor in front of the door is scratched and dappled with what must have been years of pacing back and forth by the bone-footed occupant.  The other is that the door is stained a little, too - right near the bottom, with what looks more like ancient smudges of blood than splashes; and some scratches over the top of that.
 
 
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 

Taalia hurried down those stairs, Bella in tow and grasping between her shoulders.

The...blood-stained area was macabre and off-putting, though the shepardess, with her background as a slave in the violent Skaven society, found it less unsettling than her more innocent-minded companion.

 "Close your eyes!"  she would say to Bella, hoping the girl would not see the more horrific offerings of this seemingly ritualistic sacrifice-orientated wing of the house.

However, the door they came to offered them a pass. At least, for those without one of these...

Taalia brought up her pistol, pressed it against the lock and pulled the trigger.
MrAbdiel
 Bella doesn't need to close her eyes - she's all but blind down hear, pointing the blunderbuss back towards the stairs or, more specifically, away from your voice.  Confronted with the obstructing double doors, you make do; using a roll of wadding cloth to bundle up a thick line of gunpowder and jam it in the crack between door and stone frame.  You light the cloth and hustle with Bella to the corner, out of the arc of the blast and put your fingers in your ears.

As the blast goes off with a heavy  bang , the flash lights up the skeletal swordsman descending the stairs to resume his post.  The gust from the blast buffets his ragged rainment a little, but does not otherwise bother him - but seeing you and Bella, the lower mandible flaps and chatters in long-dead outrage; and lacking his spiritual enemy, he breaks into a run toward you.

But a rewarding  thump  of the door beyond falling inward as its rusted out hinges give way gives you hope.  You feared the blast might just push out a corner of the door, forcing you and Bella to crawl - which would have been disastrous with a stabbing skeleton at your back! - but you rush around and crouch through the smoke, and the obstructing beam that was barring the door until its bracket was knocked loose by the burst moments ago, too.

Another cellar; more wine casks, and a slop that leads to a deeper, cooler area where cheese must have been left to age.  The door and its bar must have been here as a kind of panic room, permitting the occupants to retreat into the cellar and lock themselves in while looters took what they wanted from above and moved on without endangering what is most precious.  The door was not breached, until you came - but it seems to have failed in its job all the same.

Curled up on the ground by one of the winecask racks are a pair of skeletons; both in the crumbling remnants of night gowns; one skeleton smaller than the other.  But you barely have time to observe them; you pull Bella off to the side and into cover behind one of the racks, as your pursuer clambers through the breach after you.  Only it seems to have ceased pursuit - you heave the sword clattering to the ground and, looking back around the edge of the rack, see the upright dead man gazing down on the two remnants on the ground, nestled into each other in dead.  You watch its skull loll on its neck as if hanging his head in defeat, or misery; and then the walking dead man lowers himself to the ground, careful not to disturb the other skeletons, and lays with them with a bony arm gently crowded over them.

A moment later, he is not alone in this strange reunion: the spirit, once horrific and ghastly, fades into visibility and grim luminescence overlooking the skeletal trio, permitting Bella to gasp at the spectacle by that light.  Now, the spirit looks tired, and miserable, and mournful; and like a man climbing into bed to go to sleep, he gets down on his hands and knees, and then settles precisely into the bodily arrangement of the skeletal warrior that preceded him.  The spook-light goes out; and everything goes quiet.  And then a sound like a great heaving exhalation rushes from the house, and the grumbling creak of wood as a structure only partially subject to the rules of physical reality surrenders itself completely; and then quiet again.

And waiting a few moments to make sure nothing else befalls you and your friend, the next sound is less terrible - Signore Cestié in the cellar on the other side of the door, calling your names; a bobbing lamp's light preceding him.

 "Taalia!  Bella!  Taalia!  Bella!"  
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 

Remembering some pointers from when Rashabag had directed her into devising a make-shift bomb to blow open a hole in the wall of  The Tower , Taalia hurriedly applied some improvisation to the door, the threat of the incoming skeleton warrior granting her efforts wings.

What lay on the other side, however, she was not prepared for.

Gaining entry into the cellar,  "quickly!"  she harkened to Bella, the smaller womans hand gripping between her shoulder blades, Taalia led the pair inside only to be greeted by the sight of tragedy long buried. Throwing themselves off to the side, using the corner as her means to place herself between the skeleton and Bella, Taalia was prepared to fight the skeleton, to disarm him and then somehow restrain the undead horror in a way that neutralized it as a threat, given that she could clearly not 'slay' it permanently.

But instead, she saw the remains of what was undoubtedly the former lady of the manor, the skeletons wife, and their daughter. The skeletal warrior was equally seized by this sight, his eternal vigil seemingly at an end as he paused in his advance and diverted his full attention to the grisly remains, kneeling down next to them as if to join them in still rest. The spirit too, a specter that had haunted this cursed house for so long, drew itself down to join them, its malice and hatred replaced with forlorn lamentation before the spirit merged with the skeleton and were finally whole once again in the peace of the grave.

 "Taalia! Bella! Taalia! Bella!" 

It took several seconds for Taalia to respond, as her eyes remained fixed on those skeletal remains and the sad story they had to tell, one it was likely she would never fully know. How the pair ended up locked in this room while their armed father, husband and guardian remained outside, who could say.

 "In here!"  Taalia returned Cestie's call, relaxing herself as she holstered her pistol and lowering her shield.

 "Bella, are you okay? Cestie - is everything alright?" 

The shepardess would fill them both in on what happened to her and what she had experienced. Naturally, she would chide Bella just a little bit for coming in after her, but it would be sumberged beneath a tight, affectionate hug and gratitude for her bravery at the unspoken understanding that Taalia probably would've done the same thing.

 "We should bury them, and the robber,"  Taalia spoke, gesturing to the remains of the family.

 "Give them all a proper burial." 
MrAbdiel
 Cestié joins you and Bella in this 'secure' cellar.  He has rigged a slat from one of the wings of the flying machine to hold the lantern for him.  The length of wood is bound roughly at one end to the belt above his backside, rests on Cestié's back as he crouches forward, and hangs a lantern on its end bobbling out four feet in front of him.  It's not an elegant solution, and you can see a possible world where such a ploy results in a man cracking their lantern on a doorframe and splashing their shoes with burning oil; but he needs to hold the firearm you left in both hands, so he has little choice.  Bella heard your pistols fire, and told Cestié to wait as she rushed in after you; Cestié heard the blast, and followed in not long after.  However much you would like to keep them out of danger, neither of your friends can long be trusted to stand aside when you are imperilled. Their love for you will not permit it.

As you all look over the scene together, a more tragic tale of love seems to unfold in the blood marks and remnants of clothes, and the construction of the room.  Between the three of you, you put together a theory that seems to fit the facts.

The man must have been minor nobility.  The sword, a family relic.  Your theory about a wizard, or a necromancer being here seems to have been close to on point - a robed figure without armor and three armored ones descended into this cellar in some kind of invasion.  It would seem the man rushed his family to the secure room, ushered them in, and bid them bar the door behind them; presumably, expecting the wife to be able to unbar it when the danger was passed.

But the stain around the wife's remains suggests she took a mortal wound, and perished not long after going inside.  Beyond the door, the man took a stand; killing his attackers with crossbow and blade; apparently visiting a mortal blow on the rogue wizard who crawled back to the steps and died there.  But the man of the house did not fare much better; he lived long enough to smear the blood of his hands on the door, seperated from his dying or dead wife and lonely daughter by three inches of hardwood.

Evidence further in the cellar tells the tail end of the sad story.  Old wax skins from cheese left to age in the cellar suggest the girl fed herself as best she could; but at some point, she nestled herself into her mother's cold arms and never got up again.

Something about this ghastly tale of division and a desperate need to reunite seems to have been sufficient to have caused a supernatural event.  Perhaps it had something to do with the magical aggressor - a botched spell of grey magic, or necromancy, or witchcraft, gone awry because of a deathblow.  Perhaps that had nothing to do with it, and it was merely the misery of the circumstance that was sufficient to cause a dead man's spirit and bones to rise up independently and, in some kind of mystical confusion, desperately defend the door to their loved ones from each other... and all interlopers.  But permitting the family to reunite in death seems to have done the trick; the house seems to have lost its 'desire' to prevent anyone leaving, and seems now just a normal dilapidated villa... even if, because of your experiences here, you have no desire to stay long term.  You spend the night in the shelter of the place, and spend a couple of hours digging the wet earth outside to bury the family and interlopers in separate, marked plots.

A search of the villa reveals a descent amount of reasonably valuable house goods - silverwear, crockery, some art pieces - but considering how light you are forced to travel, overloading on loot seems a bad idea.  One thing stands out as a token to repay your traumatic efforts here, however - the bronze xiphos.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
Make me a Perception (Hearing) roll, +20.
 
 
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 

Forensically piecing together the final moments of the family was a little trial in itself. Sadly, it was a labour of tragedy, as each step of confirmation only shone more light on the sorrowful events that had been so traumatic and everlasting, they had mystically connected the material with the spiritual by trapping the mans spirit, or at least a fragment of it, here in the physical plane and tethering him to this house in an everlasting vigil.

What the rogue wizard wanted, who could say. But as Taalia sifted through his remains and came across a rusted ritualistic knife, she could tell that he had not knocked upon their door with benign intentions. A Necromancer, most likely, that was Taalia's guess. She had originally believed this entire house was the product of a wicked and possibly insane Grey Wizard who was protecting his private study with the most malicious means available. But, now, Taalia could see that she had been wrong. It wasn't a  bad  guess, given the available evidence, but it was the incorrect one.

However, she  wished  she had been right. Perhaps it was her slave instincts brewing beneath the surface, or maybe she was getting 'softer' and more 'normal' in the years of absence from the hellish pits of the Skaven, but Taalia showed particular care for the skeleton of the small girl. Maybe there was a personal connection, or familiarity that Taalia could see reflected in those small, boney remains. Trapped in this room, starving to death, alone with nothing but her mothers corpse. It was a bleak reminder that Taalia's sad story wasn't the only one in this world. There were millions like it, and not all of them had a happy ending.

The shepardess helped gather the remains, taking care to provide any little trinkets or memorabilia she could find into the graves of the relevant owner. She ensured the family were together. The robber was buried a short distance away, on his own. The rogue wizard and his goons...they received a grave each too, but it was further away. They were the catalyst for the tragedy that unfolded here, but so much time had passed, their souls had already been sent off for judgement at whatever divine court awaited them all.

Taalia spoke a few words over the graves and offered them all at least a one minute of silence. Once they had completed the burial, the girl would stay in the house with Cestie and Bella, though she would not partake in any grave robbing of her own. The cutlery stayed, the tapestries were upheld, any valuables or jewels (the ones that didn't get buried with, presumably the lady of the house) were kept in place. Taalia played her part in helping the spirits here find rest, burying the bodies and receiving a reward in the form of a serviceable house within which to wait out the storm.

She did take the sword though. The girl found the scabbard for it and brought its 'humming' frame up to her ear, her brow furrowed in confusion and curiosity.

 "Can you hear that, Singore Cestie?"  she would ask, holding the blade in such a way as to allow him to attempt to receive the low-key resonations. Bella too.

But neither could.

Taking it as a sign, Taalia cleaned up the scabbard and the blade as best she could. Perhaps this should find a place on a wall somewhere. Or maybe handed over to the Amethyst wizards? Or maybe kept as a memento, of that time she and Bella helped free a tortured spirit from its eternal vigil.
MrAbdiel
   Trantio  

Trantio is not so grand as Remas, or even Verezzo; atleast, not in scale.  It is an inland city like Verezzo, situated on one of many hills in a region of them halfway between the Appucini mountains (and trade from the dwarf holds) in the east, and its port-dotted coastline (and trade from the New World) arrayed along the Gulf of Pearls.  It was once the poor sister of Miragliano and Remas and Pavona around it; but that was many centuries ago.  Since then, it has been profiting from being the single major beneficiary of trade and treasure expeditions to the New World where Marco Colombo’s adventures made it clear that intercontinental profit was perilous… but potentially nation-changing.  Your trio wanders the massive Central Piazza, which is a larger market than any you have ever seen.  With the flying machine safely tucked away on the estate of one of Cestié’s old Miragleanan friends who also moved south (though not as south as Cestié), he and Bella are free to walk with you on a day of indulgence, and also to pick up more maintenance supply for the machine after more days of flying.  You and the old tinker are in agreement - wood is cheap enough to replace as soon as it shows sign of stress; and it’s much easier to do so on a clear day of strolling like this instead of when you are plunging out of the sky trying to compensate for a snapped wing.

Old Trantio is located inside the city’s inner wall, with New Trantio existing in the concentric ring around it, constructed during the centuries long age of prosperity that followed Marco Colombo’s successes.  The exterior wall, its gatehouses and towers, are particularly intimidating in size and quality; made with help from dwarven castellans who themselves profit from Trantio’s trade power.  Indeed, there are more dwarves here in Trantio per human than in the other cities you have seen, for sure.
 
“Gaulfredo’s family is from around these parts - not the city, I think; but if you listen you can hear his twang in their accent,”  Signore Cestié explains. And you can hear it - you’ve known for a while that Gaulfredo (more even than his good sister) has a way of almost ‘swinging’ his emphasis from consonant to consonant, dipping down into the vowels and back up creating a certain meter to his conversation, where the Verezzan natives were more plainspoken, and not so different from the Remans.  Cestié’s Miragleanan accent is distinct too - putting an odd little surrussive flush on the ‘s’ sound so that every ‘s’ is almost an ‘sh’.  Bella’s Luccinian accent hasn’t lept out at you - but perhaps she has merely adapted well, or Luccinians do not have distinct accents.

Bella windowshops at the stalls, but has lived humbly and never really craved wealth.   “We’ve a little time for some fun before we head back - what do you think, Taalia?”
 
 
 Spoiler: Trantio Tourism 
Some options for your perusal - pick two!

Visit the Trantine Greyhound track!

Marvel at the Trantine Printing Press!

See what the Dwarf Quarter has to Offer!

Witness the Triumph of Marco Columbo - a Museum of the Legend himself!

Browse the Grand Statuary, an artistic in this city known for its marble quarries!
 
 
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 

There was something about exploring the cities with friends in tow that made the experience so much better! When she had first visited Verezzo all those years ago, she had done so as a lone figure with a clear set of goals in mind, going from one task to the next. But now, here in foreign lands with Cestie and Bella alongside her, Taalia felt a swell in her heart and wore a smile on her face as she would sometimes walk with her arm interlocked with either or of her companions. In some ways she looked like an over-grown child with her grandfather and best friend, her eyes bright as she took in the vast market-place around her.

After the events of the house, Taalia was feeling more lively, as if she were looking for something to remind her of the better things in life. The tale of the daughter starving to death in her slain mothers arms, the father unable to come to their aid, it was the bleak side of existence that was an unfortunate constant in the world. But here, the scents of food and cooking wafting through the market place as goods from a dozen local regions lined up in polished readiness to seduce the passer-bys to part with their coin - this was a more pleasant. And to enjoy it in the company of ones friends? Magnifico.

The talk of Gaulfredo and mention of the race track took Taalia's mind momentarily back to Bella Collina, to her adoptive family and Corvo. Her heart swelled up a little as the thought rolled through her brain, years of fond recollections stirred up by Cestie's mention. She wondered what they were doing now? How they were coping? For a second, Taalia pictured the grandest bottle of Bretonnian spirits being delivered to Gaulfredo's home as a treat after he completed the first half-year operations of the farm and received its rewards. Ariana would roll her eyes. Vitorrio would eagerly ask if he could try it, with Corvo and Elmo sensing their little masters excitement and prancing about him. Taalia snickered fondly over the imagined idea, as Bella posts the question of what they should check out.

OOC:
_____________________
Let's go to:
The Trantine Printing Press and the Triumph of Marco Columbo - a Museum of the Legend himself!
MrAbdiel
   The Forefront of Technology  
The smell is ink.  You've smelled ink before plenty when you learned writing from the Madre Angeletta and taught it to Vittorio; but the scent was a chemical whiff them.  Here it is heady, almost overpowering; burying beneath it the smell of olive oil lamps, parchment, binding glue and salt.

The whole operation of the printing press is just two rooms; a large 'factory floor' is the first, where two large wood and iron machines full of levers and plates are operated by apprentices with ink smeared aprons and black-stained hands.  They rearrange typeface with swift, meticulous little movements; mechanically operate the pressing mechanisms, peel sheets of parchment away to set to dry, and a dozen other small but critical operations which you would miss if they weren't being pointed out to you.

The little business is remarkable, and seems to have three streams of income.  The first is obvious - the mass production and binding of certain volumes at speeds unthinkable by a manual amanuensis.  Currently they are creating a batch of volumes - a classic, four hundred year old philosophical treatise about the nature of the world and its denizens;  Forma di Malevola  by Marcelli Verdallo.  Some book seller elsewhere in the city awaits this stack of nearly identical copies.  A book written hundreds of years ago, suddenly proliferated today!  What a marvel!

The secondary income is the small bookshop they run themselves; a small number of volumes from every print run, they keep for a library and direct sale from the shelves lining the walls of the second room; a kind of foyer-bookstore-viewing room for the factory beyond.  From here, there is also access to a smaller, more prototypical press which has been decommissioned from major work and now serves only to print letters as souvenirs for visitors with silver to spare - the tertiary, tourism income stream.  A helpful, fair skinned and ginger haired girl not much older than you explains these things as part of a penny tour Cestié paid for.  Her name is Phillipa.

 "...and with two machines, we can create over two thousand impressions a day!  Depending on the size of the book in demand, that might be anywhere between one and four books worth of content.  We are still limited by parchment supply, mostly - occasionally a wealthy client brings a shipment of paper from Cathay, which is even more lovely - but it will change the way information gets around the world.  To think, one Sigmarite fellow in Middenheim conceived of this machine a couple of years ago - and now, we stand here in Trantio at the dawn of an age where all mankind will have books to read!"   She does a good job of being very excited about this mundane process.  Bella is interested in the books on the shelves; but Cestié is almost overwhelmed by the chance to look at the machines themselves.  Near to giggling.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: Behold!  The Fuuuuture! 
Normally printed books are 100gc.  Here, at the source, you can buy from a selection of printed books at a mere 50 duro - or with a haggle role, perhaps even cheaper on some damaged or misprinted stock!

You can also, if you want, have a letter printed on the small press.
 Travellers often write a template, get the type set for it, then personalize several printed copies for family and friends, having them all sent home as a novelty.  Having a bundle of letters printed in this way and delivered to Bella Collina would cost 10  scellini , plus 1  scellini  per additional copy.
 
 
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 

Taalia felt back in her element when she wandered the magnificent printing press with Cestie and Bella. The scent of oil and ozone hugging the air. The clinking and clanking of machinery. The whine of great belts whacking around wheels and operating partially mechanized systems while a cotorie of specialized workers went about their sole task. It was a beautiful dance of harmony that was all intended to produce a single product: books.

What  what  a product they were!

Even before Taalia had been literate, she was smart enough to see the value in writing things down and keeping records. Rashabang had done as such relentlessly, his notes turning into madhouse cross-cross maps of notes and schematics that only his mad genius was able to decipher. So when the girl had finally learned from blessed Singora Angeletta, she did so both as a means of practicality and so that she could understand the various texts she possessed on alchemical and medical procedures. After that, well, she was within Singore Cestie's workshop, learning the gunsmiths trade and the rudimentary math that went along with it. After that then came her own farm, for which she kept ledgers, husbandary notes and contractual records that enhanced her efficiency.

And that was for her own immediate importance. What about the long-term consequences of the thoughts and philosophical inquiry of great minds who had lived centuries prior, whose works could not influence society of today with their wisdom? Indeed, had not Cestie kept schematics from an ancestor? And look where it was taking them...

Yes, yes indeed. Though not a weapon one could throw at an enemy soldier or blast into the ratsnest of a Skaven pit, the book was perhaps one of mankinds most far-reaching and powerful pieces of technology. To accumulate the experiences, knowledge and works of past generations so that future ones may build upon it. It was simply marvelous.

 "It seems no matter where I go in life, I always end up in a workshop of some sort, Singore Cestie,"  Taalia leaned over to whisper to her companion with a cheeky smile.

When the young red-headed girl spoke, Taalia returned her enthusiasm. Perhaps it was ego speaking, but all this talk of 'changing the future of mankind' reminded the shepardess that she was flying across the country in an airborne machine, from Bella Collina of Tilea, through Bretonnia and to Altdorf of the Empire. It was a historical first, and the flying machine Cestie had made would be an engineering marvel that revolutionized travel.

And this girl, so excited about the future and where things will go, will get to honestly claim she spoke with one of the participants.

Keep your ego in check girl, Taalia silently mused to herself, having to correct her own behaviour and put a pin in that inflating bubble.

But, it was that spirit of hope and optimism that humans were known for, a force within them that pushed them forward when reason told them all hope was lost. Taalia made sure to tip the girl another few pennies with a sincere thanks for her tour.

While Cestie busied his curiosity with the machines and Bella browsed the books, Taalia chose to make good on her promise and have some letters printed to send back to Bella Collina, particularly to Vitorrio. He was growing so fast. He was only 6 or so years behind her, just 11 years old when she was a skinny 17 year old out of the slave pits. Now he was a teenager, and Taalia smirked as she recalled some of the trouble he was getting into and the fire it brought out in his mother, Arianna. Taalia, being the adopted big sister, was in a unique position of being both his closest ally but also voice of reason. And so, Taalia paid the coins necessary and had letters printed to Vitorrio, Ariana and Gaulfredo, with Vitorrio being the main subject (that should please him, she thought to herself), and one for Madre and Polo, as well as the boys, now proven young men, who worked her farm. With any luck, they would receive it around the time the prize-money from the arena fight arrived!

Once that was done, she would find Bella, taking note of what she was perusing.

 "Any you like?"  she asked her bestie.


ooc:
 
 Spoiler 

With haggle roll, Taalia may buy Bella a &lt;50gc book, using one of her gems as tender. I don't want to lose perspective, 50gc is almost 4 years of a peasants wages lol, but if she's found one she wants and really likes and if it's cheap enough, she'll buy it.

Alternatively, she'll pay for Bella to send printed letters to someone, as a gift from her.
 
MrAbdiel
 Bella laughs.

"None that I like enough to deal out  duri  for!  I think I'll send a letter back home; one I'll keep when I get back.  Maybe a copy for Ernesto and Istuccio.  But fifty  duri  for a book... I can't imagine ever wanting to pay more than ten, even for a very nice book!"

Signorina Phillipa laughs.

 "It is so, yes; but I like to think that because of this invention, we will be able to have common libraries in all towns and cities - where you might read a book without needing to buy it, and do so without fear of it being so precious and irreplacable.   Forma di Malevola , perhaps not so much - it's all very airy and strange.  And banned in Sigmar's empire, for that matter - they do not permit discussion of the rat men there at all.  But other books, books about great heroes and adventures, and the far places of the world... Why, with books, one might allow even the poorest child of a distant village the ability to travel in their imagination to far Cathay, or Kislev!" 
 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
With that haggle roll, you could buy a copy of Forma di Malevola for only 20gc - one which had a corner scuffed and crushed in a binding accident.
 It's still perfectly functional, but the imperfection will make it harder to sell to suppliers abroad; thus the discount!
 
 
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 

Taalia smiled at the girls optimism.

 "I think that is a beautiful vision of the future,"  she agreed. Knowledge and inspiration were truly some of mankinds most powerful motivators that had pushed them to great heights.

The shepardess considered the book in her hands:  Forma di Malevola , or Malevolent Form. It was a textbook that catalogued (if guessed correctly) the strange and awful horrors that lurked in the world, including her former owners. Opening up the book, noting the crushed corner, Taalia drew her eyes over the inscriptions and drawings, all of the familiarity returning to her.

 "It's a shame we cannot talk about the rat-men in past tense,"  she muttered, before swiping through a few more pages. She then remembered their encounter with the ghost at the vila, and how her ignorance of it had almost cost her life and that of Bella and Cestie's. Pursing her lips, tapping her index finger against a random page as she was visibly thinking, Taalia nodded and closed it. She'd take it.

OOC:
 
 Spoiler 
Taalia will part with 20 smackeroo's and be the proud owner of a book. She owns 2 books now, the one that the Verena priestess gave her and this one.

And she figures once she's read it a few times and needs to part with it before entering the Empire (because they don't permit it, apparently), she can fix the corner up and, with the exchange rate, she'll get her money back anyway, and then some. Win win!
 
MrAbdiel
   The Grand Statuary  
The statuary holds little surprise - it is what its name suggests. But it does hold  wonder!   An open, publicly accessible park is filled with renditions in stone and marble and bronze; the things that will endure the elements.  Dozens of granite plinths are spaced in the circular green; not equidistant, but artistically distributed based on their size and subject matter.  Mercenary generals and crowd to one side, explorers and great minds to another; natural and divine subjects elsewhere still.  The mind is left to draw artistic conclusions about why one piece might have a certain neighbour.  The whole area is enclosed by a ring of hedges that are themselves topped with marvellous topiaries;  trees  sculpted into the shapes of rabbits, and birds, and lions.  None of these hold the detail of the marble sculptures, of course; but they hold distinct shape and style in their fine, small leaved branches at all and that seems a treasure in itself, for those who appreciate such things.

In the centre of the green is a large wooden rotunda with stone benches that must see a great deal of use.  A liveried attendant is on hand at all times to wipe down the stone benches and the wooden tables as folk drift in during the day to dwell in the shade and appreciate the statuary around. But from within the rotunda, following the glance of locals up, you see a similarly impressive series of wood carved murals in massive, purplewood panels fixed under the roof.  The wood is a kind you have never seen before, but the murals reveal its nature; a sequence of scenes of Marco Colombo sailing the Great Ocean, landing in the new world, fighting lizards who walk like men, dancing with what looks like a primitive tribe of beautiful human women, and at one point marvelling at a particularly large tree, which is cut down and loaded by sections onto a ship in a later panel.

A great many of the stone statues in the green are made from a particularly striking pink marble; and many of these are the most exceptionally detailed sculptures, capable of creating stunning illusions like wet cloth clinging to a human form, or an elven prince with fire rippling up over his outstretched arm.  These are the most 'high art' elements of the Statuary.  You remember Sapienza at the Lucky Duck pointing out locations on the Verezzo map - one of them was a pink marble statue, supposely one of the greatest of its kind in Tilea. You hadn't the time or occasion to check it out; but it must be connected to the rare quarry of the stuff that Trantio enjoys.

To contrast, at the far south end, there is a small crowd gathered around a wide pit full of fine golden sand.  Three men operate within it, performing some kind of show; you take them to be brothers, or perhaps cousins calling themselves brothers for the purpose of their troupe.  With a variety of shovels and trowels, and a few barrels of water, they are taking requests from the excited crowd of modestly monied burghers on what to sculpt from sand; and they carry out the commands with surprising fidelity.  There are children visiting with an older woman you take to be their grandmother, and it seems they have convinced the artists to render her likeness.  Additional requests from the crowd have added detail; the signora wearing a breastplate and holding a spear; now riding a lion; now with a wave crashing behind her; now with an orc quailing in the foreground.  It's genuinely impressive that they can get such impressions out of simple sand at all; and the impermanence of such a work is somewhat tragic.  After a while, full of giggles, the family moves on and you are left there with a diminished crowd as the afternoon brings a rumbling grey cloud.  Rain approaches, and the tourists toss silver and copper into a pail for the sand sculptors and start to flake off.

 "Time for one more, maybe - or half of one!"   The oldest of the brothers announces this, as his kin smooth down the sand into a uniform lump.   "Who's next?  Who wants to be part of the Grand Statuary?"  
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 

The girl at the printing press had mentioned the fantastic idea of children in the countryside of Tilea being able to travel to distant lands in their imaginations thanks to reading readily available books. Taalia agreed. But while the printed text was a passage way through which one could conceive in their own mindseye, the Statuary was delivering a piece of those far-off shores to ones doorstep.

 "Look at this!"  the shepardess exclaimed, standing and staring in amazement at the statue of a lion. What even  was  such a creature? So majesty yet fierce, its enormous mane hanging like a wreathe of gravitas around the predatory cats great shoulders. From where did such a beast originate? What was its temperament? Though Taalia was technically the most travelled of their trio, having walked from Norsca to Tilea, such a journey had been hidden beneath the surface and deep within the bowels of that fetid Skaven Underempire. The world beyond was enormous and frightening, but also wondrous.

When the grey clouds began to coalesce across the sky above and the the three men maid their offer to recreate something in sand, Taalia, wearing her bright beaming smile, put her hand up.

 "Me!"  she announced excitedly.

 "Or us?"  she turned to Cestie and Bella, looking upon them and asking visually if they wanted to join her.

If they did, Taalia's suggested pose was soppy but sentimental. She would stand between them, an arm over each shoulder and wearing that bright smile of hers.

Otherwise, she would strike a much more heroic pose, self-aware enough to be humorous about such a self-aggrandizing moment later on.
MrAbdiel
 The brothers eyes track to the sky, and consider the your trio; but they are up for the challenge.

"Well, we might have to skip the lions and the unicorns, but we'll give it a whirl!"

And whirl they do.  They speak so swiftly to each other that they seem to be speaking in some sort of artistic battle cant; settling on the design.  They settle on a threefold bust, 'cut' out of the sand mounted up into an upright heap.  They put Signore Cestie in the middle above you and Bella as if you had crowded to peer into a window.  They make their sandy renditions of your faces remarkably well; each brother fussing over one as they agree to forsake their goal of filling out the detail in the shoulders for more fidelity on the faces.  They capture the waves of Bella's hair and the straighter fall of yours, and Cestié's beard; and after fifteen short minutes of frenzied work you are looking back and three very pleased look Bella Collinans rendered in sand.

You notice the lead brother, working on your countenance, regard you for a long moment toward the end.  After a contemplative pause, you realize he is deciding whether he ought to detail on the rendition a copy, in some form, of the somewhat claw-like scarring from brow to cheek on your face.  You can almost see the decisions popping behind his eyes.  Is it kinder to pretend not to have noticed?  Having noticed, is it kinder not to include the scar?  Does failing to render the scar draw more, or less attention to it?

In the end, he takes a thin little wooden tool and traces the scar's shape over on your doppleganger's face.  He does look to you shortly after, as if to determine if he has judged correctly - that you are at peace with such a marring to your countenance.

 
 Spoiler: Unbidden Memory: 
 The screams and shouts of battle woke many, and a thunderous town bell stirred the rest to action. The militia rallied. Aid was lent by a visiting Bretonnian knight and his retinue. The violence was terrible as steel struck shield on shield and ferocity against discipline. Her father...tall...very tall, broad, axe in hand...he departed, left. That's all she could remember, as flames licked at buildings, and she, her mother and siblings fled with the other civilians, but part of their house collapsed, with jagged wood catching her in the side of her face... 
 


...But then comes the rain, less than a minute after.  The raindrops patter around the park and begin striking the sand sculpture.  Each impact leaves a wet little crater, rendering all the visages rapidly imperfect.  But impermanence is a part of this particular medium, and the brothers can only laugh and throw up their hands, pleased they did as much as they did in the compressed timescale.  They pack up their tools to end for the day, as the crowd scatters for cover.

 "A shame we couldn't take it with us,"  Bella remarks as you shelter together under the rotunda;  "They make such beautiful things many times a day, only to lose them!" 

Cestie waxes slightly philosophical, as he gazes out at his melting, sandy doppleganger.   "I suppose it's much easier to work in sand than stone; but one stands for hundreds of years, and the other won't last an afternoon.  Fleeting beauty is no less beautiful; but enduring beauty pays back its greater investment.  But those boys have mastery of shape and form, I think; I bet they have a studio back home where they are learning to translate those skills to marble or wood or clay, and use this just to keep the lamp oil burning." 
 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
For your appreciation of the literary and formal arts, you are... about halfway to earning the  Artistic  talent with no XP cost!

Next stop: Miragliano!
 
 
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 

Taalia posed happily with Cestie and Bella, though the shepardess did do a joking pout at the idea she'd be off to the side. Fair enough though, Cestie  was  the one who mostly created and built the machine and got them here, after all. Plus he was the senior citizen out of the three.

When the topic of her scar arose and a memory came rushing back, Taalia reached up and touched her face as if she was only remembering that she had it. All those years ago...it was hard to recognize herself now without it. Were her bust to become a statue and she had it removed...well, shed just be denying a part of who she was, where she came from and what made her. So when the sculptor chose to retain it in her reflection and looked to her for approval, she gave a small nod and a smile. Scars were impressive and attractive for men, but for women like her, they could impair the looks. But no, Taalia wanted to keep it, it was a part of who she was.

This point was emphasized when the rain finally came upon them. Taalia beamed and thanked the brothers as Cestie and Bella got undercover, the shepardess joining them soon after. As Cestie commented upon the fleeting beauty of the fruits of invested labour or quick effort, Taalia watched the sculptures slowly dissolve beneath the rain, each crater opened by a weightless drop before the integrity gave away entirely. It was...disconcerting, watching an image of yourself melt in such a way, but it hammered home Cestie's point: time was valuable, spend it wisely.
MrAbdiel
 You leave Trantio behind, and carry on north toward the coast; the Gulf of Pearls, and the Pearl of the Gulf itself: Miragliano.  From just this city, the legendary Leonardo di Miragliano emerged with his many inventions to change the world.  Earlier still, it was from Miragliano that traveling merchants would set out to the uncivilized lands of the Unberogen and Tuetogen tribes, and build there a fortified merchant settlement on an abandoned elven foundation outpost; a settlement that would attract the local tribes and grow to become the prosperous and enterprising city of Nuln.  You have set down this evening far from the city; though in the distance you can see the somewhat low-set walls and a constellation of torchlights clustered in its interior districts.  You are once more landed on a rural property beyond the city's immediate limits; well to its east, in an open ground between a barn and farmhouse that remind you some of Gaulfredo's.  Unlike the other stops on the journey, Signore Cestié seems to know the inhabitants; and has alerted them ahead of his coming.

 "Maso!  Maso!" 

A portly man with a lantern in one hand jogs excitedly to your trio as you pile off of the machine.  He has a lopsided beard, due to a ruinous clawmark scar that has genuinely thwarted much of his ability to grow hair on the right side; but he still grows as much as he can to partially shrouded.  Perhaps ten years Cestié's junior, he is still a senior; even if this reunion provokes what seems like almost juvenile energy from the chubby man.

 "Grifone!  Grifone, aha!" 

Matching the energy, Cestié almost stumbles off his machine's seat and crosses to meet him halfway.  They hug, the hearty way old friends do with backslapping and mirth.  So genuine seeming is it that Grifone seems almost completely uninterested in the flying machine as Cestié introduces you and Bella to him.  This is Grifone di Padiglio; a friend of Signore Cestié's from almost forty years ago.

 "The old man and I, haha, we got into much trouble; but we both had our fill of the city, in the end; I have gone from farm to farm, while old Maso has been down in Verezzo.  With its army of senators and their color-ladies!  How do they make decisions at all, with no princes?  Ahaha!  Ah, but they have fewer canals and thus fewer rats - so perhaps he was right after all!  Come inside, come inside!" 

Once the flying machine is secured in the barn (Grifone is appropriately impressed, but more interested in talking to Cestié and his companions), he takes you inside to meet his similarly plump wife, Laura; who knows Cestié only by her husband's stories but feels as though she knows him anyway.  She fixes you some dinner with Miraglianan flavor - fried shrimp and anchovies, on a bed of soft polenta.

 "How long are you in the city, Maso?"  She asks, warmly.   "I've got a friend who is waiting on me to tell him when I want some soft-shelled crab to fry up; and it'll take a touch of coordinating to get all the timing right - we might have to go down and make a day of it in the city, over by the  Maid of Albion. " 
 "Oh, just the night, in fact. Tomorrow we'll pick up a few supplies in the city, and do a little work on the machine - I suspect we'll be out of here just after lunch.  We'll be in Udolpho by nightfall, and then heading through the pass the next day - and speaking Breton in Carcassonne shortly after!  Hah!" 

Signore Cestié seems mostly proud of how quick that all will be; but Laura and Grifone give each other a surprised look.

 "...Well,  accipicchia , Maso..."   Grifone begins with a little delicacy in his voice.   "You can't come back after so long and just blow through.  What about your brothers, in town..?  Aren't they expecting you?" 

You see in Signore Cestié then something you haven't much of in him, before; discomfort, or shake, or.. familial awkwardness.  He doesn't answer.

 "Well, you have to go see old Peppe!  Shallya's tears, Maso; he's your father - you might not get another chance." 

This catches him even more off guard.   "...He's alive?  My papa?  But how..?" 
 "If you find that out,"  Laura provides,  "you let us know.  I think he has such a grip on that shop that Morr can't pry him off.  The dowager princess Dolchellata Belladonna wrote him a letter, asking for him to visit so she could ask questions of the oldest man in Miragliano.  He told her if she wanted to buy something she'd have to come down, but he could have a runner bring her a catalogue.  Hah!" 

Bella leans to you and whispers.   "I can't beleive it!  If Cestie's father is alive, he must be more than ninety years old.  But if he didn't know, he must not have spoken to his family in... in so long!  Taalia, you and I know how precious family is - we must convince him to see his father, surely!" 
 
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 

As they took off into the sky and left Tarantio behind them, Taalia rested back in her chair and exhaled. A new book was tucked into her little side tray and the memories of the printing press and statuary still fresh in her mind. But also her imagination wandered back another week to that lonely, forgotten villa and the ghost within whom they finally granted peace. It wasn't as exciting as Remus had been, what with jumping down into a gladiatorial arena and helping a team win against the odds. But when Cestie spoke about time and investment, she wondered just how long the spirit of that minor noble had lingered on in the lonely dark of his delipidated home, never knowing what became of those closest to him, and how now, finally, thanks to their little trio, his soul may find peace and reunite with his wife and daughter.

It was a pleasant thought and one she took to the air as the rolling green fields and tree's bellow them blurred into a collage of land.

But, ironically, the second treasure was during the departure. As pointed out by Cestie when he and Taalia had mapped the route out all that time ago, upon leaving Tarantio's borders they would need to head north-west towards Mariagliano, which meant crossing the Tilea Sea. Taalia's first six years were in a fishing and orchard village, the ocean was their livelihood. When the Norscans came, they did so across the sea, and when they stole her away, they did so across the waves. And when the Skaven finally received her and marched her into their Under Empire, it was deep beneath the vast waters. In some ways the ocean had always been a part of her, its prominence rising, falling and at one point becoming distant. But when Cestie and Taalia had looked over maps of the world one evening, speculating where she may be from, whether it be Couronne, the Wasteland, the border of the two, or maybe even Nordland, perhaps even Kislev or even Norsca itself, the single theme was always there: somewhere connected to the ocean. When she had been sold to the Skaven she had been taken below and disconnected from the waves, never to see them again

Until now.

It was likely Taalia was the second or third to spot the spectacle from their elevated position. She was peddling, absentmindedly and automatically, as she sat in that chair and read her new book, despite the clawing of the wind, but then the shout came out at her to peer off to the portside. Snapping her book shut and tucking it safely away, the Shepardess drew her head up and peered over yonder, the vast, bottomless blue horizon catching the afternoon sun in a bowl of glinting orange-and-gold. The girl grinned as she saw the sight once more, her primordial connection seemingly re-established in an instant as he felt a part of her reach out to that great, blue eternity, before soon they were passing over it and she could look down and see the crooked fingers of sea foam and froth marking the crest of each wave making its way to shore. The salt in the air, the cooler breeze brushing off from those waters, sailing across them in the sky as if she were a soul returning home.

Taalia was still daydreaming by the time they set down on the outskirts of Mariagliano, but she soon snapped out of it and to attention of what was going on around her. She received Cestie's friend with earnest warmth, smiling and shaking hands, offering his wife the usual embrace and kiss upon the cheek along with the offer that she should relax in her own home and let Taalia and Bella prepare something for them all as a token of gratitude. Nonsense, of course, such a thing would never do. This was a little social ceremony of offers, rebuttals that played out daily across Tilea, and soon the group were seated and revelations stirring.

   Cestie's father was  alive ?!    Taalia thought in wonder to herself, trying to picture a man who was 20 years even further along than Cestie himself. He must be a mark of fortitude to have persisted for this long! And stubborn too, but given the sound of their current estrangement, perhaps that refusal to yield was coming with a high price indeed. Whether this price had been paid by Cestie's brothers remained to be seen.

Nodding to Bella's whisper, Taalia spoke with her eyes: we certainly must!

 "I would love to meet your father, Singore Cestie,"  Taalia spoke up openly and earnestly, her sonorous, smokey voice suddenly just emerging after a dinner-time of silence. It was clear by the accent that lined her speech that Tilean was not her native tongue.

And that's all she'd have to say for now. Sure, she could lay it on heavy and pull the slavery card, or a little lighter with the fathery roles he and Gaulfredo had played for her. But for now she'd leave it as just a seed planted to make the man think about it: Taalia wanted to meet his own father, which would, in turn, bring Cestie into contact with him once again. If there was something she'd learned about the male temperament here in Tilea, it's that the men needed time to dwell on these big, emotional dealings and had to come to the conclusion themselves. Simply pushing from the outside would only freeze them up.
MrAbdiel
 With everyone in the room looking on him with concern, Cestié squirms a bit, but concedes.

"Well.  I suppose we need to go into town, anyway..."

  
 Miragliano  
Miragliano is a city of a kind you have never seen before for several reasons.  The first is that it is a city with a grand sea moat - a wide strip of excavated a ground forms nothing less than a river between the exterior and interior walls of the city.  You see immediately why the walls struck you as low - both the lower outerwall, and the taller inner wall, are lined with cannons that naturally do their best work fired more horizontally.  The walls are ingeniously zig-zag instead of straight lines - Cestié tells you this was a design of Leonardo as well - which must allow archers or gunners above to threaten the faces of the wall across from them, instead of relying on siege tricks like boiling oil to attack ladders and climbers.  A great long stone bridge with high archways under which rivercraft can go leads from the outergate to the inner gate and the city beyond, but a very striking site catches you as you walk the bridge's length:

The bridge is lined with pikes, and the pikes are mounted with skaven heads.  Ten either side of the bridge, spaced evenly, in various states of decay - but it seems the humans here are neither ignorant of the  skaveni  nor afraid to show their hostility to the creatures openly.

Bella is appalled - her first time seeing such creatures even partially.

 "Goodness...  Are the rats really so large, here?" 

Cestié is quiet for the moment - lost in the thoughts of his coming reunion - leaving you to correct her. 
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 

Miragliano was a wonder for the Shepardess to behold, it's endless canals and little riverways running between the elevated architecture providing an oddly romantic and charming environment, despite the omnipresent threat of the disgusting ratman. Speaking of which...

When Taalia spotted those Skaven heads-on-pinks flanking the bridge, she froze for half a second and pursed her lips. Wiping her nose with her right hand, she continued to glare at them until Bella, sweet girl, opened her mouth.

 "Goodness... Are the rats really so large, here?" 
 "Those aren't common vermin, Bella,"  Taalia corrected gently, though her voice was firm and her eyes remained on those grisly warnings.

 "Those are the Skaven where they belong." 

The Shepardess mock-spat before her.

 &lt;"Burn in the hell that spawned you, bastards!"&gt;  she hissed under her breath in her, regrettably, 'native' tongue.
MrAbdiel
 Bella's revulsion magnifies at your explanation (and Queekish expectoration).  Fortunately, you are not near enough to any of the mercenaries guards at the time to cause misunderstanding; and you are cleared to pass into the city proper with a few coins of gate toll Cestié pays himself.

Immediately on the way in you notice the signage - steady employment available to visitors and new citizens with a small price disparity.  Gondoliers, mercenaries, and especially rat-catchers are in demand and with genuinely impressive wages and compensation.  There is also a bid for laborers for the so called "Water Guild", which Cestié explains as a gondolier pushes you along a gently trafficked canal toward your destination.

 "The river is salt, and there's no sinking a well, here - all you'd get is seawater and sand.  Water has to be ported in from overland.  I'm told ten or fifteen years ago, there was a kerfuffle with a certain merchant cornering the trade - I suppose they've created a guild to fill the gap he left after he was chased off.  The Water Wizard, he called himself; though I doubt a real wizard." 

You pass underneath many canal gates - raised portcullis mounted under the bridges over the canals.  Beside most of them, you see barrels stuffed with nets, and twine with dozens of suspended little bronze bells; as well as the occasional mounted skaven head on the bridges above, near uniformed pairs of rat-catchers with typically one or two terriers between them.  Alongside the canals, you notice that Leonardo's home town features dozens of his signature leaning towers, rather than one or two as a centrepiece for city architecture.  There are many wonderful things to see in the city - Temples to Mymidia, Mathann, Mercopio; a great library devoted to Verena; the citadel with its dwarven runework gate; a small halfling district for an enclave of the wee folk; a huge and storied university, and school of medicine.  But your destination is one of the middle-wealthier areas of the city: a great, big store with the kind of huge, painted billboard of frontage that makes it a landmark as much as a place of business.  It reads, in tall letters of white over a huge black image of a padlock,  "Signore Cestié's Fine Locks And Latches" , and then smaller underneath but still easilly legible from halfway up the canal approaching it,  "Quality Security Solutions For Storage, Doors, Windows, Coaches, and Miscellania." 

When you and Signore Cestié (Bella Collina Edition) step onto the cobbles beside the canal and tip the gondolier on his way, the old man gazes up at the sign for a very long time, it seems.  Bella touches his back with her hand, and invites you to do the same; and with a little fortification of these gestures, you head in through the door - a door with seven seperate latches and locks, all open presently - together.

Beyond is a kind of showroom with many chests, lockers, and standing wooden show-walls with great arrays of tiny hinged doors for the demonstration of their associated locks.  A half dozen people peruse the showroom, attended by two young men and a young woman all doing their best to answer questions and upsell; monitored and aided at a short distance by a manager beyond his middle age, but young in comparison to another in the room.  Behind the counter, finishing a customer's purchase of a wooden footlocker with a bright new iron lock, is a man about Maso's age, and about his build, and about his... well, about his everything.  The shopkeeper is taller slightly, and has on a set of spectacles like Maso uses when reading.  His glance and smile goes first to you as the tall oddity you are, then to Bella whom few gazes ever fail to go at some point, and then finally he almost chokes when his eyeline meets the man with you.

 "Maso!" , he says in instant recognition.   "Maso, you're... here!" 
 "Franchino..."   The prodigal Cestié breathes with a weak smile, rubbing his hand through his white hair as he does.   "Yes - yes, well, we- the girls here and I were..." 
 " Papa? " 

Franchino, Maso's sole older brother, clams up as everyone's eyes (even the customers!) track to the speaker.  Past middle age, yes; more grey hair than the slate black it once was.  A little thicker of build than Maso; shorter, but straighter of back with his relative youth - perhaps, in his fifties - leaving him a little taller.  The shared features are as undeniable as they were on Franchino's face - though the look of surprise on this man's face is even more baffled... and hurt.

Maso swallows.

 "Biagio - Biagio, how is this..." 

A frozen, silent tension fills the shop for a second.  Another.  And one more.

And then Signore Maso Cestié animates with the spryness of a much younger man, turns, and bolts out the door.

Biagio is not as graceful as the old man.  In his immediate, instinctive pursuit, he knocks over a standing wooden display of hinges and locks.   "Wait!  Wait!  Papa!  Hey!" 

Franchino grimaces and raises his hands and voice to sooth the alarmed crowd - assuring that it's no trouble, just a surprise guest, and that the assistants in the shop will be happy to continue assisting - before he shuffles out from behind the counter and tries to grasp how best to arrest the chaotic situation that just walked in (and fled out) the front door.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
To run, to stay, to ask questions, to task Bella - all these things lie before you.  For clarity's sake, Signore Cestié may be "Maso" for a while!
 
 
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 

Bella glared hatefully at the mounted heads of the Skaven, Bella's horrified reaction what one would expect for those who had never been exposed to the walking vermin. They were a skin-crawling sight.

 "That's what they look like, Bella,"  Taalia said firmly, but not harshly, more like a father inducing a necessary life-lesson to an unknowing child.

 "They had me for 10 years I'll never get back: their society deserves that fate,"  she gestured to the pikes as if signaling her approval.

But where the road to the lock store was marked by the severed heads of the deserving, the contents within the shop spoke of lifes beginnings, and the ways in which it can go in unexpected directions.

  Papa?  

Cestie, or Maso as he was apparently known, had progeny? That he had left? Here Taalia was thinking that she would be meeting Sinogre Cestie Senior, not Junior - had Maso's old friend been deceptive in drawing him back to this region of the city, knowing full well that he would instead make contact with his own son?

Whether it had been well-meaning deception or an honest mistake, it was clear that Maso had walked into a situation he had not expected. Seeing him flee the scene was likewise unknown to Taalia, nor did she know what to make of it. He'd ventured into a potentially life-threatening house to find herself and Bella, yet this was what caused him to leg it?

Then Taalia thought back to the leatherworker lad that had eyes for her back in Bella Collina, and how she had felt less fear fighitng the troll than telling him the truth that she did not return his romantic intentions.

 "Cestie - er, Maso!"  Taalia harkened after the fleeing tinkerer, her eyes galncing about the shops and stares for a moment.

 "Try to explain to them!"  Taalia begged Bella, handing the poor girl the most socially awkward job - but one her looks and sweet demeanor might be able to diffuse, as best was able.

Turning on the heel of her boot, Taalia made flight after Maso and his equally determined son.
MrAbdiel
 You leave Bella stammering her way to an explanation to Franchino as you bolt after the fleeing father and seeking son.  They haven't gotten far before you catch up to Biagio, who is no sprinter.  But to him, you might as well be invisible; he gives you a short glance that assesses you are not trying to hurt or tackle him, and continues down the way.  His leather apron flaps wildly against his knees as he runs - you hear the jingling of fine locksmithing tools dancing on the cobbles behind you as he knocks them free from his gear.  A little ahead, you see Maso break right around the corner of the street instead of crossing the bridge over the canal.  You get to the corner before Biagio does a moment after, to find Cestie about two stories up a three story wall; scrambling up old windowsills and protruding mortared stones in what you guess is a climb he is specifically familiar with making.  Biagio tries to climb after him, but immediately fails; his foot slips off a smooth corner of masonry he mistook for a good foothold and he plops a few feet back to the ground on his backside, wincing at the impact but seeming largely unharmed.

 "Papa!  Come down!"   He calls in breathless exasperation, as the old man pulls himself over the lip of the roof above!

 
 Spoiler: OOC:  
You just watched Signore Cestié do it, so you could give chase with a Scale Sheer Surface roll at +20%.  Or you could try to appeal to his reason - but he does seem to be having some kind of panic response, so no assurances that will work.
 
 
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 

Taalia attempted to recreated Cestie's navigation of the wall but failed to replicate the instruction. It was all so unnatural for her - grip here, foot there, don't get the wrong angle or you'll slip and lose momentum. It was a totally foreign concept to her, and that it was still within the muscle memory of a man three times her age was testimony to the repetition required to master it.

 "Damnit!"  Taalia hissed angrily, having to jump backwards a couple of feet off the wall and brace her fall by bending her knee's. The girl straightened herself out and peered back and forth along that railing in search of evidence that Cestie had merely used the roof as cover, rather as the next stage of his continual flight.

"Singore Cestie, Maso!" she called up to him, desperation in her voice.

 "Don't leave us! Don't leave him again!" 
MrAbdiel
 The silence that follows is almost supernaturally thick.  You hear the calls of gondoliers in canals well beyond; the shuffle of a pair of cats in the window behind you; the wheezing breath of Biagio beside you.

...But you also hear what you hoped you would - some sign that Signore Maso Cestié has heard you, and has stopped running. Your keen ears pick up the scuffing of brings against a leather vest, as he slides against a chimney down to a sitting position; and the same stoically clipped suppression of a grunt that comes from him when he overexerts himself peddling the flying machine too hard.  He has stopped, up there; trapped between a situation he is unwilling to face and your invocation he cannot flee.

Biagio at this point has intuited from your words and character that you are his father's friend.  Puffed as he is, you see in the man's eyes nothing like venom or scorn.  He doesn't seem to you to want ill for his father, whatever his father fears.

He also recognizes you are much more young and fit, and more able to climb.

 "Here..."  He offers spontaneously, stepping back to the wall and knitting his fingers to give his hands and then shoulder to you as the first couple of steps, to make ascent a little easier.  Without the panicked rush, knowing Maso is still there, you pick your way up more carefully, while Biagio waits in the street below.  There you find Maso as you expected; sitting with his back to a chimney on the shingled rooftop, eyes wide with shock; one old hand, knuckles scratched from scrambling up the bricks, resting on his chest, over the heart.  He is settling down, slowly; and as he does, and as he sees you come over the edge, the old timer's emotional defenses begin to crack apart and he tries to explain in a hoarse whisper:

 "I didn't know!  I didn't know, I didn't, I swear..."  
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 

It was a strange thing for a young one to see an elder in a state of emotional vulnerability.

For Taalia, having grown up in an enviornment where such displays were a swift course to death, they had taken some getting used to. Gaulfredo was a man who wore his heart on his sleeve. But Cestie? He had always been stoic, more amused than excited. She could still remember when she had first mistakenly kissed him on the cheek at her debut festival, her ignorance of customs causing the older man to blush and laugh off what would have, had Taalia not been an unaware outsider, been seen as a flirtation from a woman a third his age.

But, in the following years, she had never seen him  vulnerable . Madre had been, naturally, open with her feelings. Arianna and Gaulfredo too. Women were allowed this privilege, of open heartfelt displays. Men sometimes, but only if they were brave and stoic in other parts of their life. Men who let their emotions rule them, who turned to babbling, crying and hysterics as the situation overwhelmed them, Taalia had learned, were looked down upon. But to actually  see  it in personal, a stoic, grandfatherly figure who had 'seen it all', in such a state, was an alien and otherworldly sensation for the shepardess as she slowly approached.

Moving slowly, her heart moving up through her chest as she saw a grandfatherly figure in his emotionally susceptible state, Taalia couldn't help but wear concern and sympathy on her pretty, but scarred features. Swallowing gently, finally drawing close enough that she could move down onto one knee, her right hand coming up to Cestie's shoulder, she would speak gently with her sonorous, smoky voice.

 "You do now..."  she's remark affectionately, giving his shoulder a warm squeeze,  "and take it from me: I'd be happy." 
MrAbdiel
 You sit with him for a few moments as his panic settles.

 "Hello?  Hey - is he... Do you need help?" 

Maso closes his eyes at the voice of his son Biagio, calling up with concern for him.  But the moment of first flight and fear is over.

 "Can you... tell him I'll come back to the shop..? I just need a moment..." 

When you lean over the edge to convey the message, you see the relief in Biagio's face.  He rubs his cheeks with his palms, and nods a little.   "Alright.  Alright, I'll... Tell your friend you're on your way back shortly.  Ah... Nice to meet you." 

And off he goes, stooping to pick up the fine little tinker tools he has dropped on the way.

 * * * * * 
Signore Cestié explains, in the quiet few minutes you are alone on that Miragliano rooftop.

Cestié's father is the third generation of his family to operate the shop.  The name is established and honoured for security and quality products, requested by the families of merchant princes all through the city and the petty merchants in the towns beyond.  A good business, based on trust, which his father took seriously, and intended to pass on to his children.  There are four of them, all boys.  Franchino was the first; a few years later came Maso.  After him came Salvi; and finally the youngest, Neri.  Maso was eight years old when Neri was born.  He remembers it clearly, because it is the year his mother was killed.

 "It was the rats, as it often is.  A bigger attack on the city than they usually muster - I never knew why.  But my mother - her name was Tomisina -... well, she happened to be in a boat in the canal with Neri, on her way home.  They took her, and left Neri - I suppose they have little use for infant slaves.  The marsh rangers found my mother's body in the swamp outside the city.  Papa had to hire a wetnurse for Neri, and otherwise raised us alone.  Or.. we raised each other, maybe.  I don't know." 

But a several years into learning the trade like his older brother, alongside looking out for his younger brothers, Maso was enticed by a new offer - a gang of thieves called the Weevers, after a venomous fish in the Gulf of Pearls.  He can't quite pick out why he fell in with them - some combination of slow grief, and fear of responsibility, and (you guess) maybe some misplaced resentment for his father who failed in his role that a father possesses in the minds of their children - a wall against all outside harms to the family.  But the Weevers recruited Maso, and he learned their craft; and in turn he greatly increased their success rate.  After all - he knew which homes in the wealthy districts had which locks, and just how to pick them.

 "My father was furious when he found out, naturally.  With every reason - a huge betrayal, when out family products were getting routinely popped open under the owner's noses.  But the Weevers felt, stupidly, like a kind of family too.  It wasn't until Lumi that I got my head halfway on straight." 

Illuminata was Cestié's first real love - a young woman of wry glances and the kind of fearless taste to be dipping her toes in the water where the Weevers swim.  They fell in love quickly, and quickly she was with child - and suddenly the raucous life in a thieves' guild seemed pale compared to the home he had forsaken.

 "So I went home, hat in hand.  It wasn't easy but we all ended up getting along.  The Weevers harassed us sometimes; but never too sorely.  Franchino and Salvi both went into the business; Neri was always the smartest, and soon he became a petty merchant in his own right, trading out to the border forts with Remas.  Biagio was born a little early, but not troublesomely so; and Lumi was a good mother.  But she never let me marry her, and that caused the family some shame and strife.  I didn't find out why, until it was well late." 

Illuminata was a con-artist.  Whether she ever loved Maso was up for debate; but the fact was that she was the mistress of a merchant prince in Pavona who was Biagio's genuine blood father.  She had become pregnant, but with her lover unwilling to discard his wife and nervous about having a mistress and a lovechild in his city, she scornfully fled to Miragliano and shacked up with a handsome young sap with compromised morals, but whose name was attached to stability and reliable wealth.  Twelve years later, when her Pavonan lover's wife 'fortunately' died of the plague, he sent for her.  She left Maso a note, took Biagio, and left.

This devastated Cestié.  He worked in the family business while trying first to convince Illuminata to come back, and then to let him see Biagio, or atleast come visit.  When denied, he tried to force his way into the merchant's home in Pavona and got kicked halfway to death when discovered by Biagio's father's guards.

After a few years, he gave up; packed up; and left.  A blight on his family's name, a fool for a manipulative woman, a cuckolded non-father - Miragliano was a yawning gulf of regrets for him.  Papa Peppe, Franchino, Salvi, Neri - all would be just fine, even better, without him.

 "I went first to Remas, but couldn't break into the guild politics there.  But it had been two years - I sent a letter home so they wouldn't worry for me, and headed further south, eventually to Verezzo and Bella Collina.  I ran into Grifone by accident about six years ago by sheer chance, in Verezzo - he was a Weever back in the day, too.  I thought we might just... stop at his farm and move on by.  I thought papa would be in Morr's Garden by now, for sure.  But I haven't seen Miragliano in... thirty eight, thirty nine years.  And I never expected Biagio - he should be in the lap of luxury in Pavona!" 

He rests his face in his palms.

 "Taalia, he must have just... come back of his own accord, when he was a little older.  And I never knew, because I never checked!  My gods, Taalia, I've missed his whole life!  How am I supposed to look him in the eye?"  
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 

Taalia knelt down next to Cestie, Maso, and listened to his story. It was not a good one. He told her a history that was full of regret, wasted talent, deception, family shame, dishonorable conduct and exploitation that resulted in a man of his talents fleeing to the far end of Tilea and settling in quiet, beautiful little Bella Collina. Now the hike that Cestie had taken her on made a lot more sense in hindsight, witnessing that spectacle of the engineers with their flying suits and his words that she should be her own person in the world. In a way he had possibly been telling her: don't make the same mistakes he did.

It also put into focus this grand adventure they were on with the flying machine. At Cestie's age he figured that this was his final chance to  really  do something worthwhile, to give him a place, however minor, in the history books. To prove to future generations he had even existed.

The shepardess listened and just gave the man an avenue to own up and let it out. She didn't interrupt him or provide comments. No judgements or criticisms, they were useless by this point. Instead she just provided a a warm presence into which to reveal a deep and insecure vulnerability. Finally, when she felt it was the right time, she gave Cestie's shoulder another affectionate squeeze.

 "You have to tell him,"  she spoke softly. Though, the more Taalia thought about it...what did Cestie owe him? It was a tragedy he had gone this far in life thinking Cestie was his father, but that wasn't the truth, nor was it Cestie's fault. That whore and her merchant were to blame, not Cestie. But still, that didn't take away from the devastation that was coming Biago's way. He looked in his 40s, thinking his whole life his father had abandoned him, now only to learn the truth: his mother was a lying she-devil and his actual father a manipulative opportunist.

 "From the looks of things, he has been raised well. He has adoptive family looking out for him. That he's not yours won't change their fondness for him. Or it shouldn't anyway,"  she continued.

 "He has a respectable life and position, provides a valued service to people, has those who care about him. He's done better than most. Be honest and tell him the story you just told me, and remember: you don't owe him anything. You're both victims of Illuminata's deception. Why do you think she told him  you  were the father instead of the merchant she was with? Inheritance, most likely." 

Illuminata meant 'filled with light', in Tilean. Well, she was filled with something anyway.
MrAbdiel
 Signore Cestié composes himself, and embraces you in gratitude.  It's just a lot to be hit with, for an old fellow; like having a whole life leap out of the past and slap itself down in the present, with all its old demands and obligations and complexity.  Cestié shows you how to climb down much easier - he has climbed most of the buildings in this district at some point, and make your way back to the shop perhaps three quarters of an hour after the initial dramatics.

When you arrive, you find Bella charming her way through not just Biagio and Franchino, but also two more Cestié's who have shown up: where Franchino is taller and bespectacled, Salvi is broader shouldered, possessed of a shape that suggests a life of more laborious work, and has committed to squinting rather than admitting defeat to his diminishing vision.  Neri is the shortest of the four brothers, though everyone seems somewhat short to you; but also the best dressed.

They are ensorcelled.

 "...And it has wings, yes; but four, working in pairs that revolve over each other while they flap.  Sort of like a... dragonfly, if its wings were socked into wheels that turned according to the pedalling put into the gearbox.  It's quite remarkable - we've come all the way from Verezzo.  Oh!" 

With Maso returning, the rest of the Cestié's turn to face him.  All of their expressions share some form of gingerly affixed concern, not wanting to spook him again.

 "Maso,"  Franchino begins,  "...Did you build a flying machine?" 
 * * * * * 
It takes a little defrosting, but the great Cestié family jamboree progresses from standoff to warmth.  Bella finds a kettle in the back room and boils it to make tea from a pot of dried  Indan Fancy  which, Neri assures, is better than coffee or any of the local teas.  All of them are pleased to meet you and Bella; and all of them seem to be as genuine and good natured as your first impress gave you of Maso.

'Young' Neri (68) lives with his wife and his eldest, widowed daughter just a few storefronts down, managing his small but well regarded trading concern for the northern states of Tilea.  His two sons manage most of the day-to-day of it now, and he and his wife Imilia spend most of their time doting on Imilia's even larger extended family, though he always has time for his brothers.

Salvi (72) worked at the store for years before making a move of his own after Maso left - he too his wife Leonetta, and their three daughters, and moved outside the wall to do 'work you feel the day after' - farming oats and raising goats.  They also had four more daughters, all while both Salvi and Leonetta were in their late 30's and early 40's.  They moved back into the city after selling the farm to retire to cope with a plague of grandchildren.

Franchino (79) has been the primary operator of the shop for thirty five years.  The lads and the young woman presently tending to customers while this meeting goes on in a comfortably back room are his grandchildren - all the happy progeny of the one daughter, Ginevria, he had with his first wife Gilia.  Gilia died a few years ago, and Franchino married a second wife, Lisabetta, for her warmth and companionship in their later years.

As it turns out, Biagio" (51) returned to Miragliano a little over a year after Maso left. His mother spirited him off to live with his "real father" when he was 12; but by the time he was 16, he understood the situation and wanted no part of it.  He ran away, crossing three hundred and fifty miles from Pavona, through the forsaken Trantine hills, over the great river Tarano and finally across the Miragleanan countryside to walk into the city barefoot down the same track you took to get there from Grifone's farm.

 "We all thought something had happened, until we got your letter.  But all it said was that you were moving further south - I figured there'd be another and we could send one back to wherever it came from, but if you sent one, it never made it.  I held out hope for about ... I'd say, ten years.  And then I was angry for the next ten.  And then I decided I was just going to beleive that you'd found somewhere to settle down and be happy.  And I decided that's what I wanted for you, anyway."   Surrounded by Cestiés, there are familial features that are discernably not present in him.  Different nose, particularly; and better eyesight.  But there's also that funny trait present that makes members of a family who have been together for a long time look like each other; the same odd magic that makes old husbands and old wives look like matched sets is at work here, and Biagio doesn't strike you at all as out of place.

 "Biagio, I didn't know; I didn't know.  I tried to see you, but I there was no way - I just... thought you had a new life with better things.  I didn't know you'd come back on your own!" 

Biagio gives a frail smile, and a little shrug.   "It's my family, papa.  How could I stay away?" 

This is the closest Biagio comes to firing any kind of shots back at Maso.  Considering his own right of grievance, it's very mild, and Maso accepts it with a nod, and a grimace.  But after that, it's all right; some long forestalled hugs, and tears, and decades of Miragleanan gossip.  The tale of the "Water Wizard" who had monopolized water trade in the city only to turn out to have been drawing from tainted wells and responsible for giving half the city the Yellow Plague.  The story of how Borgio the Besieger, legendary general and mercenary maverick, claws to Princedom in the city, fought off an invasion from Remas, briefly invaded Verezzo until concessions were paid to him, and encircled and forced surrender from a Trantine invasion... before ultimately being stabbed to death in his bath with a poisoned toasting fork, leading to the present and ongoing rulership of his widow, the Dowager Princess Dolchellata.

Then it's Maso's turn to off tales of his own.  He talks up Bella too - including some stories from before you arrived, in which she once stalled the tax collector who had come to town by drawing out of him ninety minutes of talk about his horse, while Polo, Cestié and Nogrom scrambled about town trying to find the stolen tithe that was owed to the Republic; and another, where the Rampollo Damio's wardrobe had been destroyed in a saboteur's fire, leaving him with nothing of quality to wear for a visiting senator's stopover in Bella Collina to refresh horses.  In that one, Bella lacked the time to make a full outfit - so she made the front half of a fine outfit and pinned it to a peasant smock, instructing the Damio to make sure he was always front on to the senator - and got away with it.

And there's plenty of talk about the flying machine - though of this, everyone is naturally a little sceptical, since it involves Signore Cestié improving on a design that Leonardo di Miragleano abandoned.  They humor him, but will need a demonstration to really take it on board.  Still, it's clear that the most pride he has for anything is not in the machine, but in you; for believing in him, and inspiring him to bother with it at all; going through the crashes and fumbles of the testing.  He makes sure to talk about the Troll, and the mutants of Silo Road, and the pirates; how you saved Gaulfredo and Vittorio from the goblins after escaping from the skaven, and found your way in the world without a word of Tilean in your mouth, and how watching you find your feet after such a wretched decade of suffering underground gave him no reason to remain self-pitying and idle in his quiet shop in a quiet village, waiting for the final, unbroken quiet.

Then comes the last part of the puzzle.

 "The old man's upstairs.  He can make his way down when he wants to, but he's tired a lot.
 I... told him you had come back,"  Franchino explains,  "...but I don't think he listened.  He's still mad, Maso.  But he's ninety nine years old - if you don't make peace with him now, you might not have a chance to do so on your way back from Nuln." 

Maso holds your hand with his right, and Bella's with his left, as if physically drawing strength from your dual youthful vaults of courage.

 "Alright.  Well.  There's no art for it.  This was a meeting I didn't think I'd have this side of the soil." 
 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
Imagine if you had just accepted Cestié's discomfort and just skipped the city.  I'd have been... crestfallen.

Give me a charm test, so I can see how you impress Signore Cestié Senior.  Have a +20%, because you are a survivor of the hated skaven.
 
 
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 

Taalia smiled when she saw how, in the 45 minutes that she and Cestie had bene gone, Bella had turned on her charms and appeared like a maiden storyteller with a little circle of devotee's hanging onto her every word.

But, that was all the talking they were going to do for a while. For the following hours, Taalia and Bella sat quietly, listening and taking in Cestie's surprisingly complex and inter-connected history before he settled down to be the humble mechanic of a small, rural town. There was intrigue, wealthy nobles, family honor, regret and shame, out-of-wedlock children and fleeing ones problems to start anew in a distant land. Taalia enjoyed her tea, thanked Bella for the refreshment, and paid attention to the circle.

When it came time to finally encounter Cestie Senior, however, Taalia felt Maso's hands clasp hers and saw his other hold that of Bella's; they were his amulets of fortitude and courage to enter a re-union that was decades in the making.

Offering Maso a warm and reassuring smile as they stood at the base of the stairs, Taalia gestured forward for the man to proceed.
MrAbdiel
 You and Bella go with Cestié up the stairs to the next floor, where a large, comfortable and warm living room awaits you.  There, sitting in a padded chair in warming shafts of light from the near window, is Peppe Cestié.  He looks very much like a man in his nineties;  skinny, hunching, with thin skin and dull eyes.  Still, he is possessed of some inner stubborn vitality that means his hands barely shake at all as he takes the last sips of soup from a bowl which he passes back a moment later to a middle aged housemaid.  She looks at you first, and the old man waves her away with one thin hand; and she leaves the room.

 "Papa... I'm speechless. I thought -... You're nearly a hundred years old.  Ahm..." 

Maso tries, but cannot find a good way to begin the conversation.  His father watches him struggle, passively, before pursing his wrinkled lips.

  "They said you were back, Maso.  I didn't believe it.  Come over here, where I can see you."  

He heads over; the old man and the oldest man regarding each other before Maso offers a hand, and they give each other a shake.

The conversation doesn't come easy between them.  Maso has shame for leaving; Peppe has anger; both are careful to keep those feelings somewhat under lock and key.  Maso fills a lot of the awkwardness introducing you and Bella; bragging about how bright you both are, about the school in Bella Collina, the troll, and so forth.  But you see Peppe's face chance the most when Maso tells him how you were taken by the skaven and escaped.  The old man's wrinkly face goes from tight reservation to genuine shock and joy and then emotional tension again; the loose, thin skin on his face making the whole arrangement almost surreally expressive, like the cloth face of a hand puppet.
  
"Got one back, ah?  Ah?"    He grabs your wrist and pats the top of your hand.    "Good for you, signorina; good for you.  We don't normally get anyone back, from the bastards."  

The oldest man seems quite taken with you and Bella, and that does a great deal to soften his regard to his returning son; which in turn fortifies Cestié for the discussion ongoing.  After a few minutes, you give them a moment to talk alone.

From the bottom of the stairs, with the rest of the Cestiés, you can hear the muffled discussion ongoing. After a few minutes, it hits the confrontation pitch everyone was expecting.

  "...I don't care about your machine!  Your damn... machine!  Always wrapped up in your own things, no regard to your family!" 
"That's not true, I just couldn't stay, papa - I just couldn't!  But I didn't know about Biagio coming back, or I would have done differently!"
 "I thought the rats took you, Maso!  For two years I thought the rats took you!  Like your mother!  Until you decided you'd stoop to send a message to put us out of our misery!" 
"...Pape, they found her - you know-"
 "They tell EVERYBODY they found them!  Don't you know that?  Don't you know that?!  They have to tell that or people lose their minds and go running off into the swamp to get taken themselves!  And the bloody thieves never left us alone, and now they have poor Augusto tangled up because of you, Maso!"  

Their communion becomes quiet again after that.  Biagio looks to you and Bella, with the kind of smile that knows, deep down, it is a frown.

 "Augusto is my son.  He's been caught up running with the Weevers for a couple of years, now - for reasons I can't understand.  He's just... restless.  He's good with the trade, but just..." 
Franchino finishes, for him.   "Just more inclined to pick locks than sell them.  Like someone else we know." 

Bella, who having only recently discovered Cestié has a son, is shocked again to discover he has a grandson, is appalled to hear this.  As a young woman whose family walked away from her with no reason apparent, she cannot countenance a young man walking away from his family for the same senselessness.

 "You don't have to become a thief just to make your own way in the world!  I've been making my own way just fine - and Taalia even... Taalia had nothing, and now she's a land owner and on track to be Verezzo's biggest supplier of salted pork!  He's just going to get himself in trouble... Taalia - Taalia, we have to do something!"  
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 

The man looked so frail - Taalia had never seen someone who was  so old ! Almost 100! A century of life, 85 years of conscious, active life and thoughts sat before her in a thinning pile. Taalia herself was maybe 19,maybe 20, a fifth of this mans age, and to look at him now filled her with a sense of awe and wonder at the things he'd seen and done. Would she reach that age?

Well...there was the elven bounty hunter back in Bella Collina. But when you naturally live for thousands of years, Taalia speculated that ones perception on the passing decades would be rather different than one for whom every 10 years is a serious milestone.

 "Got one back, ah? Ah? Good for you, signorina; good for you. We don't normally get anyone back, from the bastards." 

Taalia smiled as she felt that weathered hand holding hers affectionately, as she returned it with her own gratitude and hand on top of his.

 "I lost a decade living among them. They have no redeeming qualities. I hope they all return to the hell that spawned them,"  she answered simply, before the mans attention was drawn to sweet Bella.

However, they all knew that 'that time' would arrive. Tileans were a hot-blooded people. They could be cool and reserved when they wanted to be, but it was not their natural state of being. Tempestuous shouting, accusations and drama - that was their life blood. It was a show of emotion and what each sentence was might not necessarily matter as much as the overall heartfelt sincerity on display. Taalia could hear that as Maso and Cestie went at it while she, Bell and the others waited downstairs. For a moment she thought about her own biological parents, where she came from, and wondered how different the culture was there.

But then came the revelation: Augusto, Biango's son, had fallen in with the Weavers, some type of multi-generational gang in these parts. That they were still around after Maso had been with them when he was a boy was testimony to their longevity. Were they just a simple crew of street urchins they would have died out or been thrown into the slammer by now. But a criminal enterprise that lasted that long did not do so without doing some things right.

 "You don't have to become a thief just to make your own way in the world! I've been making my own way just fine - and Taalia even... Taalia had nothing, and now she's a land owner and on track to be Verezzo's biggest supplier of salted pork! He's just going to get himself in trouble... Taalia - Taalia, we have to do something!" 

Taalia offered a reassuring smile. But internally?

  What do you want me to do about it? Kidnap the boy or something?   she thought to herself. And what could she do?

How old would this Augusto be, anyway? Biago was in his 50s, and from her time with the troublemaker boys and the very masculine-dominated farming trade, Taalia knew that the key ages for criminality amongst men was in their teenage years to late twenties. That's when they'd get drawn into it and, if they survived, either remain in it and move on up or get out of the game. So what was Augusto, was he their age?

And if he was good at locks but preferred opening them instead?

 "Maybe he's bored?"  Taalia offered quietly.

 "With respect singore, I do not know your son, but I know young men. I worked alongside and hired them for my farm in Bella Collina. Young men crave excitement and adventure. If he is restless as you say, perhaps it is because the Weavers offer him excitement and thrills?" 
MrAbdiel
 Bella must have been hoping you had an idea; she frowns, and puffs in frustration.
 
"Everyone gets bored,"  Salvi notes without reproach;  "I did, anyway.  But I never felt the need to turn on my family and become a thief.  There's a world of things he could do - join a mercenary crew, or the rat-catchers, or work a farm, or go to school.  Why do this?  It makes no sense." 
 "It's me,"  Biagio says with a despairing sigh, rubbing his cheeks.   "He blames me for his mother leaving.  He might be right - it was painful split, and in the end we just couldn't get on and she packed her things and went back to Tobaro.  But I've raised him since then - it's been him and me.  I just wish-..." 

He cuts off his commentary as Maso Cestié makes his way down the stairs.  He has been through the emotional ringer, but when all is said and done, he seems less burdened coming down than when he went up.   "Well... He's still mad, for sure.  I can't blame him.  But I said what I needed to say - maybe that's enough.  We'd better start heading back to Grifone's house, before the light starts fading." 

What follows is one of the most Tilean things you have ever seen: three brothers and a son surrounding Maso and telling him over and over how he must stay for dinner, he must stay over night, he must accept their hospitality; how can he insult his family like this, how can he imagine he won't stay, how has he come back into their lives to slander their wives cooking by not sampling it, and so on.  The haranguing is atleast fourty percent conveyed with hand gestures - forefingers pinched to thumbs, wrists flapped at chin height - and is one hundred percent toothless excoriation.

You are forced to stay - trapped in a den of Cestiés.

At the end of the day, the displays in the shop are moved and tables cleared and pushed together to make a massive, long dining table, and then a second one along side it; and the Cestié clan descends to fill the building with the smells of fine cooking and a thunderstorm of gossip.  In the kitchen, the women of the family swarm and gabble and help and correct each other's cooking.  It is a job that would require a much smaller number, but it is an excuse to have their discussion away from the men, who themselves have a great deal to catch up about and yak and brag around the table; while a horde of children play elaborate games of make beleive, or a regional  chase and catch  variant called  Rats and Terriers. 

Between the patriarch and his maid, the sons and their wives and children and the children's children and some of the children's children's children, and the wives, husbands and unmarried sweethearts of this extended clan, there are almost a hundred Cestié's or Cestié adjacent parties in attendance.  Almost half of them are Salvi's truly Olympian contribution - seven daughters, five sons-in-law, eighteen grandchildren and twelve great grandchildren.  You and Bella are free to move around the tables - the personalities of the horde run the gamut but most are genuinely sweet and very interested in meeting you - but Maso and Biagio spend most of their time seated together, talking to each other when Maso is not fielding questions from his other relatives.  A place is put out for Augusto, who does not show - but it is important for Biagio that his son never for a second, even if glancing through the window as he sneaks by, think he is unwanted or unwelcome.

Hard shelled  maxenete  crab, bean soup with noodles, a half dozen kind of small, fried, strongly salted and onion'd fish are present in plenty; in shorter supply, but insisted upon you, are a additional dishes of chopped and fried beef liver with onions and leeks, and some supple cuts of a creature you've never seen - a bizarre creature of the water that, before it is prepared, looks on the chopping block like a slimy wet hand full of boneless fingers, with eyes at the wrist which then transitions into a broad... sleeve, or hat, or something.  The  Sepe , is cooked and then served in an inky thick black sauce which you are assured it makes itself and; but which also does the work of dying the bed of fettucini with which it was cooked black as well.  It is unappetizing by its strangeness to look at - but if you can get past that, it is a rare and worthy taste indeed.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
How does Taalia spend her time at CestiéCon?

Also, if you wouldn't mind... make me a listening based perception test for something that occurs the next day (thus your fate points are available).
 
 
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 


Taalia gave a point conceding shrug, the question of how to bring the wayward son back into the fold a puzzling one that she had not had to encounter before. Normally if she didn't get along with someone she just didn't interact with them. But this was a different problem entirely. It's not that she didn't want to help - she just didn't know how.

This puzzle was compounded by the cubsequent clan gathering, as a hundred Cestie's poured in from the area to celebrate the return and departure of an infamous member of their group: Maso Cestie. He was a mad genius now, but back then he had been the black sheep, spoken only of in disapproving, hushed whispers by the elders of the franchise. This only made the event endearing, because it was clear that despite Maso's prior trespasses, he truly was missed.

Taalia found herself in the thick of the event, having long come out of her shell over the past few years since her time as a slave and a fish out of water. Her height and hair color drew immediate questions and stares, with numerous children wanting her to hoist them into the air, much as she had at that first festival she had visited, her arms and stature pushing the kids close to 9 or so feet into the air where her strong hands retained them so that she could 'fly' them around as a recreation of Maso's flying machine. When she wasn't providing childrens entertainment, she sat among the adults and enjoyed a wide variety of sea food-based Tilean cuisine. Taalia noticed the difference almost immediately, comparing the dishes here with her hometown of Bella Collina. Being much more inland, Bella Collina was more hearty in its reliance on pork, mutton, beef, pasta's and potatoes, while here it was sea-food, with squid and fish dominating the menu along with sweet wines and sherries - and Taalia loved it!

She told stories of her travels, she answered honestly if some hushed quietly and asked if she was the girl that escaped the ratmen and she spoke of their journey from Bella Collina to their present point and the planned destination ahead - all the way to Altdorf!

To see the ease with which the girl enjoyed herself and provided a warm socialite to the event and compare it with her initial awkward, well-intentioned bunglings 2-3 years ago, spoke of a world of change.
MrAbdiel
 Gorged on hospitality and tuckered out from (somewhat ironically) powering the imaginary flight of children on your day off from powering mechanical flight for yourself, you and Bella are afforded a room upstairs.  It's a genuine bedroom, but it has been cannibalized by the store below and made into storage for timbre lengths for window frames, small wooden crates theoretically for the storage of surplus key blanks and assorted widgets.  Many of them seem to be empty and filled only with the ambition to get ahead of inventory shortages, and so the operation of driving them to one side and freeing up the double bed beneath to change the sheets for you and Bella to crash in is not so time consuming in the end.

The family clears out in the evening, leaving the shop/home with its live-in occupants and guests to bed down.  Peppe sleeps in the same room he has for almost nine decades, with his maid Sylvia nearby to aid him as required.  You and Bella sleep in the 'spare' room upstairs.  Biagio shares his room with Maso in a cot put out for him, after a brief argument about who should use the bed, and who should sleep in the less comfortable cot.  And below, in the back room immediately behind the shop itself, Franchino's two grandsons, Elmuccio and Buonamico, share their living space with workbenches and supply.

But your eyes snap open in the early hours of the morning, and adjust rapidly adjust to the gloom.  You don't know why initially.  It's perfectly quiet - but you plunge into your foggy, dream-blurred short term memory and find the sense of the sound that intruded and triggered your sensitive instincts - the click of a lock's tumblers falling into place, downstairs.  Even your hearing couldn't hear a perfectly well oiled lock from that far away - but, you suppose, a family of locksmiths might know not to over-oil their locks on account of preferring to hear them manipulated, during the night. And of the three big locks on the front door of the shop, or those on all the windows whose bars are slid into place at night, who is to say one isn't a little loud?

Your body wants sleep, but your instincts give you no repreive - someone is breaking in, downstairs.  Your armor lies piled over a chair to one side of the bed, with your weapons in arms reach.  Donning that could take a precious minute... But how likely are burglars to be ready to fight?  And have Elmuccio and Buonamico, much closer to the sound downstairs, also heard the noise and are waking to prepare themselves right now? 
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 

You could take the girl out of the slave pits, but you couldn't take the slave pits out of the girl. Not entirely. That primitive, but entirely life-saving instincts for self-preservation and danger awareness, would never depart the shepardess, now matter how far she went in society. In the pits, death came quietly. Your fellow slaves didn't wait until you were active - they smothered you in your sleep.

It was with that understanding that Taalia's refusal to go back to sleep once she had been awakened by the scritch-scratching from downstairs could be better explained. Her body wanted to, but that little claw-like sounds eminating from the front door of the building might as well have been gunshots going off next to her head.

Silently, not wanting to wake Bella in case of a false alarm, Taalia slipped from her bed. Quietly, she grabbed one of her pistols and her sword and slowly tippie-toed down the stairs, carefully allocating her weight distribution to maximise her silence, as she drew herself near a shadowed corner from where she could view the interloper once they had succeeded.

The door handle would turn...turn...turn...the door would slowly open, the thief would wait a few moments to listen to the still night before entering quietly.

 Click!  the hammer on a pistol being drawn back and the  schlink!  of steel drawn from a scabbard, its beautiful blade shimmering whenever it caught the moonlight.

 "Do not move." 

She'd close the door with her body, shutting off the escape route.

 "You had best make your explanation, phenomenally good..." 
MrAbdiel
 The face at the other end of the pistol barrel is youngish, perhaps a little older than you; with a mop of curly brown hair.  There are another six figures behind him, and all are similarly rough looking youths with empty sacks under their arms and sheathed knives at their hips. What makes the one in front so distinctive, as he stands up slowly when confronted so, is the ring of keys in his hand that then slip into his pocket.  Surprise and fear flicker through his features; but then he takes on an aspect of the criminal charmer, caught in the act.  He raises his hands and backsteps.

 "Well.  We were just stopping by, see?  Thought we might poke around, maybe do some stealing.  But given that the situation reveals the premises to be a little more occupied than I prefer...  I suppose we'll just be on our way." 

His eyes - noticeably blue, even in the limited light of the spaced street lamps that are kept burning - track up and down over you.   "...But you made it worth the trip all the same,  mia gnocca ." 

With that, he makes a loose handsignal to his companions, and they begin easing back, apparently ready to abort their criminal aspirations for the night. 
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 

Taalia narrowed her eyes in descriptive recognition.

 "Augusto?" 
MrAbdiel
  "Never heard of him." 

The hoodlum's face doesn't flash with alarm as if he's been caught; but the stacked insincerity in the tone suggests he does, atleast, know the name.  Then he turns his back on your gun, and moves off with his thugs into the dim city night. 
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 

Taalia narrowed her eyes.

This punk clearly knew who Augusto was.

He was also trying to come over here with a gang of men to rob his family's house.

Taalia stepped forward.

 "Maybe your ears need cleaning Singore: I said your explanation needs to be  Phenomenally Good !"  she shouted the last two words, trusting it would rouse at least someone else.

 "You're with that gang, aren't you? Those Basket Weavers, or something!" 

Her voice was noticeably louder now, deliberately trying to rouse the rest of the house.
MrAbdiel
 You redouble your threat, but the hoodlum seems to decide he's figured the limits of your harm - willing to defend the house with lethal force, not to shoot him in the back walking away.  He raises a hand to wave, backhanded to you, over his shoulder.  Nearby, Elmuccio and Buonamico begin to stir and move around in the room behind the shop; roused by your shouting, but likely still gathering their senses.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
The question is now: does Taalia wish to shoot this fellow in the back for the audacity of it all?  Or does she let him call her bluff, and walk?
 
 
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 


Taalia's eyes widened. Her mouth opened in a rictus of anger.

How  dare  this punk turn his back on her! He had the audacity to break into THIS house and then dismiss her and leave as if he owned the place?!

Taalia pulled the trigger on her pistol, its lead bullet shearing out and striking a limb with brutal, crushing force.

When the small group of men heard the shot erupt, smoke billowed out to fill door-frame.

  "AHHH!!!!!"   that banshee wail as Taalia rocketed forth from the mist, wild-eyed, screaming and her sword in both hands as she brought it about in a glittering arc across the nearest man.

If the neighbourhood was fast asleep a second ago, it wasn't anymore...
MrAbdiel
 The round slaps into the back of one figure's arm; into the upper arm, out the other side, into the hand on the other side.  With a shriek of pain, he drops the sack he was carrying and falls to his knees as you scream and rush out into the street.

 "Cagna pazza!  Run, run!" 

They run. Another figure stops to grab the reeling, cringing man you shot and drags him to his feet as they break  into a dash, leaving bloody speckles on the cobbles behind them as you roar out after them.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
They're running.  Give me a number between one, and infinity, that represents the number of 10 second rounds Taalia is willing to spend pursuing these petty thieves with (her) lethal intent.
 
 
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 


The thieves chose the wrong house tonight.

 "AHhH!!!!"  the gentle shepardess wailed, swinging her beautifully crafted blade about in an arch that caught some poor bastard in his chest as a fountain of blood errupted from the grievous, terrible wound.

Before the girl could 'unsheath' her weapon and finish the man off, the group scattered into the alleywayts, allowing the instincts of the thief to overcome them as Taalia swung out again in fury, only to swipe at air.

 "ArgghhH!!!"  she bellowed, blade slick with blood across the street, her eyes wild and her trap muscles flexed as she screamed fury and anger at the pack of rotten, rat-like thieves scurrying off in fear, her chest heaving from each ragged breath.
MrAbdiel
 You notice no guards come running, despite your howling - and the people of the city, those not in the house behind you, know not to emerge and stick their necks into a screaming street fight.

But you notice this after the rage goes away.  The young man breifly transfixed on your blade stumbles away to a bleeding run, and you let him go; the rest of the gang scattering into the dark streets. All but the pair -the shot man, and the young woman helping him along.  They reach the far end of the street, and the wounded man slouches to the ground.  His friend tries to hold him up, and you hear with your excellent hearing a choking sob as she yields to the situation, and lets him go; scampering up the side of a building and over the roof, away into the night like her colleagues.  Only the silent body of their one member, and the trail of blood leading back to the empty sack by the Locksmiths' door, mark that they came.

Elmuccio and Buonamico, Franchino's grandsons, are there in the doorway when you turn around; sweaty faced and pale, barefoot in their nightclothes, each holding a metalworking hammer in one hand, and a knife in the other.  They look on with confusion and bewilderment as your choler settles; and soon, Biagio and Signore Maso Cestié manifest behind them, too; the former with a hatched in hand, the latter with lantern lit.

 "What... Taalia, what happened here?" , Signore Cestié asks with alarm; looking down at the sack. 
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 

The girl slowly subsided, her beautifully crafted blade shimmering in the moonlight with the crimson color of its intended trade.

When the fog of fury and war slowly rescinded from her thoughts and relinquished their grip from her actions, the shepardess had to manually pump the air into her lungs and and exhale those deep, hot breaths. The streets of this city may be use to casual violence, but she was not, even if she responded in kind with an unusual intensity.

But, spotting the man abandoned by his fellow, his coughing spluttering audible even from this distance, Taalia felt another instinct seizing her actions. Ignoring Cestie's initial inquiry, the tall shepardess dashed forward. One might think she intended to finish the thief off, but instead, she hastened to his side where her hands went from Khorne-esque murder to the gentlest touch of mercy.

She tore the linen from her shirt to create impromptu bandages and set to work rescuing him from Mor's beckoning.
MrAbdiel
 Maso trails after you, at an elderly dash; but you make your best haste to the fallen thief, still at the bottom of the building at the far end of the street.  You tear a strip from your night shirt and start to bind his hand - the first and most obvious looking injury as you arrive - but you notice shortly that it's much worse.  The pistol ball has connected at the base of the thumb and left it dangling by scraps of sinew, travelling laterally through the palm and shearing off middle and forefinger, probably back near the sack on the ground.  That wound has bled rather restrainedly - but you see now it's because the initial impact, which punched a neat hole in the back of his arm, has come through the other side and reduced most of the bicep to a torn ruin.  Importantly, the brachial artery somewhere within that mess has frantically tried to do its work, and in so has cost the lad far too much blood.  Looking back the way you've run, you see the trail goes from pitter-patters near the streetlamp closest to the workshop, and grades swiftly to splashes and splatters.

You find no pulse.  The thief (or would-be-thief) is dead.

He had quiet dark skin, suggesting some Arabyan or Southlander lineage in his recent ancestry; just under six feet tall, with short black hair and somewhat pretty eyes, now lightless and staring up at the building beside him where a few smudged, bloody handmarks map the escape of his attempted-savior to the rooftop.  He was slight of build, perhaps a hundred and thirty points despite his height, and had patchy stubble on his chin.  If he was eighteen, he was that only barely.  The light of Cestié's lantern spills over him, as the old man catches up to you.  He is quiet; and places a hand on your shoulder.

 "...Did he.. try to hurt you?"  
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 

Taalia exhaled and pursed her lips as the seriousness of the boys wounds became more and more apparent to her as she attempted in futility to rescue the boy from Mor's grasp. Alas, she could not. His fate was sealed the moment she had pulled the trigger and the lead ball had impacted with his body.

In an abstract way it was unusual to think about the intersectionality of fates, with her to continue and he to desist. She, Taalia, where-ever she was from, the Wastelands, the North-East of Bretonnia, Nordland or even, possibly, from Norsca itself, had slain a boy who was drawn up to Tilea from the lands of Araby or somewhere deeper into the world. That their fates would collide like this was surely to the amusement of some god for whom the lives of mortals were simply an entertainment.

But. He was still a thief.

What had he come around here to do?

Steal, obviously.

Had he left before that door had been opened? Had he chosen to labour in some lower-paying, but more honest profession? No. He had  chosen  to partake in the arts, rewards and, evidently, the  risks  of being a thief. He'd gambled with his life and he'd lost.

Besides, what would his actions have been had he and his coterie gained access to the house? They obviously knew, or at least believed, that it was filled with only the elders of the Cestie clan. Old men and women asleep in their beds - those were the victims this boy had agreed to target. He was no innocent. He knew what he was doing, why he was doing it and he had hoped to profit from it.

Standing up, the Taalia loomed over the boy not much younger than herself, as if she were a valkyrie out of mythology, and shook her head as she exhaled. Though disgust was visible in her eyes, there was an impression of lamentation on her features that showed she was not completely without pity. Were she some goddess of fate, she would have spared the boy the lead ball and allowed the terror of the situation to direct him to departing the gang and bettering himself. But alas, that's not what happened. The sum of this boys life, it seemed, was to serve as a warning to others of what  not  to be.

 "Stupid boy..."  she uttered sorrowfully.
MrAbdiel
 It's another hour and some portion of another before a small patrol of night watchmen arrive in their canalboat; look over the scene; ask some questions.  They seem almost disinterested - desensitised to the death, by its commonality.  They take the lad's body with them when they go - perhaps to a shrine to Morr, perhaps to some more expedient deposit place for the self-destructed dregs of society.  You clean your pistol, and wipe the blood from the sword - the first it has tasted, from the back of a fleeing scoundrel.  Inside, you are drawn into quiet conference with Biagio and Maso Cestié, with the now informed Bella.

 "They had keys, you said?  To the locks on the front door? Oh, no... Augusto had no keys, but he was familiar with them and had the skills to cut a new set.  Ah!  This is terrible..."  Biagio laments.
Maso shakes his head.   "It can't be.  The Weevers aren't this bold - robbing a store, in a district like this..?  There's plenty of places to rob where the owners, quite frankly, can't afford pistols to defend themselves; and they'd back down rather than getting in a knife fight, six-to-one." 
Biagio sighs.   "They do operate in the district; but we've never had a problem with them before. Not directly, anyway. But now one of them is dead - not that I blame you, Taalia, for if anything had happened to one of the boys-..." 
Maso agrees, but shakes his head with the gravity of his projection.   "They might retaliate to prove a point; probably long after we've moved on.  I used to know the leaders, but that was near forty years ago -... But still.  Tomorrow, we'll have to find their nest and try to come to some... negotiated agreement.  And maybe convince Augusto to come home." 
Bella tenses.   "What if they just attack us?  You said they'd want retribution." 
Maso shakes his head.   "The Weevers are a thieves guild, not a gang of killers by nature.  It's the Tilean pride that needs restitution; when I was with them, we knew well enough not to make too man enemies... especially those who can afford to hire their own head-kickers to root you out.  Maybe someone there still has my  chevios  - ah... that is, my guild credits."  
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 

Taalia was still in her stoic mode when they all gathered inside the house. If she felt any remorse or guilt, only slivers of regret at the outcome were visible on her face, but her voice told her true story.

 "Imagine if they had gained entry without any of us being alert. There was seven of them, all armed with knives and with empty sacks. They would have ruined your business, and Myrmidia knows what they would have done with the children, or Bella,"  she gestured to her friend with genuine concern and affection. Taalia knew the girl had an independent streak and was brave enough to try and fight the troll with them all. It wasn't her spirit she doubted. But even the most skilled man would struggle when faced with 7 knives while rising from his slumber.

 "I regret that it had to end that way, but I'd do it again were I in the same situation once more,"  she stated.

Now that she thought about it...the mutants...the pirates...now the thief...she'd killed almost ten people since arriving on the surface. That was... a lot . Granted, they all had it coming. But still...despite how mostly idylic and peaceful life was here on the surface compared to where she had come from, most people went their lives without so much as claiming one.

Oh and one Skaven too, but that didn't count. Animals.

Now, however, came the politics of the situation. The Weevers were a gang of thieves...perhaps this would intimidate them off? At least for as long as Taalia remained in the area. Strong-armed leg-breaking didn't seem within the style of just thieves, unless they had significantly upped their game since last Maso had ran with their numbers. Still, Taalia was inclined to listen to the senior Cestie, nodding gently at his words.

 "I'm coming with you, Sinogre,"  she stated, her sonorous and smoky voice soft in the gravity of the situation, moving a hand over to rest against and squeeze his own as a sign of support.
MrAbdiel
 Cestié nods, and lays a hand over yours.

He was counting on it.

 * * * * * 
After a much quieter and more sombre breakfast than the dinner preceding, you cross the greater canal that separate the wealthier core of Miragliano from its middle class and poorer extremes.  Your destination, Maso explains as Biagio pushes along the canalboat with a long oar, is the East District.

"Even when I was young, the East District was given over to the marsh.  The islands it's built on - they're no good; it's all sunken into the mud, and drowned the lower floors of all the buildings there.  The Weevers have bolt holes across the city like most of the gangs, but like most of the gangs, their main holdout is in the East District."

Biagio has two bribe a few separate sets of guards at separate canal gates to get you there.  Strictly speaking, the East District is forbidden; but the locksmith has a good reputation and your group - two grey haired men and two young women - doesn't look like much trouble.  Finally, as the boat crosses a final canal gate to where the East District begins, you see the change immediately. The building past this point are not maintained; here, the lower floors of those you can see are at least ankle-deep in water with higher tidemarks on the walls.  Some buildings have such compromised foundation that they have given up and crumbled entirely, or slouched appallingly against their neighbouring structures.  More frustratingly, the canals are not maintained - they are choked with debris and weeds, and  as Biagio drives the boat into the midst of some of them, it slews to a whispery stop against the bulrushes.

Maso stands up, stretches his back out with a grumble, and then takes up a rope and hook, tossing it easilly to the window of a building nearby and giving it a firm tug.

Biagio doesn't particularly want to remain behind - Augusto is his son, after all - but he has neither your strapping frame, Maso's experience, or Bella's generally compensating youth.  And someone needed to mind the boat, after all.

 "Don't worry, Biagio.  I've got my girls here; we'll all be back, no trouble." 

At Cestié's direction, you climb up the knotted rope and into the second story of what might have been the home above someone's shop - now stripped bare of anything except some mildew-rotten planks that were some kind of shelf.

 "Better to go window to window, if you can.  Floors are made to hold up people; rooves are made to hold up rain.  Much easier to fall through an old roof than an old floor.  But if we do end up on rooftop, try to move on the steepled tops; and failing that, along the edges.  That way, you have a joist under you at all times.  Now keep your eyes out - there's worse than thieves, in the East District; but tell me if you spot any graffiti that looks like a fishbone." 

Bella follows behind you and Cestié, with her bow drawn.  If you had left her behind, the chance she would have followed you anyway was quiet high; but she watches your back as you advance, looking for signs and threats...

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
I'll take Perception (Visual), Perception (Aural), Search, Scale Sheer Surface, and Swim checks, at this point.

None of these are disaster-checks.  This is just to set a standard for how easy it is for Taalia to travel and seek under these conditions!
 
 
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 

Perhaps Taalia was imbibing the Tilean custom of affectionate-arguing, because she had spent half an hour before departure trying to convince Bella not to come. This would be incredibly dangerous, she stressed, they would be heading into the marsh-adjacent section of the city where the Skaven lurked about, she insisted, but it was to no avail. Bella was coming, whether she liked it or not, and Taalia, for all her other forces, had to resign herself to protecting  three  people.

And so that's what she geared up to do.

Much as with her trip to Remas, Taalia looked like some sort of bodyguard when she stepped out in preparation to depart and escort Maso Cestie. She wore her mail armor upon her figure, her steel helmet upon a head and her white-blonde hair done up in a bun underneath it so it could not be grabbed from behind. On both of her hips were her holstered pistols alongside a scabbard for  Daybreak , over her back was her shield and in her hands was  Leonardo , her trusty blunderbuss that had been her stalwart companion for so long. As they were heading into a literal thieves den, Taalia made sure not to carry any currency external to her clothes, instead shoving a small purse into her cleavage underneath her clothing and mail armor. If a thief could manage to extract that through two layers while evading her notice then that was impressive enough to think that he deserved the treasure within.

Naturally, she sheathed her dagger into her right good quality riding boot. Just in case.

Taalia wasn't messing around. She knew the potential danger they were entering, and it frustrated her to no end that Bella couldn't see reason. Those were the thoughts occupying the shepardess' mind as they moved along the river in the gentle gondola, a process that would have, were she on some type of date, been a surprisingly romantic affair. But not this time. The trepidation was palpable and there was no whimsical love to be found here.

As they entered the more closed off section of the city where well-kept architecture gave way to the buildings that time forgot, Taalia visibly tensed up and kept her eyes peeled on their surroundings. She had good sight and excellent hearing, and she would use both to the best of her ability to spot whatever danger may be lurking in the vine-gripped buildings. Frogs croaked, insects buzzed and the eternal choir of crickets and bugs filled the air as if they had ventured into some untouched swampland.
MrAbdiel
 You follow your geriatric companion's surprisingly spry spelunking through windows and over rooftops.  Your keen senses save your group from being startled a few times.  Twice, you come upon other small groups in the ruined canals; but both times, after pausing to observe, your eyes pick out that they are no threat at all; each a duo of peasant salvagers, slinking carefully through buildings to pry up the unrotted boards and joists they can find to sell for lumber, and some of the rotted stuff for firewood.  The second group has found a small treasure - a decently carved wooden chair that has survived the rot that claimed so much else.  They are carefully lowering it from a window into their tiny, two-man barge which they must stash somewhere inside the weeds before transfering later to a boat on the other side, to sell their pickings in the city.  You make eye contact with the one of them; a young woman who looks to be just on the right side of starvation.  She observes your heavy armament, and offers a nervous smile when you signal no intention to take the precious chair; then they are on their way.  She makes a little  hang signal, before she goes; touches the side of her nose with her thumb, touches her eyebrow with her index finger; touches her pinched collection of fingertips to the crown of her head before fanning her fingers suddenly.  When you relay it to Cestié, he decodes for you.

 "It's thief sign.  She said there have been no skaveni that she has seen, but she can't be sure." 

And you're the first to spot the fish-skeleton sign Cestié mentioned - he interprets it as a directional sign based on the number of rib bones indicating whether to follow the point of the mouth, or the tail, or neither.

There's only one small, minor-disaster of a fall.  As climb up another brick wall, you feel your muscles straining. You're a strong girl; but you haven't done a great deal of climbing in your life... and the last few years of labor on the farm have required much less punishment on your arms and legs than slave life did.  As you feel your forearms quiver, having overestimated the how you might scale this particular wall, you recognize how taxing all the extra weight of weapons and armor you carry happens to be.  Then you drop, gasping an instinctive breath before you hit the brackish water.  It turns out to be not terribly deep - deep enough to break you fall, and so you can fail about and not go completely under.  Your pistols have gone under the waterline - the powder in them is certainly wasted, and will need to be cleaned out.  But you keep  Leonardo  above the water, and that's something.

Bella is there at the floor of the building you just left before the failed climb; and as Maso peers down at you with worry from atop your destination, Bella is there to grab your hand and steady you, ready to help you climb out of the water back to the merely damp floor where she kneels, and there to consider how to solve the problem of the climb.

It's there, up to you armpits in swamp water with your blunderbuss held over your head in one hand and your other hand gripped by your best friend trying to help you up, that you hear it: the creak of boards behind Bella by just a few paces.  And then your eyes track to the sound, and resolve it: a shadowed, humanoid shape; grotesquely fat and straining the boards as it approaches the blissfully unaware maid of Bella Collina. 
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 

These bastard walls! What foul deed did Taalia perform in a past life that saw her punished having to traverse these wretched obstacles? One would think with her impressive physical prowess that Taalia would take to the requirement easily, but climbing walls took a coordination and utilisation of alternative muscles requires to move her up that wall.

But, alas, it seemed she had no natural talent for it, much to her detriment.

 "Bastard son of a bitch!"  she hissed as she slid back into the brackish water below, her pistols submerged, ruining the powder. The shepardess had spare shots with her, but she'd have to shake them dry and reload them once she scrambled up into the room above.

But then she saw it. That menacing figure emerging behind sweet Bella who was helping her up.

 "Bella, take it!"  Taalia instantly responded, holding her blunderbuss up for her friend to take.

 "Behind you!" 
MrAbdiel
 Bella's eyes flare wide at your panicked tone; and before she can think, she has snatched the blunderbuss from your hands, spun on the spot, and fired.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: Rolls... 
  StrangerAgilityVs26  - (1d100)[ 57 ] 
or else take  (1d10+3)[ 13 ]  damage.

Description pending.
 


Your night eyes are better than anyone's; but even you can't see well in shadows with the day's sun high in the sky, demanding your eyes adjust to its power instead.  But the muzzleflash on Leonardo lights up the scene for a split second, along with a great boom.

The creature is undoubtedly some kind of mutant.  Bella's aim is good for a split second decision, if not quite perfect.  just a little off a blast that would have torn a hole through its body or sheared off its head.  As it its, a good scattering of the tiny lead pellets impact up the creature's left side; grievous wounds just shy if an immediately fatal wound.

In the flash, you see it. Or  him , perhaps; a thing that, but for the assault of fate's dark vagaries, would have been a man.  Dirty enough that you cannot tell the natural shade of his skin, somewhere between pale and dark tan; a messy tangle of black hair and big, frightened eyes.  His body is fat, but his arms and legs are thin - the corpulence striking you immediately as an unnatural facet of his condition.  More immediately inhuman is the protrusive nose, or rather, the  trunk  that sprouts from where his nose should be; fleshy, no longer than a hand, and recognizable to you only as reminiscent of the carvings of mammoths you saw in your time in Norsca.  He is dressed in a ragged and tatty set of too-large trousers held up with a rope tied about his waist, and what might generously be described as a shirt, which is just sackcloth roughly stitched together into a sort of clumsy vest.  In the instant the weapon flashes, he is reeling away; startled either by your shout or Bella's spin, but not fast enough to avoid the blast that rakes up his left side.  Bella collapses backward onto her backside with the recoil, and the mutant tumbles and squirms back with the impact.

 "Ahhhh!  Forry!  Forry, forry!  Ahhh!" 

It's a shout of pain more than viciousness; the kind you know well from the slave pits; the helpless squealing of the endlessly frightened.  As you pull yourself up onto the second story floor beside Bella, you see the fat fellow crawling away toward the back of the building, where a rickety ladder made of scrap wood and cordage leads up to an attic space.  As your eyes adjust, you hear the whimpering, grunting thumps of the mutant trying to get away, trying to stand, but finding his footing fails him.

 "Forry, forry..." 

There was a moment in Bella's face where the fear drained to elation; the thrill of firepower well spent from the hands. But that too drains away to dawning horror.

Cestié has clambered down the opposite wall and springs over to land beside you, bracing himself on the wall with one hand and fumbling for a dagger with his other.   "What happened?  Are you alright? What... is it?"  
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 

Taalia's eyes widened as Bella took the weapon and whipped around in an instant to blast it at the figure slowly moving towards her.

 "Wai - !"  is all Taalia got out before the  Boom!  echoed within the room and the cry of pain from the newcomer joined the heavy sound of his collapse.

This is why Taalia hadn't wanted Bella to come. She didn't doubt her spirit nor her value in other area's, but they were heading to a dangerous area of town in search of the hiding den for a criminal orgnisation. That was no place for someone with no experience in violent matters. Those who had not experienced the sheer  shock  that violence and fear generated were not prepared for how it would seize their actions and control their thoughts when they beheld it first-hand. To hear or read about a man being stabbed was one thing, but to watch the fight happen in person and witness that blade enter a body, it was another thing entirely.

But, frightened as it had been, perhaps Bella's reaction had been the right one. This was a swamp-reclaimed, decrepit part of town filled with brigands, miscreants, thieves and the occasional Skaven: shooting first and asking questions later seemed like sensible policy, within context of course.

When Taalia managed to scramble up over the railing and plant her feet on the floor, her eyes took in the situation and quickly pieced together what she believed had occurred.

This man, this clear mutant, lived here. He had heard their entrance and had come to investigate. Did he have malicious intentions? Maybe, maybe not, they'll never know. Perhaps he saw Bella and thought she was a thief helping a friend up into this upper level of a stone house with the intent to rob him, and he was going to react accordingly. Whatever the case, now he was helpless and whining out 'Forry!', clearly his version of 'Sorry!' in a pity-evoking display.

Reacting quickly, Taalia dashed to the mutanst side. His deformities did not bother her - she'd grew up around worse in the slave pits. From her backpack she withdrew a white, coiled bandage and a healing draught, as she applied pressure and wrapped the treated linen about the wounded area to stifle the bleeding. The shot pellets of the blunderbuss were small, their power coming from their number dispersed across an area. If the mutant had a few locked in his leg, it should be fine, long-term, Taalia thought, they'll likely get covered in scar-tissue. At worst he'll have a limp. They had not struck anything vital, otherwise the blood loss would be considerably larger.

Holding the healing draught up for him to take, Taalia made a drinking motion, her voice now soft and gentle.

 "Drink, Singore, it will make you feel better!" 
MrAbdiel
  "Forry..." 

As you approach, your judgement seems to be correct.  The mutant, though unclean and unsightly, seems to bear no weapons.  He is covered in scars, cuts and bruises of hard living; some from the abuse of others it seems, though you note his knuckles are not calloused over, nor do his mutations include claws or teeth suitable for combat.  He tucks himself into the corner of the room at the bottom of the ladder he is too frightened or in pain to climb, holding the wounded left arm to himself and the right hand up with its palm out in an apologetic gesture.  Big, dark eyes flick to you occasionally in awful fear and the familiar anticipation of pain which you have seen in the eyes of dozens and dozens of miserable slaves.  His refrain,  Forry , he repeats like a warding mantra against that predicted punishment.

Cestié is wary as you and Bella turn immediately to pity; but he can't deny the compelling, odd innocence of the mutant fellow.  Too hideous to dwell with humans; apparently, too dim-witted and gentle to be of any use to the various gangs, he has somehow scrounged out a life amoungst the refuse of the dilapidated East District of Miragliano.

"Oh!  It's alright, it's alright.  No, I'm sorry - you just.. frightened me!" Bella tries to explain.  The slow calming fear in the mutants eyes seeps away with enough soothing from the pair of you, eventually enough that you are able to get close, take out the small kit of medical tools you have suitable for travel, and carefully unpick from his ravaged side some of the shrapnel you had carefully packed into your weapon earlier.  It's a great mess of flesh wounds, and you end up bandaging up much of his skinny left leg and arm, and atleast cleaning the wounded on his oddly pudgy torso.  After that, you convince him to take the draught; he cradles it carefully, sipping as directed until it is gone; relinquishing the vial back to you when you reach for it.  It helps a great deal.

He doesn't seem to have much in the way of words.  He understands Tilean as long as you speak slowly and clearly; but he himself tends to veer back to a few well learned phrases, or repetitions of simple ones he has constructed to convey something specific, without much capacity to rephrase or elaborate.  You manage to extract from him that his name is  Olio .

He must be in a great deal of pain, but after a while Olio just seems nervously pleased to have positive company even smiling a fair bit, wincingly.  His fingertips worry at the air close to his chest when he is nervous; his trunk occasionally quirking up to snuffle at the air.

 "Raphs 'teal me net..."   He offers in what seems like an explanation, particularly to Bella.  When that doesn't seem quite understood, he struggles to his feet again, and to the ladder.   "Look, look... Look." 

Up he goes, more slowly and carefully now; favoring the right leg, not using the left arm, but making it.  Cestié tries to argue against the delay, but Bella insists on indulging him.  She is clearly stricken with guilt, for the wound she inflicted.

You think briefly about "False Bertuccio"; the mutant whom Simonuccio and the Matrone suggested probably had his own face and name and life before one cursed Mystery Night where he was warped for the pleasure of an evil god into the likeness of the local lawman.  At the time, Simonuccio's cold absolute assurance that mutants required death was an invitation to believe in easy if somewhat unpleasant answers to complicated problems like that. But then, Simonuccio's approach came into question not so long after... Considering what Bertuccio meant to Bella and how distressing the whole scenario was, she must have spent some nights dwelling on the hanged mutant in Bella Collina's village square - what he deserved; what he got.

When you and Bella follow Olio up into the attic, you find a narrow, cramped living space.  A nest of rags must serve as his bed in one corner.  The fireplace downstairs is of course waterlogged; but he has knocked a hole in the side of the chimney as it passes through the attic and plugged it with stone and mud, now baked hard from many nights of petty fires for cooking and warmth.  A disorganized pile of woodscraps a crude tools lie in another corner; and in another lies a flattened mat of reeds upon which he has heaped a small mound of picked-clean fish skeletons from the swamp below.

And finally, the most precious corner to which he is  look look ing you, there is little wooden crate; and within that crate is an almost perfectly fine blanket; and curled up on that blanket is a lazy, lean looking, smoke-grey mother cat.  Four  mew ing kittens, two grey, one white, one almost black, bumble around over and past each other trying to suckle.

Olio looks on the little feline treasury with paternal wonder, before wincing at a flare of pain from his bloodied side; and then offers a smile almost in apology for the wince to the pair of you.

 "Raphs 'teal me net..." , he offers again; brushing at the pile of cleaned fishbones with sadness in his odd features. 
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 

A rush of relief moved through Taalia's heart as she understood she was able to patch up and tend to most of the damage done to 'Olio'. It seemed like a bit of a cruel twist of fate that a seemingly gentle outsider would receive such a wound, but it was perhaps merciful that she was apart of it so that she could relieve the pain and protect against infection. The draught and paultirce was used, as was the bandage. There were a few little pellets that she could not withdraw, but she believed they would heal over with scar-tissue. The more she 'worked' on him, the further she gained confidence in her initial estimation: he'll be fine and will heal soon on his own, and at worst he would have a slight limp.

 "Raphs 'teal me net..." 

What could he be meaning? Taalia wasn't sure. She figured out 'Sorry' easy enough, but this one needed more context.

When he took them up to his little attic living space, Taalia was almost immediately returned to the slave pits that had only been just 3 or so years ago. To her, then, a place like this would have been a palace. But today, it was seen as the fringe of civilized society and a place for the destitute. Yet the shepardess found a slight familiarity with it all, even the smell. Still...he seemed to have everything a simple, gentle being like him could want. Relative safety, a place to cook food and...companions.

 Meow! Meow! Meow! 

Taalia's face turned distinctly 'Aww!' as she peered into that little crate and upon those four little kittens and their placid, trim mother.

The shepardess brought her left hand up, but hesitated. She looked over at the mutant, her hand hovering above that little cat house in a gesture of patting,  "May I?"  she asked. If given permission, she would first gently pet the mother on her head, before dragging the back of her finger across the adorable little backs and tails of the miniature cats.

 "Raphs 'teal me net..." 
 "The rats stole your net?"  Taalia asked, eyes widened slightly in realisation. That's how he survived here: he fished. He was a self-sufficient mutant, gentle and simple minded, living out his days in an oddly beautiful, but dangerous place where he had created a safe little alcove where he had the companionship of the neighbourhood cats. But the Skaven had stolen his net. The fact he knew how to survive the Skaven, or at least was of no use to them, gained him a degree of protection.

It wasn't some grand life set for greatness, but given the mans conditions, it was about the happiest he could get. Maybe he had once been normal and had been stricken with this curse during the Mystery Night. Perhaps he had been born this way. But as far as Taalia could tell, he was keeping to himself, wasn't bringing harm to others and was even offering a comforting help to some local animals.

Taalia looked over at Bella and Cestie, remembering what Maso had quietly beckoned earlier: they had to get going.

Turning back to Olio,  "We have to leave..."  she gestured to herself and her two companions, speaking slowly so that Olio could understand.

 "We are sorry for hurting you. If we see a net, we will get one for you." 

It was the least they could do for shooting the poor bastard.
MrAbdiel
 He seems reluctant to let you go, though it's hard to tell; perhaps because of the hostile realm beyond, perhaps because he so rarely has visitors.  He tries to communicate something with his hands - it's a little hard with one arm being so recently stung - but he makes a little triangular steeple with his fingers.   "Raphs 'teal me net..."  he reminds you; a phrase that tonally seems also to concede and bid you farewell, and you leave the stricken but recovering mutant Olio to his cats.

A few more traversals of building to building and you spot again with your honed senses another of the thief signs.   "Ah... We're close, then - we'll light a fire in the chimney here.  There will be a bit of treated wood somewhere near it that will have little carved notches in the length; three notches is the one, and that'll burn smoke that'll look green to the right lens.  Unless they've changed the signals... but we've got nought but to try."   The reinvigorated Cestié is halfway to lowering a knotted rope for your trio to climb down into a window of the building beneath you and find that notched wood, but at that point you spot it - a building across weedy canal from you.  Its top floor has collapsed and crushed most of the lower story, and the entire foundation has halfway surrended to the marsh.  The end result is that the  lower floor is underwater on the east side and above on the west - with a triangular half of a doorway visible at the waterline.  You notice also what no one else would do - the faint scrapes where a clawed, ratty hand have grasped that doorframe going in and out over time.  It may not be a  skaveni  that dwells here; any mutant could have such claws... but it might be.  That would be a chance to recover Olio's net, which is one thing; and perhaps more compelling, a chance to kill a ratman.  Or it might be an unnecessary danger and distraction - but is it worth leaving to the rear of you, when you go?

It looks cramped and dark in there... For most, that would be enough to deter. 
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 

After the trio had departed the mutant, thankfully on better terms than when they met, Taalia had given Bella a warm, tight hug. She knew what the girl must be going through, though it was a sensation that had long since departed Taalia. The slave pits had desensitised and hardened the shepardess in ways poor Bella had not been required to copy, and Taalia hoped she never would.

When they continued to traverse through the half-sunken ruins of the east section of the city, Taalia narrowed her eyes when she spotted what could be a doorway into a little nest for the ratmen. Though the residue of possible Skaven access was evident, that was pretty flimsy evidence upon which to risk their lives and divert their action from.

Reaching out and tapping Cestie on the shoulder, Taalia brought the possibility to his attention. Silently she looked at him, a  'what do you want to do?'  expression on her face.
MrAbdiel
 Cestié looks on where you point and listens to your concern.  He frowns.  He had enough reason to hate the rats before you came into his life; and with you came more.  The conversation with his father the night before has only added to it.

 "We... can spare a moment to kill a rat - ... but perhaps we shouldn't.  We can't afford to fight a whole... a whole swarm of them.  You're good, Taalia, but..." 

But a bit of bad luck could change a lot of outcomes, whatever he was going to say behind pursed lips.  You, however, know it's vanishingly unlikely that there is a great many rats here.  The skaven hate the surface.  They are paranoid backstabbers and they feel afraid and exposed on the surface - much better in a nice hole in the ground where you can put your back to a wall and point your eyes facing out.  If there are skaven dwelling up here long term, there cannot be many - perhaps an outcast or two, like Rashabang was destined to be for the short interim between his escape from the assassins and his capture by the humans of Verezzo.

Cestié thinks you can spare time for the diversion - the thieves guild isn't going anywhere in the next few minutes - but mostly it comes down to how confident you are wading armpit deep into a watery ruin which probably contains a hostile little rat monster.

Is your desire for safety stronger than your hate for the creatures? 
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 

Taalia despised the ratmen, but she didn't possess an all-consuming frenzy just waiting for its moment to seize control over her actions. She had Bella with her and Cestie, both relying on her vigour if any trouble came their way. Going and  looking  for trouble? In arm-pit high water? Were it not sunken...maybe, but in its current state, she was going out of her way to enter a dangerous situation at a severe physical advantage and for potentially no gain.

 "We'll tell the thieves. Maybe they'll do something about it, if they don't want some outcast Skaven on their doorstep,"  she uttered to Cestie, gesturing that they should head on.
MrAbdiel
 You take note of the location, the distinctive slouch of the building and the forgettable scratches that you can not forget (you have similar minor scars on your skin, after all).  Perhaps a matter for the thieves to take care of, for later - you have other priorities.  The three of you scour the interior of the building on which you stand, and Signore Cestié is delighted to discover a fold of heshen cloth in one corner and a bundle of rough pine wood sticks, scraped of bark to reveal the soft white wood within.

 "Ah, here - signal smokers, you see?  They are each soaked in certain different chemicals before drying to this indistinguishable state.  But you see these notches, here?  They mark the colors the smoke they produce will appear when seen through a Tollucini lens.  Guillelma Tollucci, you see - Leonardo da Miragliano's sister, who had a little talent of her own.  It's through Guillelma that the Cestié family is connected to that family.  Here, here..." 

He produces his spyglass, and then - for the first time - from inside the lens cap, tugs at a small tongue of leather to reveal a hidden pocket and simple clear circular glass lens, which he presses gently into to wide end of the spyglass with a rewarding  click.   He hands it to you, and then begins fiddling with the signal smokers, eventually selecting one he thinks his appropriate based on its notches.  By that time, Bella has lit a small fire in the defunct brick stove, and Cestié adds a the stick to it.

When you get back to the rooftop, two (and a half) stories above the water level, there is a very mild plume of smoke from the chimney.  To the naked eye, it is simple grey woodsmoke.  Through the lens affixed to Cestié's spyglass, it is quite clearly intermingled with a ribbon of vibrant green smoke within.

 "That should let a spotter know there is someone 'friendly' here to meet.  We'll have to convince the spotter to take us to their safe house... or at least to have the local chapter leader come to meet us.  For now, err..." 

He pivots, looking for somewhere to suggest you and Bella hide... but the rooftop has just the small chimney for cover, which is not at all enough to hide even one person behind.  Having all of your out and revealed certainly makes you more threatening - but given that you killed at least one of the Weevers, it might be a good idea for you not to be visible until Maso has a chance to parlay. But that would involve going down the rope to the floor below; which would put you a short climb away from the old tinker should something go wrong.  With his crossbow in his hands, he is not harmless - but all the same...

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
Where do you want you (and Bella) to be as you wait for the Weevers?  Out front and proud, or hiding below and sneaky?
 
 
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 


Taalia purses her lips at the situation before them, her mind considering both options. Open and bold would be more honest but ward them against approaching in the first place...while sneaky and hidden may draw them in, but could lead them into believing they were walking into an ambush.

It was better to ask for forgiveness than permission, Taalia reasoned.

Nodding once, Taalia put a hand on Bella's shoulder and gestured for her bestie to follow her and hide where Cestie designated.
MrAbdiel
 You wait below with Bella; your friend holding her finely weighted quarterstaff and weighing it in her arms for familiarity before tying it back to light pack.  It's a little awkward, but easier to climb with it that way in a pinch; and the knotted rope hanging down through the window (while not a challenging climb) will most befit an individual with two hands.

When the visitors come, they come from an angle blind to the windows in the building.  But you hear them just find, as they hop from one rooftop to the one above you.  Three... four... five sets of feet.  One smaller than the others - a child, or a halfling.

You hear them speaking, clearly enough.

 "What's this, old man? Old man?  What you doing out here old man?" , says the first - the weird, gangland dialect junky and unpleasant on the ear.
 "You got money? You got money old man?" , says another.

Immediately, this does not sound to you like thieves you fought the night before.  They were not the most sophisticated people you have met, but there was nothing wrong with their Tilean - city born, clear spoken.

 "No, I'm - ... with the Weevers.  And if you're still here in thirty seconds you'll meet the rest of us." 

Cestié's response clinches it.  These are not the people he was expecting - some other gang, some your gut tells you is more vicious and crude and almost  native  to this swampy slum condition.  He tries to bluff them, hoping they'll accept the half truth of his affiliation as an indicator they shouldn't trouble him for risk of a clash with another gang.

But the hairs are standing up on the back of your neck, now.  You recognize the tone, the timbre, the ambience  sense  of the encounter going on above - the fabricated strength of the pack, and the unspent violence quivering in the air like an taut bowstring...

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
Cestié is trying to blather.  Untrained, he will have a hard time.  If he succeeds, they'll hold off for a turn.  Otherwise, we're straight into initiative.

If you can hit a Scale Sheer Surface roll of +20% for the knotted rope, you can climb up to the roof with a half action on your turn and immediately engage with the other half.  Fail, and it'll take a full round of action just to climb up.

  vs19BlatherUntrained  - (1d100)[ 33 ] 
  BellaInitiative  - (1d10+4)[ 9 ] 
  CestiéInitiative  - (1d10+4)[ 10 ] 
  GoonLeader  - (1d10+4)[ 9 ] 
  GoonOffsider  - (1d10+4)[ 13 ] 
  GoonBrute  - (1d10+4)[ 13 ] 
  GoonGirl  - (1d10+4)[ 12 ] 
  GoonShort  - (1d10+4)[ 6 ] 
 
 
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 

Taalia's danger senses were tingling quite early into the interaction. The tone of voice, Cestie's initial apprehension, their refusal to heed his warning...

She hadn't survived the slave pits without a finely honed danger antennae and hers was screaming into her ears that something was very, very wrong. Gripping the knotted rope with her gloved hand, Taalia left the blunderbuss affixed to her backpack so that Bella could withdraw it when she followed her up and kept behind her, firing over her shoulder.

Upon reaching the top of that window, Taalia cast her gaze out as she stepped forward silently, sword withdrew with a threatening  Schink!  and her shield coming about before her and wasted no time - she stabbed at the nearest goon. They were threatening Cestie, they deserved it.
MrAbdiel
  
 Spoiler: OOC: Initiative and rolls! 

 
Taalia [14] 
GoonOffsider - (1d10+4)[13] (8 Damage)
GoonBrute - (1d10+4)[13]
GoonGirl - (1d10+4)[12]
 Cestié - (1d10+4)[10] 
 Bella - (1d10+4)[9] 
GoonLeader - (1d10+4)[9]
GoonShort - (1d10+4)[6]

GoonOffsider, after a surprise stabbing, goes full defense.
Goon Brute moves to attack Taalia.    vs50  - (1d100)[ 16 ]  for  (1d10+5)[ 11 ]  (Handweapon, club).
Goon Girl lunges at Cestié.    vs40  - (1d100)[ 86 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 8 ]  (Handweapon, shortsword).
Cestié backs up a step, daring an opportunity attack from Goon girl, then shoots at her with the crossbow.
OP attack:   vs40  - (1d100)[ 4 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 5 ]  (Handweapon, shortsword)
  vs38  - (1d100)[ 69 ]  for  (1d10+4)[ 10 ] (Master-Tuned Crossbow)
Bella half-action climbs up, then half-action parry stances.
Goon Leader watches with disapproval for a turn.
Goon Short attacks Bella!
  vs40  - (1d100)[ 30 ]  for  (1d10+2)[ 4 ]  (dagger!)
  BellaParryVs56  - (1d100)[ 49 ] 

Narrative pending rolls, then Taalia's turn!
 


There are five of them.  A pale skinned leader, tall with dark bags under his eye and an almost lipless mouth, has a small axe in hand but it seems little intention to use it.  Even as you clamber over the edge of the roof to engage, he turns his attention to you but does not yet sully himself to be involved.  He has people for this.

The nearest to Cestié is a leering, lank haired man with eyebrows that seem permanently too high on his forehead - higher still when you jam the point of your sword into his side and he staggers back, looking horrified and offended, longknife up to defend himself and menace you back.  He releases a string of parochial judgements about you which, you are quite sure, suggest he is taking you seriously.  As does another, the most muscled and largest of the gang who steps in and with the cudgel in his right hand strikes while the dagger in the left fakes.  This time, it's for you - these are men of violence who are ready to take all comers.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
That will require a defence, or else take 11 damage to the body.
 


Nearby, just a few steps away, an almost androgynously malnourished young woman lunges for Maso with a shortsword.  The forehand misses as he backsteps; the backhand barely nicks him along the stomach, cutting through leather and drawing blood, as he establishes enough space to send a crossbow bolt whizzing past her ear.

Bella is up on the roof a moment after you, slinging free her quarterstaff.  She cannot keep the look of worry off her face; but as the fifth member of the gang lunges at her with dagger in hand, she has the presence of mind to ward the blow away with a whooshing strike of the staff.

Three versus five; or four, as long as their leader seems content to watch.  You have fought better armed opponents, and deadlier and stronger opponents; but here in a rooftop in the sunken quarter of Miragliano, a wrong-step might cost a life as easily as a bad parry. 
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 


Taalia battered away the incoming cudgel with her graceful weapon, while her return stab grazed off the mans right arm with a nasty nick, but nothing too serious.

 "Bella,  Leonardo! "  Taalia yelled through gritted teeth as she held the goons at bay.
MrAbdiel
  
 Spoiler: OOC: Initiative and Rolls! 


Round 2!

Goon offsider moves in to gang up on  Taalia, along with Brute.

  vs50  - (1d100)[ 99 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 11 ]  (handweapon, longknife)
Brute will try to parry that blow, but he will all out attack this turn.
  vs70  - (1d100)[ 70 ]  for  (1d10+5)[ 8 ]  (handweapon, club)

Goon girl follows up on Cestie.

  vs40  - (1d100)[ 24 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 12 ]  (handweapon, shortsword)

Bella snatches Leonardo from Taalia's backpack rig.  She can't leave combat and fire it this turn, so she will swing her quarterstaff one handed as an improvised weapon for the sake of using that half action.

  vs41  - (1d100)[ 62 ]  for  (1d10)[ 5 ]  (improvised)

Cestie is stuck in combat.  He'll drop the crossbow, and draw shortsword and knife to prepare to parry next turn.

Short goon will keep at Bella.

  vs40  - (1d100)[ 26 ]  for [ROLL]1d10+2/ROLL] (dagger). (6 damage net, from the OOC.)

 Taalia [14] 
GoonOffsider [13] (8 Damage)
GoonBrute [13] (4 Damage)
GoonGirl - [12]
 Cestié - [10] (9 Damage)
Bella - [9] (6 Damage) 
GoonLeader - [9]
GoonShort - [6]

Narrative Pending!
 


You score a laceration on the big lad, but on he comes, seemly untroubled by the pain.  Even as the creep you stabbed before rushes in, you weave away from one slash of a knife while the club hammers down at you, testing your defence

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
Defend against an 8 damage hit to the head!
 


It's just as well the leader seems untroubled; the gang is proving more than trouble on their own.  The girl who dodged the crossbow bolt follows up on Cestie, and you are gutsick to hear him cry out in pain and see blood on her shortsword.  The crossbow clatters to the ground, and he draws his own melee weapons, shortsword and knife, though blood now runs down the front of the old man's jerkin.

Bella takes your meaning and grabs Leonardo from its scabbard on your back, but struggles to pick a moment to disengage to fire.  She tries to fend away the short attacker, but unable to bring her staff around usefully one handed, the scumbag is able to dart in and slash a line that cuts through her light leather and elicits and pained gasp.

 
 Spoiler: OOC! 
The stress!

Bella is set, next turn, to back out of combat and fire Leonardo, collecting... I'll say, 1d4 of these guys in the chaos, careful not to hit you or Cestie.  Cestie is wounded, but now atleast he has a parry!  Taalia has the big guy and the one she first wounded in combat with her - and that second one does not have a second weapon to parry with.  Your go!
 
 
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 

Taalia's eyes widened as she watched the grotesque, ugly little mans attack on Bella penetrate her defenses and spike her with his disgusting little sword.

Gritting her teeth, the shepardess brought her elven-made blade about towards him in a glittering arc...
MrAbdiel
  
 Spoiler: OOC: Rolls! 
  vs50  - (1d100)[ 59 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 6 ]  from the Offsider at Taalia.

  vs70  - (1d100)[ 24 ]  for  (1d10+5)[ 10 ]  from the brute, all out.

  vs40  - (1d100)[ 98 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 9 ]  from the girl at Cestie;
 (1d100)[ 53 ]  for the old man to parry.

 (1d100)[ 54 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 10 ]  for him to strike back!

Bella fires Leonardo.  She hits  (1d4)[ 4 ]  targets - starting and following through: Brute  (1d10+3)[ 4 ] , Offsider  (1d10+3)[ 6 ] , Girl  (1d10+3)[ 6 ] , Leader  (1d10+3)[ 12 ] .  They roll Agility to defend: (1d100)[ 86 ] ,  (1d100)[ 40 ] ,  (1d100)[ 36 ] ,  (1d100)[ 36 ] .

Goon Leader gets stuck in at Taalia - 3 on 1, now!

  vs60  - (1d100)[ 2 ]  for  (1d10+5)[ 13 ] .

And Special Friend:   vs75  - (1d100)[ 31 ]  for  (1d10+5)[ 14 ] (+1)

for   (1d10+6)[ 7 ]   or  (1d10+6)[ 7 ] . 


Taalia [14]
GoonOffsider [13] (11 Damage)
GoonBrute [13] (4 Damage)
GoonGirl - [12] (3 Damage)
Cestié - [10] (9 Damage)
Bella - [9] (6 Damage)
GoonLeader - [9] (10 Damage)
 GoonShort - [6]  Dead
SpecialFriend - [1]
 


It doesn't quite behead the short man.  Not completely.  It is on track to do so, but then he starts to duck, and the blade's edge catches him at the heel of the skull, carves through part of the upper most cervical vertebra and through the back of the lower mandible.  The top of his head comes off and  flomps  onto the tile in a single, comically simple movement that leaves his startled eyes open and staring at your ankles. The rest of him, from the soles of his feet to the flopping lower jaw, takes a teetering stumble and pitches off the side of the roof.

The other creeps aren't so flush with grief they slow down.  Bella is free from attackers now, but the offsider and the brute still come after you; the knife avoided at the cost of putting your ribs at risk of the bludgeon.  Cestié finds a second wind and fends off his attacker for a moment, even driving her back a step; and this puts her in line with the blast from  Leonardo  as Bella releases the weapon's fury once more.  It's a good line - it puts all four of them in hazard, though with enough clearance to avoid you and Maso.  The brute seems to bull through his scattered fragments, and the leader has leaned smoothly out of the way of the blast when it comes; but the offsider with the knife and the harassing girl are both peppered and yelp with pain.  He is suffering badly, and she is stung for the first time.  But the leader is active now, and he comes for you.

He darts forth, obviously skilled in measure to his station, and chops viciously out at you with his small axe.

 
 Spoiler: Two defenses! 
You're twice attacked this turn with hits - first for  10 damage to the body  by the brute, then for  13 damage to the right arm  by the leader.
 

  
 "ReeeeeeEEEEEEEEAAAAGHGH!" 
  
This hysterical, throaty warcry comes immediately before another sound - the sound of fracturing skull, and a spray of blood from the axe-wielding thug leader's mouth.

As he staggers forth, grasping at the hideous wound at the back of his head, you see the inflictor - a snarling, almost frothing black furred skaven in rusty armor made of interconnected metal squares you recognize from the veteran warriors of the rats you saw from time to time in your captivity.  This one seems a veteran, but also crazy - even by the rat standards.  A steel helm fits tight over his head with an upright metal crest regally rising above it.  A now bloodied morning star whirls in one hand; a triangular wooden shield features a battered, three-lined symbol you would have been happy never to see again.  Needless to say, this verminous arrival seems hostile to all involved in this affair.

Cestié takes in this new entrant with a glance and gritted teeth.  Bella just screams. 
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 

And just like that, Taalia had killed  another  person,  Daybreak  cleaving through the    neck    of the shorter goon that had stabbed her beloved best friend.

Where once Taalia would have uttered the bellowing roar of intimidation, now she fought with a more quiet, steely-eyed discipline. She wasn't 1 vs 6 where she hoped to frighten people away. No no, she was looking out now for Bella and Cestie. That meant she had to keep a cool head so tha -

  "ReeeeeeEEEEEEEEAAAAGHGH!"  

Taalia's eyes immediately widened. The inflection. The accent. The  sound . She knew it all too well.

Skaven.

And not just  any  Skaven, this was what Taalia knew to be a Stormvermin: the martial elite of the rat-man world. They were instantly recognisable by their black-fur, the blessed complexion marking them for advanced training among their society and a tell-tale sign of greater innate aggression and physical skill.

Thankfully her sudden lapse was not enough to sacrifice her body to the probing weapons of her opponents, her shield coming up to glance away knives and her body dodging out of the way of clubs. In reponse, Taalia snarled and stabbed and slashed where she could, her blade aimed for flesh as Bella's screams echoed in her ear.

 "Bella, behind me!!"  she yelled.

Cestie! The shepardess thought in fright to herself. Though long-dead instincts warned her away from seizing the Skavens attention, she knew it was in the older mans best interests that she do so.

 &lt;"Heechigar!"&gt;  Taalia yelled out in Queekish.
MrAbdiel
 You weave instinctively away from blows that might have incapacitated or killed you; the    near decapitation    of Bella's stunted attacker a commensurately small relief from angles of danger.  But then comes the stormvermin; unhinged and monstrous and extraordinarily deadly.  But fortunate for you, the rat-man's first blow comes from the blind side of one of your aggressors; and his disorientation almost costs him his life as your own attack scores across the front of his armor.  He is forced to throw himself on his back on the roof, skidding back over the shingles...

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
That's ultimately a 1 point crit, but a very good roll making it a 5 Body Crit - Knocked down and winded for a turn. -30% to all his stuff.
 


A two sided brawl becomes three sided, very suddenly...

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
Rolls, narrative pending.

Offsider freaks out and full defenses.

Brute singlemindedly focuses on Taalia.

  vs60  - (1d100)[ 87 ]  for another all out.   (1d10+5)[ 13 ]  to land it.

Girl moves away from Cestie and attacks the Stormvermin.

Cestie's Back-Attack:   vs40  - (1d100)[ 92 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 6 ] 

The girl's strike:   vs40  - (1d100)[ 98 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 9 ] 
Skaven Parry (Only valid if this attack hits.)
  vs55  - (1d100)[ 48 ] 

Cestie moves and attacks the Brute.
  vs40  - (1d100)[ 66 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 6 ] 

Bella changes from Blunderbuss back to staff, and backs up a step so she can charge next turn.

The Stormvermin... attacks the girl attacking him.  Rollover attacks onto the fallen leader.

  vs55  - (1d100)[ 87 ]  for  (1d10+5)[ 9 ] 
  vs55  - (1d100)[ 98 ]  for  (1d10+5)[ 9 ] 
EDIT: Never has there been so much WHIFF.  Curse you, Myrmidia!
 


...And in the ensuring chaos, there are shouts and manoeuvres, and a stalemate of efforts.  Bella puts down  Leonardo  and takes up her staff; for the moment taking your injunction to keep safe and backing up, her eyes wide with revulsion at the rat-man.  The ganger-girl sees her leader in charge and breaks to attack the skaven, but her blow scrapes off his shield with a puff of splinters.  Cestié is so surprised at her withdrawal he misses both his opportune strike at her back and his follow up effort to lash at the big brute as  steps into the fray beside you.  But the girl's strike does its work - rabid and furious, the rat pivots his malice toward her and makes two bone-breakingly swift swings of the morning star which, to her credit, she both avoids and keeps away from her suffering, recovering leader who scrapes himself up off the shingles and raises his weapon defensively.

The brute seems to be single-minded on bearing down on you; he has no regard for the rat at all, nor for Cestie working at putting a blade in his side.  For the moment, the rat, and the other gang thugs, seem to be each other's problems.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: Initiative and Wounds 
 Taalia [14] 
GoonOffsider [13] (11 Damage)
GoonBrute [13] (4 Damage)
GoonGirl - [12] (3 Damage)
 Cestié - [10] (9 Damage)
Bella - [9] (6 Damage) 
GoonLeader - [9] (13 Damage, 0 Wounds Remaining.)
 GoonShort - [6] Dead 
SpecialFriend - [1]
 
 
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 
 "Bella BEHIND ME!!"  Taalia shouted at her bestie, not wanting to see her chage into this hideously dangerous melee with only a stick as her protection and weapon. The Shepoardesses shield remained in front of her, deflecting blows while her own weapon slashed and stabbed out, desperately trying to get rid of this pig-headed ******** that wanted to attack  her  instead of the insane Skaven that had emerged onto the scene.
MrAbdiel
 
 Spoiler: OOC: Rolls! 
Rolls, narrative pending!

Offsider disengages to his leader's side.  Goon leader disengages.

Girl does her best to attack the skaven!

  vs40  - (1d100)[ 35 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 7 ] .
Skaven parry as necessary (Valid for this attack only):   vs55  - (1d100)[ 65 ] 

Cestie All-Out's the Brute!   vs70  - (1d100)[ 95 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 13 ] 
Bella charge the Brute!   vs51  - (1d100)[ 81 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 8 ] 

The Stormvermin continues his assault on the the girl goon!

  vs45  - (1d100)[ 96 ]  for  (1d10+5)[ 13 ] 
  vs45  - (1d100)[ 71 ]  for  (1d10+5)[ 11 ] 
her parry:   vs40  - (1d100)[ 91 ] 

Let's see how we go for this turn...
 
MrAbdiel
  
 Spoiler: OOC: Oops, forgot 
So much whiff.  The girl hits but it dinks off the rat's armor. But I forgot the brute!

  vs60  - (1d100)[ 87 ]  for  (1d10+5)[ 9 ]  at Taalia!
 


The clash of deflected steel and the grunts of human and inhuman effort dominate the combat, with a conspicuous lack of screams.  The cringing offsider takes the opportunity to extract himself from the combat with his badly injured leader; the pair of them look to be ready to run for it, even if that means leaving their companions behind.  Each of those companions distracts a different opponent in the combat - the girl lands a blow on the skaven which sparks off his armor, but again manages to avoid his deadly counterstrikes; the brute continues his monomaniacal attack on you, but with no more grace to land a hit than before.  But now your companions are there - Cestie trying, failing, to get a ruthless stab into the brute's side; Bella, again against your wishes, charging in despite your shouts and cracking down with her staff at the brute - who knocks the blow aside as he barrels on against you.

Your mind goes back to Silo Road; to the battle of Alfredo's Field, against the pirates, too.  In both cases, battle joined and strained at this point of stalemate tension, waiting for something to break one way or another and collapse the battle in the favor of one side.  This battle has three sides, but it feels the same.  Your blows land on the brute, but insensible he barrels on, mute and focused on your death.  If only he was so impassioned about fighting the monster just behind him!

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 


Taalia [14]
GoonOffsider [13] (11 Damage) (Fleeing!)
GoonBrute [13] (9 Damage)
GoonGirl - [12] (3 Damage)
Cestié - [10] (9 Damage)
Bella - [9] (6 Damage)
GoonLeader - [9] (13 Damage, 0 Wounds Remaining.)  (Fleeing!)
 GoonShort - [6] Dead 
Stormvermin - [1]


You're up!  And you outnumber 3:1 now, for a +20%.
 
 
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 

Taalia gritted her teeth and swore under her breath as she waved Bella charge forward, internally screaming at the girl to get back behind her where it was safer. Is this what husbands felt seeing their wives in danger? Or mothers for their infants? Whatever it was, that protective anger brewing within the shepardess urged her own to try and rid themselves of these two threats - the gang and the insane skaven, as the girl swung and stabbed out with her beautiful blade, searching desperately for a soft spot in the defences.
MrAbdiel
  
 Spoiler: OOC: Attacks! 
Around we go again!  Narrative pending!

Leader and Offsider bug out.

Poor, abandoned Goon Brute, now heavily injured:
  vs60  - (1d100)[ 78 ]  for  (1d10+5)[ 8 ]  on Taalia.

Poor, abandoned Goon Girl.
  vs40  - (1d100)[ 32 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 6 ]  on Ratto Arigato
Rat Parry, if only he had a Best Sword he would be so much more comfortable:   vs55  - (1d100)[ 43 ] 

Cowabunga Cestie Strike on Brute
  FullAttackvs80  - (1d100)[ 77 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 9 ] 

Bella Special Staff Attack: Bellacopter
  FullAttackvs81  - (1d100)[ 30 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 10 ] 

StorminNorman Reprisals on the poor girl
  vs45  - (1d100)[ 41 ]  for  (1d10+5)[ 9 ] 
  vs45  - (1d100)[ 72 ]  for  (1d10+5)[ 12 ] 
Her parry, as required:   vs40  - (1d100)[ 90 ] 
 


"Laddo!  Laddo, where- hey!  AhhhhHH!"

The girl with the shortblade notices now, too late, that her comrades are abandoning her.  The offsider, Clintus, she couldn't give a wet fart about; but Laddo, her leader... That hurt.  That broke her heart, because like many foolish young women she had fallen under the spell of the charms of a dangerous man only to be left behind. But it wasn't the abandonment that caused her to shriek - it was the head of the morningstar cracking her across the side of her skull, rending up a flap of skin that stayed up on the tension of the ponytail behind it like a gory, perked dog's ear.  A moment later, after her reprisal blow dinks off the skaven's armor, she is given another reason for dismay.  Her only ally, the thick-headed brute attacking you, finally suffers a reversal. First, the tip of your blade punches through his bicep and causes a spasm that forces his weapon to drop from his hand and clatter off the roof to splash below.  He is raising up the club in his left hand to strike you back, but then finally Cestié finds his mark and plunges his short sword four inches into his ribs.  The brute wheezes and gurgles, and his attention for the first time shifts from you to the old man.  For a moment, you fear he will make a deathblow at your chosen grandfather - but then the metal-capped end of Bella's staff cracks down on top of his skull.  However thick headed he was, it's not enough; the crown of his head folds inward with the blow, and with a weird cough he spits up a mouthful of dislodged teeth and blood over Cestiés shoulder before faceplanting on the shingles so hard he caves in a section of the roof and remains there, ass up, his legs splayed in the air like a bizarre grave marker.

The others have fled, now; it's you and your companions, and two yards away, the stormvermin frothing and laying into the ganger girl who desperately seeks an avenue to flee before she, too, is killed.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 

Taalia [14]
 GoonOffsider [13] (11 Damage) (Fled!) 
 GoonBrute [13] Dead 
GoonGirl - [12] (3 Damage)
Cestié - [10] (9 Damage)
Bella - [9] (6 Damage)
 GoonLeader - [9] (13 Damage, 0 Wounds Remaining.) (Fled!) 
 GoonShort - [6] Dead 
Stormvermin - [1]

Your Super-Pals-Combo finally brought him down.  Now it's just you, the rat, and the goon-girl.  What now, hero?
 

 
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 

It really hurt Taalai deep within her chest that Bella had had to...do  that . Why hadn't that silly girl waited at Cestie's home? Why hadn't she listened to her and  got behind her  when the fighting started! Instead she flailed her staff about, effectively yes - but that was the problem! The brute was done for, that much could be said, but the final blow had come from that sweet rural girl who would be back in the safety of her homely cottage were it not for Taalia's beckoning song of adventure and exploration.

But now...Bella had taken a life. It was in the heat of the moment, self-defence and completely justified, of course. But still. Taalia knew it changed a person, and she had not wanted Bella to have to face such a thing.

Her mind drawn back to the present, Taalia swallowed before asserting herself.

 "DAMNIT! Get the hell behind me! That's a Stormvermin, you fools!"  Taalia bellowed, this time deliberatingly moving to  place  herself between the insane, warrior elite of the Skaven and her two compatriots, including the badly injured Cestie.

 "Bella, see to Cestie!"  the Shepardess said, enclosing herself upon the remaining duel.
MrAbdiel
  
 Spoiler: OOC: 
Rat parry!  (1d100)[ 78 ] .  Otherwise... it's gonna dink off his armor.  Stormin' Norman ain't no joke!

Goongirl withdraws!
Cestie and Bella withdraw!

Rattacks!

  vs45  - (1d100)[ 34 ]  for  (1d10+5)[ 8 ] 
  vs45  - (1d100)[ 33 ]  for  (1d10+5)[ 13 ] 

Narrative Pending!

EDIT - that's an 8 damage hit to the left arm, and a 13 damage hit to the right!  Time to defend!
 


It is indeed the first life Bella has taken - despite it being one belonging to a man trying to kill her best friend.  She will have to consider such things later - for now, her adrenaline is up - and only your call to attend Cestié alerts her to how badly the man is wounded.  Accordingly, your best friend, and your oldest friend draw back a step from the combat - Bella wards Cestié with her staff, fearful an attack will come his way; the old man sets down his weapons and takes up the crossbow again, panting as he reaches for a reload from the small hip quiver he wears.

But now you have the Stormvermin's attention - and as you take it, the momentary sisterhood of humanity dissolves and the girl who had come to kill and rob you backs off and prepares to flee with her companions.  Now it's just you and the rat, trading blows.  And he's strong - terribly so.  Much stronger than the gutter runners whose blows you were catching on a borrowed shield in the tower in Verezzo.  As strong and skilled and deadly as any foe you've fought that wasn't the troll, and more armored and crazy than any you recall. 
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 

Finally they saw reason! Finally they did as they were damn well told!

Taalia gritted her teeth as Cestie and Bella sought shelter behind their towering protector. No sooner had they done so than that morning star impacted against the girls right shoudler, the concussive force doubtless to leave a nasty bruise as she sucked in wind through her teeth. A second, more terrible blow, that would have impacted her squarely on her upper right bicep/brachial region, was turned aside by the glimmering weapon Taalia held in that same hand.

Using the momentum of her pulled-back arm, Taalia slammed her shield forward, trying to knock the rat off balance, while bringing her sword up and over at a downwards stab against her shorter, but no less dangerous, opponent.

 &lt;"Die Stormvermin!"&gt;  she hissed in Queekish.
MrAbdiel
 Your sword squeals across the segmented plates of the ratman's armor; the finely forged tip raking off a pair of the scales and slashing the black fur beneath.  Yellowed, bloodshot eyes stare hatefully back at you.  He must understand the Queekish - he must.  He seems too insane to respond. But if he is mad, he has only fallen into a well of the normal malice these creatures possess; limitless spite for what is good in the world, hate for humanity, love of suffering.  He breaks from his momentum of combat to offer a spittle flecked bark past your shoulder to Cestié and Bella; a warning for them to stay of the combat. You have no doubt that if they joined, he would attack them, because they are obviously weaker than you.

Bella stands guard; Cestié reloads his crossbow; and the Stormvermin comes for you again.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
Stormin' Norman:

  vs45  - (1d100)[ 84 ]  for  (1d10+5)[ 9 ] 
and   vs45  - (1d100)[ 78 ]  for  (1d10+5)[ 14 ] .

He has taken 4 wounds.

Edit: The rain falls on the righteous and the wicked alike.  Double whiff.
 
 
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 


There was a time when the sight of one of the Black-furred Skaven warrior elite would have terrified the girl. She knew their reputation, all slaves who had survived for long enough did. They were the biggest, nastiest, meanest and most  skilled  of the ratmen. Sure, Clan Enshin had their shadow-cloaked assassins, but in an armored, toe-to-toe fight, the Stormvermin were known for their brutality and hatred that was mixed with their innate skill - few slaves displeased one of these spiteful creatures and lived to tell about it.

But, times change. Now into those yellowed, grotesque eyes, Taalia's own heterochromia orbs glared back to match every iota of hatred the ratman threw her way, and then some.

Taalia pressed herself forward, using her superior height and elevation to her advantage. The ratmans weapon was brutal and intimidating, but the shepardess could remember back to her lessons from the knight and her experience in the arena: it was a beating weapon, one that had to be swung about to cause damage. Hers? Despite the longswords length, she could draw it back and stab - and that's exactly what she did.
MrAbdiel
A decapitating strike skims off the shield, but you manage to find the same penetration in his armor you did the first time - and this time, the ratman squawks in dismay.  You are winning, inch by inch, moment by moment.  If you can keep away from that terrible, bone-breaking morning star, or atleast prevent it from hitting you full force like it did the goons preceding you, you might live comfortably to have rid the world of a rat man.

This, of course, does not deter him from trying his most furious best to kill you.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
Little narrative pending.

  vs45  - (1d100)[ 46 ]  for   vs45  - (1d10+5)[ 15 ] 
  vs45  - (1d100)[ 74 ]  for   vs45  - (1d10+5)[ 13 ] 

Cestié aims, and takes a shot.  +10, -20.

  vs23  - (1d100)[ 35 ]  for  (1d10+4)[ 7 ] 

He's just not as good of a shot as he used to be.  Much better in close.

*Gestures angrilly at those damage rolls*  Aw!  Aw, what a waste!  This is why rats usually swarm.  You're lucky this guy is a crazy loser outcast!
 


Cestié's bolt whizzes by, cautiously wide to avoid you but missing the rat, too.  Bella seems to think this is the best idea, and produces her bow as well.
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 


Taalia kept it up, able to see that her plan was slowly working, inch by inch, as she kept advancing step by step to back the Stormvermin into a corner where she could pin him behind his own shield, neutralise his swinging arm, and then stab him in his disgusting face.

Angling her shield this way and that, arching her shoulders to help glance blows off harmlessly or remove her body by just millimeters from danger, Taalia kept stabbing with her weapon, each squeal of pain from the vile ratman encouraging her with her strategy. Though rage was a wild fire in her eyes it had not yet moved to her brain to abdicate any reason or discipline. She wasn't dealing with some cowardly clanrat this time, this was a dangerous threat and she had to control herself, however hot her passions may run.
MrAbdiel
 You catch the skaven's eyes darting sidelong to Bella and Cestié - his diseased mind is deciding whether he has a moment to rush over and imperil your weak friends, but your blows continue to rain on him and prohibit the thought.  He is small for a black skaven, but not so small you can afford to not treat him as a remarkable threat; and with another of your blows finding its target, it seems the battle may be over sooner than later.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 

Cestié reloads; Bella shoots!
  vs30  - (1d100)[ 27 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 10 ] 
  vs45  - (1d100)[ 88 ]  for  (1d10+5)[ 15 ] 
and  (1d100)[ 98 ]  for  (1d10+5)[ 7 ] .

Narrative pending.

Edit: ... You know, she hit, but then I remembered the shield confers an additional -10... so she misses. hah!

But that's ANOTHER POTENTIAL FURY THAT MISSES YOUR GO I GUESS IT'S OKAY WHEN I GET MAD BUT NOT U
 


One of Bella's arrows clunks into the rat-man's shield; the impact forces a flinch in him that is costly to his attack posture; all you need to evade his blows and muster up a counter strike... 
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 


Taalia remained focused, her rage a well of power but not her master as she pressed forward, step by step. It was when those arrows  Thunk!  against the shield of the ratman and his eyes diverted for half a second that Taalia's nervous system exploited the 0.5 second opening.

She brought the pommel of her blade up in a punch against the Skavens helmet, the ratman deflecting away the worst of it - but exposing the soft underarm of the Stormvermin, an exposure that Taalia's blade whipped about and drove itself towards...
MrAbdiel
 He moves fast, somehow - despite the weight of the metal armor, the rat jukes aside from your blow that might have ruined his arm.  But it doesn't save him completely - the laceration shears deep and splashes dark red blood; and the withdraw of the blade snags and rips free a skeet of rusty mail links from within, leaving the arm more vulnerable still.  But now you're closing in on the end - another good blow, to the arm or elsewhere, and you might just have crippled him...

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 

The crit was Armor damage.  Lol!  Ah well.

Cestie's shot:   vs13  - (1d100)[ 64 ]  for  (1d10+4)[ 12 ] 
Bella's shot:   vs20  - (1d100)[ 100 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 7 ] 

Rattacks, the final stand:

  vs45  - (1d100)[ 71 ]  for  (1d10+5)[ 14 ] 
  vs45  - (1d100)[ 45 ]  for  (1d10+5)[ 7 ] 

Narrative pending!

EDIT: A bunch of whiffs, and a bink.
 


Another quarrel and arrow zip past; the flagging skaven making hissing, desperate strikes with the weapon in his weakened arm... to no avail. 
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 


Taalia grinned coldly at the rat as she bore down upon him; her greater height pressing down with her shield, slowly backing him into that corner; her weapon just stabbing in and out, refusing to yield as she kept at it, the Skavens black-dark-red blood splattering across the floor as the girl hissed through her teeth and drove her weapon in deeper to her hated foe...
MrAbdiel
  
 Spoiler: OOC: 
Cestie Reloads; Bella shoots.
  vs20  - (1d100)[ 32 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 5 ] 

Final Rat-down.
  vs45  - (1d100)[ 37 ]  for  (1d10+5)[ 8 ] 
  vs45  - (1d100)[ 51 ]  for  (1d10+5)[ 7 ] 

Narrative pending!
 


The worn-down Stormvermin's weak flailing is easier to dodge, now; the star cracks off your shield without even biting the wood deeply, and it heaves with blood-frothed-breath.  Another arrow zips by from Bella's bow; she knows she has few openings to actually shoot for injury, but contents herself with adding distraction to your opponent.

"Kill it, Taalia!  Kill it!"

An unnecessary encouragement from the girl; but at least she's staying back, now! 
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 

The Shepardess' compression of their position seemed to have worked; backing the rat away and against the wall where her greater height could pin him and remove his mobility. Sword pressed against the rat, its swings inhibited and clumsy, Taalia brought her sword up as if holding a spear over-head and repeatedly stabbed down into the creature, down against its neck and face  and collar, her lips snarling and her eyes glaring black death into the symbol of everything taken from her.

 &lt; "When you see the Great Horned Rat - tell it an ex-slave sent you!!" &gt; 
MrAbdiel
 The Blackfur steps, jukes, and tries to weave - but it's against the edge of the roof now.  The best it can do against the head-splitting, downward blow is tuck its head in - and the edge of your sword smashes the crest of the helm, which them falls in two rusty parts off his scalp.

He lets out a new sound, now; a pitiful warbling sound - what fear might make, if it was being eaten from the ankles up by hate... and tries his luck once more.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 

  vs13  - (1d100)[ 26 ]  for  (1d10+4)[ 7 ]  Maso
  vs20  - (1d100)[ 1 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 11 ]  Bella

Norman!
  vs45  - (1d100)[ 41 ]  for  (1d10+5)[ 6 ] 
  vs45  - (1d100)[ 54 ]  for  (1d10+5)[ 12 ] 
 
 
MrAbdiel
 ...But then loses the chance.  Bella's arrow slams into the side of his head - now exposed because of your de-helmeting - and lodges in the skull.  With a hiss, the skaven flops to the shingles infront of you... incredibly, still breathing, despite the arrow piercing its skull.  Its chest heaves with uneven breath; sleeping as you stand over it with your blade.  A peaceful respite before death - more than it deserves, by far.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
the Skaven is knocked out for  (1d10)[ 5 ]  minutes.
 
 
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 


The rat struck out again, but it was clearly on the backfoot as the taller human kept baring down upon him, her light and beautiful sword stabbing and slashing as she used her size advantage to constantly advance and put him on the back foot.

A slash -  Ting!  barely glancing off its shield. A stab - the ratman only just hauled himself out of the way in time to catch an arrow that impacted against his head. Though not penetrating, the concussive force of the connection against his helmet sent a reverberation through the skavens brain, as the black-furred stormvermin looked about dumbly for a second before collapsing over onto its side, barely breathing.

Wasting no time, Taalia darted to its side, her own shield discarded as she grabbed the Skavens helmet with one hand, the chin-strap allowing her to control the position of the things disgusting head. Exposing that neck, she brought  Daybreak  up and over in a glittering arc as  Squealch!  a fountain of black-red blood geysered out of that stump, leaving the Shepardess standing there, her chest heaving up and down, her eyes transfixed on that corpse, severed ratman head still in its helmet gripped in her left hand, bloodied blade in the other.

And she just stood there, staring. Staring. A childhood taken, twisted and left behind, a glazed fire across her eyes, as if the flames were only visible through meters of glass. There, but distant.
MrAbdiel
The smell.

It’s the  smell  that drags it all back.  That ratty smell; urine and musk and blood and filth.  Burning magnesium will always take you back to the Flicker-Tide festival.  Fine, perfect pastry will take you to hot bath in the Pigly.  Troll sh*t will take you to the shrine of Verena Triumphant.

And this smell will always take you back to a cramped cage, crammed with human misery in the darkness in the forgotten bowels of the world.

 “Taalia?  Taalia, are you alright? Did it get you at all?” 

Bella draws you out of the awful reverie.  She checks your wounds; you check hers; you check Cestie together.  Flesh wounds; some messier than others… but no one critical.

 “What a mess.” 

The speaker has snuck up on you; leaning against the chimney and watching as you and Bella pry the leather leggings off the backside of the brute hanging halfway out of the ceiling.  Middle aged, black haired; finely tended moustache… weapon less, except for a small knife on one hip.

 “I’ll guess it’s your lot that lit up that old smoke, not these swamp skimmers or the skaveni.  Haven’t used those in years, since the other gangs got wise.  What’s this, then?” 

Maso, bandaged and wincing but still upright, eyes the arrival over.   ”It was me.  Want to speak to whoever runs things here - wanna straighten some things out that happened last night before it gets out of hand.  I’m old bones; I got rights.” 

The newcomer puts it together.  His eyes widen at you.

 “Oh, hell.  Maso Cestie - and the Amazon of Montaglio street.  Yeah, okay.  Should have expected this.  Do I have to worry about you?” 

He asks you this, remarkably plainly - this plain, innocuous Weever scout.  He seems to be asking if you plan to do violence to his gang - if this is a ruse.  Oddly, despite the fact that only a fool would plan something like that and tell about it, he seems to fancy he can tell the truth either way from your answer.
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 


Taalia stared at an unusually long time at that corpse, her chest moving up and down in deep, drawn out breaths, those eyes focused and glazed over, the thousand yard stare signifying the girls mind was traveling back to places that no longer were. The smell, the stench, the vile, repugnant bilge this species brought into the world. One crazy outcast rat wasn't the end of the Skaven, but as just a token, some little piece of her life claimed back, it was enough. Drawing the head up and staring at it, an empty, borderline sociopathic look in the humans eyes as she considered that furred, disgusting face, Taalia didn't have any desire to toss it away. She'd seen these things mounted as markers along the waterways of the city - she knew that that was where this thing would go. A piece of her life reclaimed, and a warning to others: that was the ultimate purpose of this Skavens life.

It took an oddly long few moments for Bella to shake Taalia out of her trance-like state, but when she did, the Shepardess cleaned her sword off and tended first to Cestie, then to everything else. She saw to her own wounds, but they, thankfully were just purple bruises that would pass in a week or so. Bella, meanwhile, needed a bandage. But when the other voice emerged, Taalia whipped around in an instant,  Schlink!  her blade in hand.

It was one of the thieves.

Resisting her initial urge to just strike him down, Taalia stared with oddly cool eyes; surrounded by corpses as she was. Listening to Maso and him exchange words, Taalia just nodded, slowly drawing her sword back and sheathing it in her scabbard.

At his inquiry, Taalia just looked at him for a couple of seconds and then shook her head.
MrAbdiel
 The thief looks you over a little longer.  He gives Bella a cursory glance, but he has the measure of her quickly enough.  It's you he dwells on for twenty of so seconds.  You see his eyes dart to your sheathed sword, noting its superior quality; the decapitated skaven, the slain goons he calls 'swamp skimmers'. Finally back to your eyes, where he lofts his own eyebrows slightly.  It's the kind of look you can read - it says something like  'I see that you're a killer.  Just don't make a song and dance about it, and this will all go fine.' 

When Cestié presses for his hame, he the man identifies himself, truly or falsely, as 'Tico'.  That's the last question he asks as you follow Tico across a couple more rooftops.  Maso's mind is on the interaction to come - meeting his grandson for the first time, trying to find a way to extricate him from this gang and smooth the insult of their attack on the Cestié business and the loss of life they endured in the effort.  Bella is not so consumed.  She has fought for her life, has a new scar for the trouble, and wouldn't mind some answers, if she can get them.

 "Who were those men - that gang that attacked us?  Not Weevers?  I understood your people ran this whole district,"  the country seamstress probes.

 "Well, you have heard an exaggeration.  The Weevers exert considerable control over the subsidence here, but no one 'runs' it.  It's not a conflict with territories that can be conventionally held like that.  But we're strongest of the other options, here - the swamp skimmers only wish they could run us off." 
 "Why don't the town guards run you off?"  Another valid question from Bella.  Tico seems to be taking it as flattering that the young woman is so interested in asking.

 "Because there's an understanding based on an undesirable job we do, signorina.  We do out job, they give us a lot of slack." 
 "And what job is that?" 
 "We keep the swamp skimmers at bay.  They're not native to the city - they have families and clans out in the surrounding swamp beyond where they can be taxed.  They send raiding parties like this through tunnels and cracks to try their luck looking for good scav.  Scavenge, I mean." 
 "Why doesn't the city run them off, then?  Post guard towers and such, and then run you off?" 

Tico offers a hollow smile.   "The skimmers have their job, too." 

Bella doesn't ask more, as she gives up at the ominous trailing off of information'; but it's clear to you, anyway.  There is an ecosystem at play.  The Eastern District, sunken as it is, is a defensive liability for Miagliano.  The city tolerates the gang's sorties into the city proper to an extend because having them quartered in the Eastern District keeps out the less desirable swamp skimmers.  And keeping the swamp skimmers outside keeps them mostly out in the swamp - a buffer between the city, and the innumerable skaven beyond.  Better the hostile and insular swamp dwellers attract that portion of the rat's predations, leaving Miragliano to hunt a reduced remnant squeezing in despite all obstacles.  The question Bella might have asked after, 'why not drive the skaven out of the swamp', barely requires consideration.  It cannot be done - you imagine only briefly an armor of ten thousand proud Tilean mercenaries marching knee deep in diseased swamp water, hearing above the crickets and cicadas the spooling engines of some of the devices you were required to help create in Rashabang's workshop.  It is hard to imagine human armies prevailing in such conditions against such hordes.

...But then again, the largest battle you've witnessed was the one you participated in, against the pirates.  You don't actually... know anything about skaven warfare on the surface; with the exception of the legend of the battle described in the shrine you restored, and the 'Spear of Verena' destroying an army of the rat men at that ancient time.  Beyond such fanciful miracles, it defies the imagination.  What would humans do?  March blind into the tunnels where the rats live, going warren to warren fighting them in conditions that the rats were born to?  The bleak reality that these rats are a kind of foe that cannot be meaningfully 'hurt' hangs over you. But the black furred head handing from your belt is a small balm - you can hurt them individually, at least. That, you can do.

A little more traversal later, and you stand in what might have previously been some petty noble's dining room. It reminds you of the Trantio house with its decrepit condition, except the floor is tilted at a fifteen degree angle and the back wall is a gutter of smashed furniture and refuse.  Small chocks of wood are nailed into the slanted floor at intervals, giving your friends and these strangers places to stand that feel a little more secure than the slope itself.  Tico has brought you here to meet with his superiors, and your trio stands before them in the tilted room.  You, Cestié and Bella stand at the bottom of the slanted floor above the mess of broken furniture a few feet behind you.  Twenty feet up the slope, ten of the Weevers gaze down at you.  Three of them are older, like Tico; better armed, built with wiry muscle toned from climbing, swimming, running and fighting.  The other seven are various flavours of young goon like those you clashed withoutside the shop.  It all happened quite fast, but you don't recognize any of the faces here from that night - perhaps it is wise for them to have done so, if they are serious about hearing you out.

 "Maso Cestié."   The surprisingly deep voice from the elder thief in the middle of the assembly, lanky, and slightly taller than you - though rendered slightly shorter by a curve in his back from, you guess, a lot of hunkering and crawling - a fate you were avoided by spending so much of your growthspurt under Rashabang's high-ceilings.   "Old bones, eh?  Well. You left on good terms, so the notches say; and I've a man who's papa says he knew you.  Said you were good work.  Call me Ralphio." 
 "Grifone?"  Maso guesses.  The man nods.   "S'right.  That's the other old bones - good to have friends, innit?  So have it your way - you've  chevios  in the bank enough to buy a meeting like this, as long as you can keep your girl from bugging out and shooting someone.  Doubt we need to go into how that will end.  Right now, here's what I want.  You, signorina - time to speak up."   He gestures loosely at you.   "Give me your name; where you're from; business in Miragliano... and what happened, last night.  The way I heard it, you made it known you would tolerate no trespass and the weavers turned to walk away - and you thought it fair sport to shoot a man in the back.  So paint me a different picture.  And it ought to be...  Phenomenally Good ." 
 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
Ralphio in this scenario is played by the sonorous Ralph Ineson.
 
 
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 

Taalia followed along with a cautious attitude. She did  not  trust the thieves as far as she could throw them, but if Cestie was vouching for their...'reliability', such as it was, then that was good enough for her. For now.

Besides, one didn't go to the trouble of hauling a severed head of a Stormvermin across the roof-tops without being a teeny little bit unhinged, Taalia mused to herself silently.

When they entered into the dilapidated throne room, a rusting and decaying ornament that was almost symbolic for the pretentions of the head thieves who took court there, Taalia made sure to not the exits and number of opponents in the room. That skaven head hanging from her left-handed grip wasn't the only call-back to times gone by, as the girls instincts were still very much active in the back of her mind: this was a place of danger, measure the threat and figure out means of escape. That she had a reputation for violence here would be both beneficial and useful, that much was certain. Few hurled themselves into 6:1 odds and prevailed.

This Raphio, character, was another one entirely. He was one of only four men she had so far met that was either her height or taller, but his potential had been humbled by the environment of his upbringing. But that same development that had stunted him in one way, had sharpened him in others, as he looked at her with an almost amused look in his eye as he played the king of the court of thieves, and demanded that she reveal, identify and explain herself. That he was using a phrase she herself used meant that he had already been consulted by what had been the leader of the group, so Taalia reckoned that he had already made up 90% of his mind already, and now their fates depending on either making an example or saving face.

Taalia did not immediately answer. Once again, instincts long buried from her slave days were coaching her, reminding her of what happened to those in the slave pits who showed weakness to either their fellow slaves, or the Skaven: they didn't last long.

Allowing a few moments to pass, speaking on her own time, Taalia finally spoke with her smoky, sonorous voice.

 "My name is Taalia Giovanni, and I have no home. It was taken from me by Norscans and Ratmen...I am here accompanying Singore Cestie on our way to Altdorf." 
 "You'd like a different picture, Singore?"  she asked.

 "Six men come to your home in the dead of night, armed with knives and swords, carrying bags with which to carry off everything you own - your livelyhood. You're lucky to stop them at the door, who knows what they would do to you, your wife and your children, should they catch you all alseep. They, as you say, turn to walk away - but with mocking laughter. You know they'll be back. So..." 

Taalia trailed off, staring at Ralphio.

 "Do you know what a 'deterant' is? It is putting in the mind of your foe, the  fear  to attack." 

Taalia then held up the decapitated Skaven head in her left handed grip, the black-and-blood-splattered fur around the base, those yellowed, bloodshot eyes wide open and its tongue hanging out of the side of its rotten-fanged muzzle, all in one disgusting package.

 "The same reason we mount these ****ing things where the ratmen can see them." 
MrAbdiel
  "Deterrance?"  

The lanky Ralphio repeats.  If there was amusement in his tone before, it's all gone now.

 "Do you think it worked?  Are you here because you wanted to see how  deterred  I look?  If you feared reprisal from those admittedly armed folks who showed up at the door on Montaglio street, you thought they weren't deterred  enough  when walking away trying to save face for their incompetently loud burglary, that shooting and stabbing at them was going to make them so afraid of you that I wouldn't have to spend the next twelve hours restraining the survivors from showing up and throwing fire bombs through the bloody windows? Rats get deterred because they're cowards, Taalia Giovanni; and even then not for long.  Tileans don't get deterred; they get delayed.  They retreat like they have to and come back with a knife in their teeth." 

He exhales.  A little of the humor crawls back into his demeanor, and he looks at Cestié with an exasperated lift of his eyebrows.

 "These young ones.  All piss and vinegar.  Signorina Giovanni, if I had my men chase you out of here and in the process Maso or your young friend - what's your name, Signorina?" 
 "Bella-" 
 "If Bella got killed in that process, would you feel deterred?  Or would you not instead steel yourself, gather all your pride and violence, and decide, like the corn says to the stomach... 'I will not be deterred'?" 

He lets the rhetorical question hang in the air for a moment, before speaking up again.

 "Not to say the whole thing wasn't a c*ck-up.  It shouldn't have happened.  No one should have even been there.  Augusto's friends, trying to solve a problem a stupid way.  Godsdamned swamp skimmers; and stupid kids making it worse." 

However little he thinks of your rationale, Ralphio seems to appreciate your passion; and does not, in fact, seem particularly keen to issue reprisal executions for the killing of the thief.  He paints you a picture that illuminates the corners of what went wrong that night.

Augusto Cestié was captured in a skirmish with swamp skimmers.  The Weevers thought him dead until they received a barely legible ransom note demanding a truly stupefying amount of gold that proved the writers, even if literate, were not particularly numerate.  At this point, two things happened. Firstly, Ralphio reached out with his contacts to find someone capable of leading a small group to recover Augusto - someone with, as he calls it,  'the night eyes' .  And Augusto's callow young friends took it on themselves to try to make some big scores quickly to raise money - not to pay the ransom, but to hire some mercenaries from in the city to go out and get Augusto and bring him back, killing of the skimmers that got in their way.  The young thieves' plan was to start by burglarizing Augusto's family store, since the key to it was still among his possessions they had in their stash.  After that, a number of additional ambitious robberies would have happened - but you send them home after failing at the first hurdle, and with one less young fool to make their efforts.

 "Damn children.  The Tungusco clan of swamp skimmers base on the west side of river delta; right up against the deep swamp.  You won't find mercenaries willing to risk it; the skimmers will more than likely outmaneuver them.  Any rescue effort is happening tonight, under cover of dark so their scouts can't see it; by first light of morning, the ransom expires and it'll be too late.  But none of the bloody rat catchers want to lead a party through the dark - too much chance of encountering the skaveni in their own domain, they say." 

The story is about the most distressing one that could have been offered, for Maso.  His grandson is out in the west swamps at the mercy of strangers... strangers accustomed to living next to an impenetrable deep swamp full of skaven.

 "Then I'll go after him.  Tell me where the Tungusco clan is."   He offers with little hestiation.

Ralphio is reticent.   "Like hell you will, old bones.  I'll bet if I pull down your collar I'll see a fishbone tattoo.  If you get caught, there's no denying who sent you.  And at your age, I doubt you have the night eyes to navigate a swamp in the dark night without breaking your neck." 
 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
There you go.  Set you up for a nice dramatic pronouncement, if you want it.  Alley-oop!
 

 
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 

When Ralphio began his rebuttle, Taalia narrowed her heterochromia eyes. Glaring as she was, she went to speak, her mouth just opening before Cestie's elder hand gently moved over and lay prohibitively on her shoulder, a sign from him to her that he really, really wanted her to be quiet right now and not let that decisive, but impulsive temper of hers get them into further trouble. At this silent request, Taalia swivelled her eyes to view him, closed her lips and stepped back.

She then remained quiet, a coldness entering her eyes as she peered at the thieves leader.

He didn't think deterants worked? Well how about she moved up there and stabbed him through his che -

 "Then I'll go after him. Tell me where the Tungusco clan is." 

Taalia blinked as Maso spoke, turning her head to look at him. Her borderline sociopathic dead-stare vanished in an instant, replaced only with her more usual warmth and concerned affection as she shook her head once and put her hand around the elder Cestie's shoulders. She leaned in closely, all her cold fury and defiance gone as she looked and acted exactly like girls her age when faced with potential calamity.

  "Cestie, no!"   she implored, whispering gently.

  "Without you, this gang will forever pester your relatives, and Bella will be trapped here at their mercy. I know you love your grandson, but too many others rely on you!"   she beckoned, her voice strained, face alive with worry as she was half-way to hugging the elder that had guided her for years.
 
 "I will do it. You and Bella stay here. She needs you, your family needs you: you're the only thing keeping this gang of crooks from them!"   she continued, now fully hugging the elder tightly, her demeanor having completely shifted in the space of half a minute.

 "You need someone with night eyes? I'll go,"  Taalia stated, turning away from Cestie and facing the king of thieves, that cold visage back across her face, her blue-and-green eyes drained of their usual warmth.

Could this just be a charade to lure Taalia out with a group of Weavers, on her own, for them to exact some type of revenge? Possibly. But Taalia didn't see any other way out.
MrAbdiel
 Cestie is appalled at the notion you would lead an expedition to find and free Augusto in his stead.

He is also an old man, cut up from the fight with a fair bit of blood loss.

He hugs you back.  The strong old digits of his hands dig almost bruising it into your back with the tightness of the embrace.

   “Only if you’re going to come back.  Only if you come back.  We’re going to Nuln…”  

He sounds as old as you have ever heard him, in that moment.  Ralphio gives you a moment, then remarks, impressed:

  “If you think you’ve got the night eyes for it, signorina; if you’re sure.  I can’t send any experienced men with you - they’re all marked Weevers and I don’t want to start an enduring clan war if this goes sideways.  But I’ll send four with you - young punks who haven’t earned their marks yet who have a misdeed to atone for.  They’ll do what they’re told - and they know how to get to the right place to start looking.  Get Bella and Maso here back to safety and meet up outside the South Gate half past midnight.  I expect Augusto’s papa can tell you how to recognise the boy.” 

Ralphio’s men start clearing out at that point, climbing up through a hole in the roof.  As a parting word, he points at Cestie.

 ”Change those bandages when you get back to dry ground, old bones.  This swamp takes the unwary.” 
 
 Spoiler 
The die is cast.  Anything Taalia wants to do or get to prepare for her nocturnal mission?
 
 
MrAbdiel
 So that is that.  The return trip is quieter.  Bella watches over Cestié, who is practically vibrating with stress - the grandson he has never met in danger, the granddaughter he miraculously found himself acquiring toward the end of his life by the strangest means heading into that danger also.

You don't fail to swing by the stormvermin's fragrant retreat, on your way back.  You go in cautious, blunderbuss loaded and held high above the water, but aside from an eminently offensive smell, the awful hollow that was once someone's bedroom is safe for you to enter.  There is a nest of rags backed into one corner; a scattering of broken glass just as it rises out of the water designed for a blinder intruder to cut feet or atleast make a sound entering; and past that, a heap of refuse, broken wooden slats, and yes, a few items worth your time.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: An Assortment Of Loot 

You find:

• A two-handed military hammer engraved with a motif of hammers and anvils. It has an oilskin sling-strap.

• A wooden staff around which has been tied a string of wolf's teeth.

• A pair of embroidered leather shoes with a small tag bearing the seal of the town of Pfeildorf, home of the best tailors in the Empire.  They are dirty, but still in good condition.

• A rain-stained sheet of parchment inscribed with the name and address of a tavern,  Signore Pepito's , in the town of Rialto Mio.

• A grimy human skull with the name 'Magnus' inscribed into the forehead.

• A waxed rawhide case of butcher's knives and sharpening files.

• A tiny ivory statue of Shallya.

• A pewter ring etched with an oath of allegiance to the Empire.

• A leather case containing a musket-cleaning kit with muzzle rods, wire brushes, oils, chamois, fuses, flints and spare parts.

• An iron hand-torch with a fistful of charcoal in the cage.

• 23 shillings stuck to the bottom of a filthy rawhide pouch.  (Imperial shillings specifically, printed with a wreathed skull on one side a a scythe clutching skeletal rendition of what must be Morr on the other, beside the letters "A L T D O R F".)

• A few sheets of water-warped parchment.

• A deer-hide pouch branded with the image of Sigmar.

• A leather flask of whale oil.

• A Best Quality Fishing Net.  It has neatly smoothed lead weights on a large well constructed net and a stained but strong line that cinches in the drawstring.  There is a small carved wooden handle at the end of the casting line engraved with the words "Timely Blessings Come From Strange Places.  Thank you."

You may take or leave as much of that as you prefer.
 
 
MrAbdiel
  * * * * * 
 "Naphty raphs, 'teal me net!" 

Olio is excited as he says it this time, pointing with his good arm at the rat head hanging in the coif on your belt.  He shuffles closer a couple of steps and jabs out with a fingertip like he's going to poke it vengefully; but he shies back at the last moment.

 "Naphty raphs..." 

You change his bandages for him now that the bleeding has stopped, and return the net.  He is so pleased to have it back he spends a long minute running his hands over it and smiling the odd smile his facial deformity permits.

 "Got me net..." 

He shows it to the cats, who seem generally uninterested; but they will likely be interested in the fish it will produce later.  As a reward, he brings you back the only treasure he has to share - a sleepy, white furred kitten with orange ears and tail.  It makes one combative little pawing at the air infront of you before sagging slothfully in the mutant's gentle grip. 
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 

Taalia felt a warm glow within her as she presented the fishing net to the mutant, his oddly innocent and gentle nature endearing her to his person. Normally...she didn't like mutants, as odd as that may sound. The fear that they would spread their "condition" to those who came within contact or proximity to them was a terrifying ward that would keep many, including Taalia, away from them. Yet Olio had an oddly sweet and simple nature, his oddly benign nature setting her at ease and softening her demeanor to him.

When he looked as excited as he could be at having his net returned, Taalia couldn't help but smile. She'd done a selfless deed for one of the downtrodden in the world, and it felt nice. But when she was...'rewarded', her heterochromia eyes were open as she was gifted the  Meow! ing kitten, as  another  pet was granted into her care. The towering girl held the kitten up in one hand, inspecting and peering at the cute little thing with a mix of fascination and curiosity, before her smile indicated to Olio that she would do the best she could to give it as best a life a feline could hope for in this world.

 "Milo!"  she announced the kitty's name.

 oOo 
At the designated point, Taalia waited, eyes cold yet alert, armored and armed to the teeth as she was. She leaned back against the wall with her right foot flat against it, her mind wandering to the task ahead.

Venturing out into hostile territory and surrounded by 'companions' of questionable loyalty...it wasn't exactly her idea of a sound plan, nor a wise course of actions. But how else would it go? Cestie believed them in the insistence that his grand-son is being held by those bandit thugs, and it's not like anyone else in their group could be relied upon to try and get him back.

Taalia exhaled as she chewed softly on a toothpick and waited.

Time would tell.
MrAbdiel
 As you might have suspected, the evening's events require you to have an appreciation for irony.

Bella is surly at being left behind to mind Cestié and Milo, but she knows you don't back down and doesn't strongly challenge your demand.  You leave them at Grifone's house north east of town - getting the guards to let you out of the gate at night time is a losing proposition.

Later, when you meet the young Weevers who haven't been marked with their gang sign, they are indeed the same you encountered the night before.  Four of them - minus the one you killed, and the one you stabbed who must have ironically gained the night off to recover.

They are all younger than you - teenagers all.

Cesare is their nominal leader - or atleast, the one who speaks to you most.  Like all of them, he is skinning and long limbed, though an aquiline nose gives him an air of physiognomic authority that he tries to live into.  The other two boys, who look like twins but tell you they are not, are Gianni and Rafaello.  The girl is Elda; and she hates you.  She hates you, based on her eyes, almost as much as you hate skaven.

 "Here.  Put this on."   Cesare hands you a tabard; dark grey linen with a sewn on patch in the shape of a rat skull.   "Old mercenary outfit; the Ratspikers.  Gone now.  But if we get in a fight with the skimmers and run, or they find one of us, they won't think much past it.  Not that we plan to get caught.  We've a long walk.  We have to circle around to our hidden barge and cross the oak waters.  So if you have any choice words - about how we shouldn't have messed with you, or you plan to kill us after we've saved Augusto, you might as well.  We've got the time for it."  
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 


Taalia couldn't fully give Bella the attention she not only deserved, but  needed  right now. In honesty, the raven-curly-haired Tilean girl was the closest Taalia had to anyone in the world. Gaulfredo and Arianna were her adoptive parents with whom she had shared many personal issues and situations, but Bella was the one into which Taalia had trust the most private thoughts. Thus, the shepardess knew her very well; she knew how she thought,  what  she thought and could predict both of such when confronted by new stimuli to a relatively certain degree. And in that estimation was what Taalia thought taking a life would have on the girl. It was in self-defence, heat of the moment and had been completely justifiable...but even still, Taalia knew such a thing did not easily depart the mind of decent people, and Bella was more than such. The shepardess very much wanted to just cook some gnocci with her, sing some of their favourite songs and enjoy a bottle of wine while she coaxed out of her bestie her inner-most thoughts to help sooth them, so that she did not...become a little funny.

However, when the gang arrived, Taalia pursed an eyebrow. Normally it was  she  who felt like the kid among a group, as she wasn't even out of her teenage years. Yet here was this canting cotorie, each 3 or so years younger than she was, thus making Taalia "the adult". Even when she was back on her own farm, the girl had never felt like 'the adult' in a situation, despite ordering about her trouble maker boys. But this was different. These were the kids the gang was entrusting the safe return of Cestie's grandson? It spoke to their belief in the likelihood of their chances.

 "Here. Put this on. Old mercenary outfit; the Ratspikers. Gone now. But if we get in a fight with the skimmers and run, or they find one of us, they won't think much past it. Not that we plan to get caught. We've a long walk. We have to circle around to our hidden barge and cross the oak waters. So if you have any choice words - about how we shouldn't have messed with you, or you plan to kill us after we've saved Augusto, you might as well. We've got the time for it." 

Taalia received the tabard and considered it. The image was...it wasn't her style, really. Though given the purpose of the unit - ratcatchers apparently - it was suitable. Still, Taalia visibly pondered it before drawing it up to sleek down over her head and shoulders.

Meanwhile, the boys seemed iffy on her presence, while the girl, Elda as she was called, carried utter hatred in her eyes - and made no attempt to hide it. To this visible contempt, Taalia returned the stare, only hers was more apathetic and cold.

 "Nothing will unring that bell,"  Taalia stated quietly, her words almost specifically for Elda as much as they were the group at large.

 "We retrieve Augusto and we do so without more scars to our skin, and I'll be happy. You can find some other pursuit in life, and I recommend you do. But I have nothing to gain from inflicting any harm on any of you." 
MrAbdiel
 Of your four 'companions', only Cesare has much to say to you.  He seems not to have taken the altercation outside the Cestiés' shop personally, at least.  Or perhaps he recognizes how dangerous this mission is, and how foolish it would be to alienate you, since your sight will be responsible for their safety in the dark evening in which only a narrow crescent of the white moon lights up a cloudy sky.  You have to circle the city and do so from far enough out that the torches on the walls to not highlight your suspicious group skulking about; that would invite reprisals from the city, which would be less than ideal.  It's overland hustle over lumpy ground, and following in your steps the thieves behind you don't break their ankles.  Eventually, you come to what the locals call the Oak Waters - strictly the delta of the river Trino.  But not quite a river in essense, but a river-wide brackish swamp delta that joins the city's moat and canals to the waters of the Blighted Swamp on the other side.  A single, huge, dead oak tree towers over a barge station where a guild of boatmen make honest money carrying men and goods back and forth from the banks, weaving through  heaping islands of mud and muck that vary based on the tide.  But this is the honest part, and that is done only within daylike hours.  Your destination is upstream; a smaller, less impressive and much more innocuous jerry with two modest rafts and their operators keeping each other company by a small fire in the evening cool.  Your companions seem to know them; some silver changes hands, and you load on to one of the rafts with a dim lantern leading the way, to be poled across to the other side.

From the other side, you strike out west.  The land raises up  somewhat, enough to support a road that leads to the closed and fortified northwest gate to Miragliano.  This, you give a wide berth.  Massive watchfires burn on its walls; and great polished steel mirrors swivel on mounted hinges behind those fires, casting  great beams of light over the moonlit landscape.  The contraption involved in directing the light where it needs to go looks somewhat technical, but is ingenious; you've never seen anything like it in the other cities of Tilea.  Such is the marvel of Miragliano - on the edge of innovation, one the banks of hell.  And toward hell you go, descending down the other side of that raised road slope and into marshier ground where the thieves in their dishonest tabards need your guidance the most.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: It's rollin' time. 
Technically this is a new day; so you may have your FP back.

If you would like to put some effort into defusing the hostility some of the thieves feel toward you, give me a charm roll.  +0%.

On top of that, I'd like a Visual perception test, at +0% difficulty also.

And then a Silent Move test.  If you pass the perception test above, it's +20%.  Otherwise, it's +0%.

Finally, just for kicks, a +0% hearing perception test.
 
 
MrAbdiel
 Ultimately, these are scared kids who are trying to be tough in a tough world.  This is something you understand; and you defrost their displeasure with you over the journey with small words, honest answers, and sincere questions.  Cesare, Gianni and Rafaello seem reasonably warmed to you by the time you cross the Oak Waters.  Nothing will move Elda, probably; but without anyone willing to entertain her spiteful grief, she is forced to contain it.

Your night-eyes help the group avoid a number of hazards; deep pools, snarling roots and as you enter swamp skimmer territory, a few rope-based snare traps.  There is enough moon and starlight your companions can follow you, but they certainly would have run afoul of these things without you.  Eventually, you come to dry lump of earth where the first of a number of braziers you can see in the distance burns nose-stinging oil smoke.  A pair of genuinely filthy humans are there, talking to each other by the warmth of it.  They are clad in stitched rags and woven reeds, with matted hair and clumsy Tilean.

 "It comin' uppa, say sure, ye."
"Ye, it comin' uppa.  Poor lil' fish don hanged out been; not see much ransom, ye."
"Not see, nay; moon too high, figure.  Go'n now an tella that boy what is be, let him make him peace with Morr, least can-do, ye."
"Ye.  Least Garnon be pleased."
"Ye." 

You and your companions are close enough for your excellent ears to overhear this conversation, before the younger of the pair of skimmers peels away and wanders off from the other who remains by the brazier.  You almost slip away without alerting the lone sentry remaining - but the mud beneath your heel makes an unfortunate sucking pop that causes him to look over his shoulder in surprise, and pick our your dark shapes.  He is too stunned to gasp.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
You're a move action away from this guy, but you can act while he's surprised.
 If your initiative beats a  (1d10+2)[ 9 ] , you can act again after that first move and (probably) attack, before he can respond at all.
 
 
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 

Taalia moved through the swamp with the others, gradually forming a symbiotic relationship with them. It felt odd to be the 'oldest' in a group, as she herself was used to being the kid, the youth, the juve, the one who looked to the elders for support and assistance. But now, she wasn't even 20 years old yet these kids were looking to her to, if not guide them, at least point out the pitfalls so that they could navigate them on their way to the Weavers hide-out.

On her way, Taalia had offered a few words here, some chit-chat there. They weren't grizzled veterans set in their ways. A benefit and pitfall of their youth was impressionability, and so far their initial dislike of her seemed to be wearing off. Taalia had employed those trouble maker boys for two years, she knew how young men behaved, acted and thought; she was able to tailor her words and draw up conversations and lines of dialogue that dissolved their spite and got them snickering or laughing gently.

Obviously, such a tactic didn't work on Elda, even with her emotionally reinforced hatred for the towering, white-haired outsider.

But when they approached that camp, Taalia did her best to stay hidden - but alas, t'was not to be. Her night time sight picked out traps and snares, sparing and preserving their lives, had carried them to this moment, but at the last second the sentry became aware of their presence.

Her sword already in hand, Taalia wasted no time in charging, knowing at least the most nearby of her companions would likely do the same, hoping to stab and dragging the sentry down into the muck with her other hand over his mouth to muffle and scream and hide their presence....
MrAbdiel
 Stunned at your sudden arrival, the lookout gives a grunt of shock as you rush him.  He raises his arm to defend himself, but your blade punches through his forearm, into his chest and heart; and as the light flees his eyes you drag him back a few steps into the reedy slush of the marsh.  The young Weevers are going for their weapons, preparing for the situation to 'go loud'; but when your swift efforts, they sheathe their knives and their esteem for you grows.

Cesare even vocalizes it.   "Good.  That chainmail makes you clumsier, but at least you can back up the difference.  Let's follow the other one." 

Shadowing the swamp-skimmer, you trek away from the firelights; south along the swamp's rim, but further from the land of the particular swamp-dwelling clan you have come to seek.  It seems where they have elected to keep Augusto is not within their camp proper - perhaps wise, to prevent a direct rescue.  Your night-eyes are important here, and with them you avoid having to follow so close you are heard and falling into hazards on the way.  Eventually the skimmer leads you to a sort of elevated cave; it is above the level of the swamp by a few inches, so the mud tapers off to the stone cavemouth that leads into the inside of a rocky hillock.

The skimmer takes and lights a lantern as he goes inside; and you can see just inside the cavemouth the scene it illuminates: a young man bound with ropes to a natural pillar of stone, slouching and battered, as the skimmer approaches with an indiscernible conversational jabber.  The swamp skimmer hasn't produced a weapon yet; pausing to do perhaps exactly what he was asked to do: give the captive a chance to make peace with his gods.

 "There he is,"  Cesare confirms.   "That's Augusto.  They've worked him over badly.  I thought he'd be closer to the skimmer camp, but I guess that's the point.  If we can get him out, we can dash east back towards the towers on the wall.  They'll fire on skimmers, but not tabarded men.  With the morning light oncoming, we'll be in the clear." 

But west of you, deeper within the swamp toward the skimmer camp, the is a slow swelling clamour and shout.  Perhaps they have found the dead man - but striking before dawn is not soley the province of stealthy bands like yours.  Perhaps the clans fight among themselves, for your benefit.  But your instincts tell you that, by the knife in the belt of the skimmer you followed, or by whatever is happening back in the camp, your window for action is narrowing.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
Time for action.  You can:

1. Take your time and sneak up.  This requires no roll, but will cost  time , which may or may not mean something.
2. Hurry and sneak up.  This requires a challenging Silent Move roll, but you will be able to attack the unaware man at the end if you succeed; or else he will be aware.
3. Hurry and charge.  This requires no roll; but the man will hear you coming and have a chance to act briefly before you arrive.  The thieves will fire their slings as you close; they may even take him out, but it's not at all as promising as a melee attack on an unaware opponent.
 
 
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 


It was a nasty little job, but it had to be done. She just needed to remind herself: these weren't some doe-eyed innocents out for a walk. These were extortionist, murderous gangsters that had kidnapped the equivilent to her adoptive grand-fathers grand-son...almost her brother! Well not quite, obviously, but that familial tree was compelling, even if it did rest upon pure sentimentality and gratitude.

Her gloved hand over the mans mouth, she dragged him back into the thickets where she dumped his body behind a tree and continued with her compatriots. Here is where her night-eyes really helped, as she was able to be up front and lead them through the reedy swamp-land just outside the illuminated periphery of the sentinels emplaced torches. Following the perimeter of the camp for a little longer, their movement taking them up to a cave, the group descended inside and came to witness the object of their task: Augusto Cestie, tied up, exhausted and clearly beaten. Taalia pursed her lips, hoping she could bring some good news to Maso Cestie later on, before she started pondering  how  to make that good news happen.

Then the shouting came from the camp.

Had they found the body? Or were they just getting drunk and enjoying themselves? It was hard to tell, but it installed a sense of urgency within the girl as she considered the lone current barrier between herself and her rescue target: a single guard.

Exhaling, pursing her lips, she looked over her shoulders at her companions as she silently drew up her right hand and made a circular motion, then gestured as if letting go - a sling. She pointed to them, as she silently withdrew her sword, picked up a rock, turned back to the guard, aimed, and hurled it quietly over his head where it impacted upon the swampy-cave floor on the opposite side of their locaiton.

He looked. Her chance. She approached quietly, taking best advantage of the distraction to approach him from behind -  Daybreak  drawn back and shoved forth for a stabbing motion that caught him in the back of the head.
MrAbdiel
 The swamp dweller hears the scuff of your boots, but too late.  As he is turning, a hail of slingstones zip through the air, and he yelps and covers up with his right arm defensively.  They are hard, painful blows on their own and he drops the knife he had half managed to draw; but then  Daybreak  spears out and punches through his palm and scores his chest behind.  When you withdraw the blade from the strike, the torque of your wrist carves up the veins and ligaments in his palm and crimson core pumps from his hand in great splashes.  He will die soon, certainly; but for now, he puts up no defense, instead falling to the ground and holding his arm to himself, groaning and grunting.

His pained, horrified face looks up at you looming over him, and he raises his uncarved hand slightly.  It's a warding gesture, begging your mercy... but something else in it, too.  He is not screaming out for help, however far his allies might be, as a man about to die usually might try.  Indeed, he is cringing in his suffering holding himself back from such a naturally reaction.

This close, you can see Augusto.  He seems groggy; dehydrated, battered.  You see no resemblance particularly to Biagio... but then, there wouldn't be; and that family does not seem to place much of a premium on such things.  Gagged, the young man's dark and puffy eyes watch you as you stand over his captor, with the power of life and death for both in your hands.  Cesare and Elda are hustling up to join you, while the remaining lads watch from the lip of the cavemouth.

Like the thief from the night before, this swamp-dweller will bleed out shortly without intervention.  Perhaps sooner than that, one of the thieves will likely end his life more directly.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
Mercy, or pragmatic justice?  Which way, Wasteland girl?
 
 
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 

It was easy to be ruthless in the heat of the moment. Someone steps to you trying to do you bodily harm and you respond in kind. Simple, quick, over. The shepardess was under no illusion that this sentry was some 'good' guy. Maybe he was, however doubtful, and his actions had been preserved from the usual shadowy cruelty of his gang of thugs, relegated to less violent courses of action. Maybe. Doubtful, but maybe. But as he lay dying there, the blood coughing up from his throat and splattering down one side of his face as he stared up at Taalia's towering image that loomed above him,  something  about that crimson-stained hand reaching out for her, at first warding against further action but then almost as if to anchor himself so that the specter of death could not seize his spirit and take him to whatever judgement awaited him in the afterlife.

She had heard that near-death-experiences could change people. And from what she could see - this was about as near-death as it got.

Pursing her lips, wanting to tend first to Augusto, Taalia tried to turn away but some unseen force stayed her and forced her confrontation with the bleeding and dying sentry at her feet. Tilting her head, clenching her lips together, the girl hissed in breath briefly before gesturing for the others to see to the prisoner they had come to rescue.

 "Untie him!"  she gestured to Augusto, as she knelt down next to the fallen sentry, slung her backpack around to access its contents and then go to work.

Once she was finished, the shepardess would peer at him for a long second.

 "You got a second chance. Don't waste it with this lot,"  she gestured to the camp, before standing and seeing to Augusto and the crew.
MrAbdiel
 The swamp skimmer is speechless as you take and bind his hand; Morr's tithe unsettled for a little longer as you contain the bleeding.  There is a chance he will lose the hand later anyway; but perhaps not his life.

Cesare rushes to cut Augusto's ropes, and the boy almost collapses if not for his friend holding him up.

Elda is coming up on you with her dagger out.  For a moment you think she's taking her moment to strike, but she is angling to finish off the skimmer until she sees what you are doing.  She splutters.

 "What are you - stop that, he's a bloody skimmer!  Let him die!"   She barks, with utter conviction.

The skimmer flinches at the shout, cringing again.  He looks to you as the one with whom he thinks he can reason, and holds a finger to his lips.  He is urging quiet.  But it comes too late.

 "Shut up, Elda - quit whining and help me with Augusto, he can barely stand.  We'll need to brace him."   Bitterly, she prepares a rejoinder, but does not find time to say it.  Just as you are finishing the bandage on your injured enemy's hand, the  smell  crashes into your senses again.  Not the swamp smell; the smell you remember vividly from the cave on the road south of Bella Collina, into which you forayed starving and rag-garbed seeking shelter, and finding only filth, and a monster.

  "Bahz nuuuuu? Nu kaaaah?"  

A massive, gravelly throat slurs the words with soporific weight; roused recently it seems from around the blind bend of the cave's deeper innards. You can hear it shuffling now, almost at the bend after which it will spot you and the others.  The fact that the smell reached you before the sound is an indictment that this is just a foul of a beast as the one you fought before.

That one, you fought with a team of archers, and dogs, and loyal brave horsemen running distraction.  Beside you now are five kids, one too wounded to walk on his own, and a battered and crippled swamp dweller.  The cave corner is maybe thirty yards deep from you; and its denizen is about to emerge.  Cesare and Elda, with Augusto loosely upright with an arm over each of their shoulders, look to you in horror for a miracle.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
No need to roll initiative.

You go.  All the thieves and the skimmer goes.  Then the troll goes.  On his turn, the troll's about to round the corner.
 
 
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 


Taalia's back stiffened for a second as an all-too familiar scent reached her nostrils - an odiferous melange that had long burned into her brain and would remain within recollection until the day she died.

 Troll .

The girls eyes widened, her mouth gaping open a little.

 "Hide!"  she hissed to the thieves, gesturing her hand to the thickets surrounding them. Remembering how she managed to evade the last one and rescue her ram,  Hermes  and a ewe from the beast, Taalia reached over and plucked one of the lit torches that lined the pathway to this apparent sacrificial area, turned and hurled it towards that cave entrance.

Wasting no time as her heart slammed against her rib-cage, the girl reached down and grabbed the injured Weaver by the collar and roughly dragged him towards the thicket, getting as far and deep into those as she could until she could tell the troll had emerged. She knew the things weakness: they were beyond stupid. That fire should catch its attention for long enough to allow the group to disappear into the thicket where they had the best chance to lose it behind them.
MrAbdiel
  You almost drag your spared swamp-skimmer as you and the thieves, themselves not happy to have that prisoner with them but more focused on the desperate imperative you gave them.  You see it as it emerges - as huge and ugly as the one you killed, though with some variation; smaller ears on this one; and the nose is not a bulbous knob but a flat, batlike snout on the front of its head with not one but four great flaring nostrils. You see it over your shoulder as you and the others hide.  It does not see you - because, as you had hoped, its attention is first on the torch spluttering away at the entrance to its cave.  It puzzles over it for a long second before looking up - to the reeds where you and your companions hide; then down to the bloodsplash where you bound the man's hand; then the pillar which, it seems to recognize, is normally associated with its interests.  It gives the stone, and the cut ropes on the ground with it, a generous series of sniffs; even eating a handful of the severed cords.

The troll you saw before was not fixated on smell.  Perhaps, being a 'river troll', it was adapted to lying in wait in water, where smell is less relevant.  But this 'swamp troll' seems much more olfactorilly concerned...

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
Between your previous troll encounter, and having successfully distracted it to establish a bit of distance and hide, I'm going to say that you don't need to make a fear check.  Neither does the skimmer, who knew this danger already; he's afraid, bit not paralyzed by it.  He would be very happy to get away.  And Augusto is barely concious, so it's much of a muchness to him.

But the thieves not so much...

  Vs31EldaFear  - (1d100)[ 81 ] 
  Vs37CesareFear  - (1d100)[ 13 ] 
  Vs31GianniFear  - (1d100)[ 12 ] 
  Vs31RafaelloFear  - (1d100)[ 38 ] 

Narrative pending.
 
 

Cesare's eyes widen, but his hand instictively goes to his sling, and he loads a lead sling bullet into it quietly.  Gianni, one of the not-twins, sees the example and compies it.  But Rafaello is locked in an eyes wide paroxysm of alarm; and Elda  almost  screams at the sight of the troll and all its presence implies, managing at the last moment to still her vocal cords so the sound is a quarillous sigh of horror instead.  Witless as those two are, they won't be going anywhere until they get a grip.  Augusto, hangong on Rafaello and Gianni's shoulders, quietly slurs...
 
"...What's... Who..." 
 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
Your turn.  Trying to snap someone else out of fear is a command roll, which, if successful, allows your fellowship bonus in people to retake the test.  Alternative, more heroic displays might permit this to happen with a bonus; but heroism of course has its downsides.
 
 
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 

Taalia hoped she would never have to see such a disgusting, vile creature again - but at the back of her mind, she knew that more of them were out there. It seemed only a matter of time until their paths crossed. But...given how few people ever encountered one of these grotesque abominations in the entirety of their lives, the fact that Taalia would meet  two  of the things, and hopefully live to tell the tale, was truly a coveted defiance of the odds...

Seeing that her fire-trick was working for now, Taalia put her long, strong legs to use and helped to drag her injured charge into that thicket, her tall figure ducking into that reedy protection. She knew she couldn't fight the troll, none of them could - not these close! Even with both her guns if she even somehow managed to land both hits, she remembered how much punishment the last one required before collapsing for good...and even then, they had to set to its fallen body with pitch and fire to ensure the thing remained down.

But...unlike Taalia, this was the first rodeo of two of the Weavers, one of the not-brothers and Eldar, whose loud voice had arguably stirred the creature.

The survivalist within Taalia told her to just continue, to drag the downed guard to safety, tell him to shut up, then make off with Augusto. But...

What to do?! She couldn't use her guns - that would attract the attention of the camp! And were they aware already? Were they not? What were they shouting about?

She couldn't attack the thing, that would be suicide! She wouldn't last 5 seconds in melee against that thing, even with how far she'd come.

Plus, their main priority was getting Augusto out of here. She'd rather not just abandon the Weaver to such a grotesque fate, especially after just possibly buying his mentality a second chance...

Whatever it was that she was going to do, she had to act fast. The Troll was still lost in the hypnotic flame of that burning torch, but she knew it wouldn't last forever.

Her hand still around the collar of the Weaver, she reached out with her other hand to grab the collar of Rafaello for the sole reason that he had Augusto around his shoulders - the five of them making a weird looking, huddled creature as Taalia yanked to shake the boy out of his fear.

 "Psst! Elda!"  the shepardess hissed sharply, gesturing with her forehead to the girl in the hope one of the conscious boys would be able to see what she was getting at and yank the other girl into the present.

The shepardess did her best to ferry them away, using the valuable time they had to disappear into that marsh while they could.
MrAbdiel
 The troll sniffs, sniffs again; sniffs the torch and recoils; sniffs the pillar to which Augusto was tied; and then steps out onto the moist ground.  It animates with an almost canine excitement; sets of five or six big steps, and then it sniffs the air again; another five or six, then adjusts it direction slightly.  In these first few movements, it moves closer to the reeds where you hide; then laterally away; then back toward you again.  It is  tracking.   Probably, tracking the scent of Augusto, infused into the stone where he has been tethered for days.

Some combination of your insistent voice and the troll's motion snaps Elda from her fugue.  Her rage against you has vanished now; all mankind are brothers and sisters in the shadows of such monsters. She gives Rafaello a shove, but the lad is frozen; his numb legs slip from under his crouch and he and Augusto sprawl with a minimum of racket.  The troll doesn't seem to have heard it, but Rafaello's insensibility reads immediately to all of you as the problem it is - remaining where you are even a moment longer runs a real risk of all of you being caught with the monster.  It is costing you seconds you may not have.

She looks at Cesare, who reads her immediately with the wordless instinct of kids who have grown up together.  He hisses at once:

 "Don't-" 

But it's too late.  She bounds to her feet and bolts out of the brush toward the troll and off to one side.  The intuitive plan is simple - I'll distract it, you get away.

But the young thieves have foolishness or courage in measure to their loyalty to each other, and Cesare and Gianni stand up, launching their sling bullets at the troll.  Perhaps they don't know what you know - that without a great deal of fire, or an overwhelming barrage of damage, the troll is unlikely to suffer damage faster than it heals it.  But they do not see inclined to leave each other behind.  Dooming as it might be, it is in some ways admirable.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
Attacks!

Cesare   vs35  - (1d100)[ 37 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 13 ] 
Gianni   vs35  - (1d100)[ 73 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 5 ] 
 Narrative pending. 
 


With your night eyes, you can track the passage of the bullet. The troll is visible enough - eternally sweaty, slimy and damp as it is, it is glimmering with a firelight outline from the torch you tossed down.  But you alone see Cesare's sling bullet crack it in the side of the head and sink in through the skull.  It's probably more luck than skill, but the lead pellet must be partially lodged in the troll's brain.  It bellows and staggers and claws at its own head; black blood leaks out the hole down its side.  Then it maps all its pain and frustration on to the form of Elda dashing to its side, and bounds after her at full pelt, closing the gap between them almost immediately!

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
The troll runs, and next turn will certainly be able to attack Elda.  It has taken... an astonishing 22 wounds from that shot.  You're up!
 
 
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 


And just like that, things went to hell. Stealth was out of the question now, the bellowing, roaring troll saw to that. Black blood spilled from the side of its head as that incredibly lucky lead bullet penetrated the thick skull of the beast, as its huge, moss-coated bulk drew itself up to pursue Elda with murderous frenzy.

In an almost de javu moment, Taalia saw Bella in Eldar, the wounded troll before her and her own actions as the only thing standing between a colleague from staying on this side of the grave.

Reaching to her holsters, Taalia drew up her first pistol -  Crack! 

Swift as quicksilver she was withdrawing her other one -  Crack! 
 Should the beast fall... 
 
 Spoiler 

Her heart beating against her ribcage, Taalia's eyes would widened as she watched the troll collapse over, a large chunk of flesh torn from its body where one of her shots impacted.

Wasting no time, the shepardess darted over, drawing her sword out along the way to hack the ugly things head off.
 
MrAbdiel
 The first bullet zips by, not quite connecting with the beast and sailing off into the night - but the second shot corrects for the first and the bullet thwips neatly through the filthy loincloth and into the vitals behind.  The troll makes pained yawp and takes a knee for a moment, drooling and shivering.

 "Rafaello!  Rafaello, snap out of it!  Come on, we need you!"   Cesare slaps the stunned theif across the face, but he keeps on blinking, stupified.  Gianni decides to get moving - with Augusto leaning on him, they break from cover and start hustling east towards the ridge of the hillock into which the troll's cave is formed; and back toward Miragliano, now feeling so far away.

 "Come on!  Hey!  Come on!"   Elda shouts at the troll, standing a few paces back and waving her little daggers at it, trying to keep its focus.  Tears stream down her face as she does, battling her own fears and griefs and the possibility that she might die in the next few moments...

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
The troll is groinshot, an misses its action this turn.

Then it regenerates  (1d10)[ 6 ]  wounds.  Narrative pending.
 


...And then it stands up... and looms over her, and begins rolling its shoulders and hacking like a dog preparing to cough up its lunch...

It's at this point that two figures trade presense in the scene.  The swamp skimmer whose life you almost took, but then saved, makes a panting dash west for his village.  And another finger - familiar curling dark hair and capped quarterstaff in hand, as if summoned by your imagination of her -
 cuts from the darkness and makes the dash toward you.  Bella's face is a mask of determination freezing out fear - she is somewhat bedraggled from following you through the dark; but did not do so only to let you confront another troll without adding what little she can to your defence.  Just as in the haunted manor, here she is - as interested in looking out for you, as you are for her, and not to be dissuaded just because you're the stronger.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
It's still kickin'.  Just!  But it did miss this turn.

Bella joins the combat.  If you want, you can spend your action shouting at her in disbeleif.  Her following you, incidentally, was what you missed when you failed that perception (listening) roll, before!
 
 
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 


Taalia hated trolls. She  really  hated Trolls. The survivalist within her was screaming at her to get Augusto and get the hell out of there! And she might of...until Bella arrived.

Like a mother seeing her infant straying into dangers way, Taalia's eyes widened when she spotted the raven-haired girl. She could've hit her right there; walked over to her and  whack!  with the back of her hand. If it wasn't the haunted house, it was the sunken city and now... this ! The deja vu never ended, only now Taalia cared  deeply  about the girl, as frustratingly stubborn as she appeared to be.

Sucking in wind through her teeth, Taalia knew there was only one course of action - the one she had  hoped  would not come to it.

She withdrew her blade and charged.
MrAbdiel
 You race into the melee, and swing  Daybreak  along the troll's back.  It skin splits under the keen elven steel, even if the wound is pulling closed moments after it is made in disheartening swiftness.  Then come the sling bullet flies from Cesare...

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
35 BS; -20 for friends in melee.

  vs15  - (1d100)[ 34 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 4 ] .

Gianni sees the fight is being commited, sets Augusto down, aims.

  vs40  - (1d100)[ 42 ]  for  (1d10)[ 1 ]  dagger damage from Elda.

  vs71  - (1d100)[ 88 ]  for  (1d10-1)[ 5 ]  damage from an improvised weapon.  She is prepared to use her blessing of Myrmidia to hit, if she needs do.

Narrative pending.  Possible troll attack pending.
 
 
MrAbdiel
 ...Which zips by, close but not close enough as the troll recovers itself.  Elda plucks up her courage and darts in to stab with one of her daggers, but the tiny puncture is almost comically small for the monster's notice.

It's Bella, shouting with the effort, who manages some kind of impact at all.  The bottle of grappa smashes against the side of the troll's skull; the glass shards stick, but more importantly, the high proof alcohol dribbles down its body.

All this; and then finally it completes its effort - heaving up a tremendous jet of high pressure, rank-smelling, frighteningly corrosive stomach acid at the furious and fearful and foolish Elda who tempted its wrath...

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
Troll is down to 3 wounds.  It takes 1 from Bella (who uses her Blessing of Myrmidia to hit!), down to 2.  Then it recovers  (1d10)[ 2 ] .  Back up to 4.

 Then it pukes at Elda for 1d10+5 damage.  Unless she dodges -   vs35  - (1d100)[ 19 ] .

Edit:... That lucky little-...
 


...But the girl has the instinct to hurl herself to the side before she can be caught in the spray, leaving a revolting, sizzling puddle of churning green and red filth wilding the swamp grasses where she stood.  The troll blinks numbly and swings its bleary gaze about the group of its attackers, seeking to comprehend its best target. 
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 

Taalia was very tall for a human - and even she felt dwarfed by the mass of scaley, ape-like arms before her and that disgusting, large hulk of its body. But, hideous as it was, the power of the thing had to be respected, as at the end of each of its appendages was a nest of sharp claws which were capable of grotesque injuries that the shepardess had seen up close. She knew the risk she had taken, but it was the only way to at least buy Bella and Augusto time to get the hell out of here. Maybe that would be the summation of her life? Endured what she had so that her best friend and her adoptive grandfather could be re-united with her prodigal son who would turn over a new leaf.

Her head craned back to peer up at the thing before her, shield in hand, Taalia gave her body over to muscle-memory and instinct as she ducked and weaved, the  vile  putrid stench of that things guts hissing across the earth before it assaulting her nostrils with its rancid, acrid flavour. Gritting her teeth, Taalia aimed her beautiful blade. Rather than slashing, she  stabbed , seeking to puncture the vital organs within while its scaly exterior received a dousing of - !

 "Bella - get the torch! Set the damn thing on fire!!"  the white-haired girl shouted.
MrAbdiel
 Another slash to its arm lets more blood flow; but a brutal stab pieces through its back and into its spine seems to do the trick.  Its legs go slack, and it slumps forward into the puddle of its own puke; face down in the marshy earth.

 "You did it!"   Elda blurts - her respect for you coming back and fighting the troll growing immensely, eclipsing in the moment the fact that you are responsible for the death of someone she loved.  Or responsible in her line of logic, where yours might make him responsible for his own fate.  She bolts past the fallen troll to regroup with her companions; Gianni and Cesare are making their way east with haste to the glowing line of early morning crepusculance, and even Rafaello has found his feet and rushes to join them, waving you to join them as he dashes.  But you and Bella know trolls better than they do - Bella dashes for the fallen torch and snatches it up.  But before she can return with it, and before you can make another chop for the monster's neck...

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
Well, you managed  Ernesto  the troll.  I'll tax it... 3 wounds of its healing roll to restore that crit.
  (1d10-3)[ 3 ]  wounds restored.

It'll stand and make one attack against you with the half action remaining -   Vs38  - (1d100)[ 14 ]  for  (1d10+5)[ 10 ] .  Narrative pending.

EDIT: That's a hit for 10!
 


...the severed spine knits and it heaves in a choking breath of pukey swamp water, lashing out at you with one battering-ram fist as it pushes back to its feet! 
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 

Taalia could  feel  the resistance of the Trolls tough sinews against her blade as she stabbed, punctured and slashed - that damn flesh knitting back up with each chunk taken from the things body. In a half second of out-of-body reflection, the shepardess could only envy such a natural ability and how useful it would have been in her own life. Skaven whipped her? So what, she'd grow back. She got stabbed, beaten, arm chopped off her face broken in - who cared, she'd be fine in a matter of minutes.

Which is why when the others started to depart, Taalia yelled at them.

 "It's not dead yet - not ye - !" 

But its gutteral, pained whine drew her back to the present, her weapon drawing back just in time to batter away a key-sized fist full of claws and hard scales from punching right into her body and tearing her flesh for serious damage...and this time, there'd be no regeneration.

Using the momentum from her deflection, Taalia brought the weapon down and slashed the hideous thing across its side,  Daybreak 's fine steel moving about in a circle as Taalia drew it back to slice across the left leg the Troll was relying upon to draw itself back up, while Bella hurried over with that torch...

This time she'd chop its ugly head off just to be sure.
MrAbdiel
 True to wretched form, the monster refuses to die.  Back on its feet now, the monster has its attention squarely on you, its clearly most dangerous opponent...

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
Narrative pending!

Bella's charge:  Vs61  - (1d100)[ 21 ]  to hit with the torch.   (1d10-3)[ 5 ]  improvised damage.

Also, if it hits, being on fire with flammable liquid causes the troll to both gain, and lose, 1d10 wounds in its healing phase.  This turn, it gains, and loses,  (1d10)[ 7 ]  and  (1d10)[ 4 ] , respectively.

If it's alive and functional, it will swift attack Taalia.

  Vs38  - (1d100)[ 68 ]  for  (1d10+5)[ 8 ] 
  Vs38  - (1d100)[ 23 ]  for  (1d10+5)[ 11 ] 
  Vs38  - (1d100)[ 66 ]  for  (1d10+5)[ 13 ] .
 


... before Bella cracks it on the side of the head so hard the torch breaks.  Immediately, the fine grape spirits ignites and its shoulder and the side of its face begin to burn.  Its growl of pain and frustration is ugly and awful; and with its suffering, it lashes out at you again.

On the hill, running away, Gianni and Rafaello continue to spirit Augusto toward safety.  Cesare and Elda look back to their surprise to see the combat still going; each filling their slings and spinning them to take aim for long shots.

To the east, the sun is beginning to rise.  Its purplish warmth colours the curve of the hillock.  To the west, the drone of activity increases from the skimmer village - the sound of shouting, and screaming, and great rambunctious carry-on escalating in approach. 
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 


Taalia ducked and weaved away as those long, razor-fist ended ape-like arms swung at her with clumsy, but deadly, power. If any of them impacted against her...she'd feel it. She'd seen the results all too well, but if her pet rooster could summon the courage to face this thing, then so could she.

Side-stepping to the side, Taalia brought her shield up just in time to deflect an incoming blow from an open-fingered claw strike that she  felt  reverberate through her whole body.. Grunting through clenched teeth as her heart beat against the inside of her chest, she stepped to the side, footwork developed, as she brought her elven steel across its body - striking its ugly head and slicing into its arms as the the girls fury was slowly building within her. She knew she had to suppress it, she  knew  that now was not the time to scream, holler, shout and wail in a barbaric assignment of her life to the higher powers that threaded the fate of the world. No no, she was locked in a fight with a Troll - its regenerative ability frustrating her to no end, but her eyes having to remain focused on those long, powerful swinging limbs and that huge bulk rising up to loom above her. If she failed, then Bella would be next...
MrAbdiel
 Your strikes find purchase - a painful upward chop into its trollish grundle causes it to wheeze in pain and stagger back, and your pursing strike carves into one of its great clawed hands such that its dark blood splashes from the wound.  Bella is beside you now, snatching up her staff from where she dropped it when she ran for the torch and raising it to defend herself.  The monster makes a clumsy blow at both of you, and you step back together - the sloppy exhaustion in the strike enough to tell you that you have made meaningful progress.

With a final, wheezing gasp, it slows and finally stops; the wounds you have inflicted on it, coupled with the fire chasing up its mossy skin, finally too much for the creature.  It sags to its knees and dies in a lumpen squat.  For good measure, you take a moment's aim and, with both hands on your sword's hilt and pommel, you hack down at its neck and sever it with one, then two ultimate blows to see it through.

The look Bella gives you is full of things implied and unsaid.  They include frustration, pride, relief, love, peevishness, accomplishment, vindication, and tiredness.  But the raven haired girl does not have time to voice them.

They come from the swamp.  First it seems as if the swamp skimmer you let go has brought his whole clan charging out to find and fight you.  Dozens of the swamp dwellers charge in great strides through the marsh, some clearing root and muck with aplomb, some missing their steps and face planting as they go.  But the fright on their faces, the beaten and bloodied quality of the swamp dwellers, tells your keen eyes at once they are not running  to , as much as running  from. 

And what they are running from is fearsome indeed.  The ratmen chase them - they fall on those who trip and stumble first, but the slinking hordes of brown furred skaveni billow out of the swamp to pursue even the most agile of them.  Twenty, thirty - perhaps as many of fifty skaven in this raiding party.  That, it seems, was the commotion - these wretched people who dwell here were suffering a slave-raid at the same time as you were setting free Augusto, and the defence they put up has broken to flight now.  You had seen the goblins keeping a troll as a kind of 'pet'; it seems the humans here were doing the same.  But you doubt even the troll would have been sufficient defence against this horde - just a more exotic slave for them to drag down into their pits.  Reprehensible as the swamp skimmers are among men, seeing them run down and fleeing for their lives from the skaven strips them down to their most elemental selves - desperate, vulnerable prey for the Under-Empire.

What can be done, against such numbers?  This time, Bella does not need your instruction.  She is ready to run. 
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 

Taalia's heart thumped within her chest as she drew  Daybreak  up, steadied her aim and with two long hacks, brought the disgusting creatures head from its body, as the things husk sat there as a decapitated statue, its flesh soon set to serve the local wildlife as a source of food. Breathing hard, each gust of wind a hot shard from her lungs, Taalia swallowed and cleaned her blade off and sheathed it, before the commotion coming from the village drew her attention.

She didn't have to take more than a few seconds to gauge what was happening.

You see, Taali was still fluent in Queekish. Though she had no real use for the language since learning Tilean, it was, embarrassingly, still the language she thought in. When she would mutter to herself or stub a toe, it was Queekish that emerged. It was her  natural  language, if not her first. During those tender, formative years of her single digit age through to just a few years ago, it was the only language she was allowed to utter. That degree of indoctrination didn't go away overnight, nor would it ever. The vile touch of the ratmen would never fully leave her, Taalia knew that. Even until the day she died, it was likely to be so with a swarm of concepts in Queekish that would be going through her head.

And so, with her fantastic ears, Taalia  heard  the ratmen before she saw them. Hearing Queekish uttered by mouths other than her own could only mean one thing: the Skaven were here.

As much as it distressed her to do so, Taalia knew they had to leave. Now. There were dozens of skaven, and at best these were people pitifully prepared to deal with them. What would happen were she to wade into the fray with some ridiculous fantasy of rallying the troops and pushing the Skaven back? She'd get a collar slapped back around her neck - that's what would happen. Those poor bastards falling into the water face-first, she couldn't save them any more than she could save the long-gone faces in the worst of her nightmares. Eyes widening, the shepardess didn't need to be told twice.

Sword sheathed. Shield shouldered. Taalia grabbed Bella's hand, turned and  ran , dragging her at her pace if she needed to. The girls night eyes would guide them where they needed to go, and now with the threat of the troll gone, Taalia was free to run and take her bestie with her.
MrAbdiel
 The theives have a headstart on you - good for them.  At least that means Augusto has a fighting chance of being far enough away that the rats lose interest or have enough prisoners to turn back, before getting to them.  But you and Bella are somewhat behind, and so you run like hell is at your heels.  In a sense, it is.

Bella barely has time to sling her staff to its sleeve on her slim travelling pack before your stride leads the way; almost pulling her off her feet with your instinctive need to avoid capture.  There is no spare breath for conversation.  You run east, toward Miragliano, toward the lip of the hill turning gold with the rising sun; toward the silhouettes of the thieves who have survived and recovered their friend because of your efforts.

...toward the familiar airborne shape framed dark in the eyewatering sunlight; its sole rider pumping his old legs furiously as the rising sun finally permits him to see you through his spyglass.

Maso Cestié banks north, and curves around.  You read the movement immediately - he plans to come down low, the wheels skimming on the top of the hillock, the only clear and dry land for miles in any direction in the swamp.  It will require you and Bella to leap aboard while it is still in motion and to get airborne again before the flying machine loses momentum.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
Make me an agility roll.

This isn't a succeed or die; it's just an open roll to inform the scene of how elegantly, or how just-barely, you manage to board the flying machine.  Naturally, passing solidly is good; failing suggests you might just get a hand on a pedal and dangle in the air for a bit before climbing, achingly, into place.  Whatever strikes you as most appropriate.
 
 
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 

A primordial panic animated Taalias movements, as much as she may wish to believe she was brave and fearless - she most certainly was not. Just the thought of the ratmen being right behind her, readying those grasping tools to wrap around her limbs or, worse, Bellas, and drag her back underground was fuel enough to animate her towering figure to hurl herself through that swamp. Bellas questions or protests could come later, it was clear that her white-haired companion knew of the fate that awaited them should they be caught and just the mere thought of it gave her wings that carried both of them swiftly through the muck. Ironically, that sentry she had slain? She had unwittingly granted him a great mercy. Meanwhile, she had a pistol on each hip...but fired. So, if worse came to, Taalia would stab Bella through the throat first, and then cut her own with  Daybreak . It was better than the alternative.

When the pair emerged from the tall reeds and trees of the swamp, that golden-purple dawn sun almost like an encouraging gift of why they should want to remain on the surface, Taalia spotted Maso in their flying machine, banking about to swoop in low and as slow as possible to provide a dramatic but feasible escape.

First, Taalia made sure that Augusto and the others were almost guaranteed to escape. Nothing in life was certain of course, but as she watched their figures get smaller and smaller towards the city walls, her confidence swelled. It wouldn't have all been for nothing.

 "Bella, ready?"  she yelled over the lound sound of the incoming wings, standing there with her bestie as it drew closer and closer, its velocity slowing to allow them to grab onto it as it passed without their arms ripping off or their inner tendons tearing.

 "Now!" 

Both girls latched onto that craft, its momentum sagging backwards for a moment from the added weight before it picked itself up again, both of them managing to haul themselves up through the framing to their seats.
 
"Skaven!"  Taalia shouted over Cesties shoulder.

 "Raiding party, we barely got out, the Weavers got away, they had Augusto with them!" 
MrAbdiel
  "That's great!  That's... great news!"   Cestié shouts back, panting as he is.  Once you've go some elevation, and with both of you pedaling he can ease off on the effort and catch his breath - being the lone operator over such a distance would have been murder to most old men, but having travelled across the country with you in his marvellous conveyance, he has the quads and lungs of a man a third of his age.  The wing assemblies of the flying machine pump as Bella tucks herself into her passenger pod and stows her staff in its usual place, and you get to pedalling yourself.

Down below, you can see the Weevers in the clear.  Behind them, at the top of the hillock, the skaven have stopped their charge.  They have run down most of the swamp skimmers, and are bundling them up with nets, and barbed man-catchers held by small teams of the repulsive rat men.  A final band of the swamp men, with their reed woven hats and ragged castoff clothes, fight a losing battle as they are surrounded to be dragged down.  They seem determined to die fighting, rather than be captured alive.

Cestié snaps away his spyglass.  He is red in the face from pedalling, and sweat pours down; but he looks over his shoulder at you with pursed lips.

 "Get  Leonardo  ready.  I'll bring you in close - wait for the roll, and hold tight with your legs!" 

The old man tilts and pulls on the yoke, and the flying machine wheels around for another pass.  The skaven are raiding for penniless swamp dwellers - they are not armed with the lightning guns, or the jezzails, or any number of their terrible machines that would be a horrible threat to the wood-and-canvas flying machine as it swoops low over their forces.  But the flying machine isn't made for war.  The person in the front seat must hold the yoke to keep the machine in control; the person in the seat behind can neglect the secondary yoke as long as the primary is engaged, but your seat is behind the wing assembly; and firing the blunderbuss through the moving wings is to invite disaster. Firing it straight down is to waste its advantage as a weapon, best fired in enfilade.  But you and Cestié both have reason enough to hate the skaven to strive for a better option; and when you are ready with your weapon in hand, the old man guides the flying machine into a swooping dive, pulls up to level it out at pace, and then tilts the whole apparatus to a hard turn as it pulls up, revolving you all nearly a full ninety degrees... but allowing you to  fire your weapon down, over the side of the machine, without passing through the wings, and into the deepest cluster of the unsuspecting rat men.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
Victory lap time.  For the sake of some fun, Taalia can fire Leonardo to hit 1d10+5 skaven on the first pass.  After that, Cestie will turn around, give you time to reload, and allow a second shot of the same kind.  I offer all of this under the confidence assumption that Taalia won't pass up an opportunity to shoot some rats from a high place.
 
 
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 


Taalia felt a surge of relief as she beheld the Weavers making it to safety and away from the Skaven raiding party. Speaking of...

 "Get Leonardo ready. I'll bring you in close - wait for the roll, and hold tight with your legs!" 

At first Taalia did not understand, but Cestie's intention soon became all-too-clear. Now that he had Taalia peddling absentmindedly, adding her youthful vigour to the flight, the older man was able to focus more on piloting his craft and did so with an idea to perform the first strafing manuever humanity might ever had produced - and what circumstance in which to attempt it!

The wind pressed against Taalia's face, blowing the loos strands of white hair about as her singular braid rested neatly behind her head. Catching Cestie's drift, the girl smiled and bit her lip as she unhooked her blunderbuss from its clip-in rack next to her. Drawing her aim to the left of the craft, she waited patient as her pilot snuck a look over his shoulder to better optimise the manuever to suit her current firing position.

Gun steady. The swamp passing below them in a blurred montage of dark green and browns, the flying machine swooped in low to a startled audience as Taalia levelled the muzzle of her weapon towards the thickest knot of rats and  Crack! 

The world seemed to slow down for a tenth of a second, allowing the girl to see the cloud of small lead-shots rake across the thicket of Skaven, smashing into skulls, tearing flesh and sending out little puffs of red mist, before Cestie took the craft up and banked around. Hurriedly reloading, Taalia closed one eye, aimed and  Crack!  her own internal hatred for the creatures spewing through her weapon and across their disorganised ranks...
MrAbdiel
 With the first blast from  Leonardo's  muzzle, a hail of lead shot and shrapnel rakes across a pile of the swarming rat men.  They were greedilly squirming over each other, each eager to lay a paw on one of the captive humans and make their claim as captor to be rewarded.  Now they are shocked and reeling; heads and shoulders pocked with bloody impacts driving them to verminous screaming.  Several topple back off the pile, some howling and clutching at themselves; some still and mangled in the muck.  On the second pass, they recognize the threat coming - but even then, there's only so much evasion that can be done - and your handmade weapon strikes down another pair and maims more.

This is enough, for the rat men.  Of the skaven species, some are very clever, like Rashabang; some are cunning, like the one-eyed assassin; some are brawny and strong, like the black-furred rat who attacked you with froth-mouthed abandon in the Eastern District.  But not one among the rats, in your considerable exposure to them, has shown anything like honest human courage.  They show confidence with overwhelming numbers or a strategy in play or an overpowering protector or weapon; but caught off guard in a situation that threatens them, they are fundamentally creatures obsessed with their own survival.  As the flying machine circles around again, they begin their full retreat into the swamp.  The swamp skimmers who had fled to the furthest are suddenly abandoned as the rats attacking them seek the cover of the curling, scrubby swamp trees.  You hear a primal, wordless howl from one of them as the miracle of freedom hardens into black-eyed wrath, and then they are giving chase to the rats; running down and clubbing and strangling the ones hobbled by the blunderbuss shot.  This pursuit forces other rats to abandon their captives, who quickly become vengeful pursuers falling on the slower rats who are trying to keep captives, who must release their captives to escape, and so on and so forth.  The whooping, raging, cheering sound of the skimmers turning back the rats you have put to flight carries on beneath the cover of the trees, beyond where you can help in any way; and so you put your strength to pedalling and giving Cestié's heroic hamstrings a break.  The last you see of the scene as the flying machine pulls back around is a lone swamp skimmer, standing at the edge of the trees.  He has clubbed a clanrat's head in, with a branch; the creature unable to escape him because of the lead shot that ruined one of its knees.  The fellow holds one bandaged hand close to his body (the hand you bandaged, of course) and raises the bloodied club in the air to you, in a kind of distant, wordless salute.  Perhaps these swamp people were monstrous in their behaviour toward the thieves, and likewise the thieves to the Miraglianans; but as with the troll... all mankind are brothers and sisters in the shadows of such monsters.  Then the skimmer limps away into the trees, and it is the last you see of him.

* * * * *

The next night, the feast of the Cestié clan begins again, with a couple of new additions - the bruised and battered but now cleaned up and a little rested Augusto, as well as Grifone and Laura, who have come in from the farm to celebrate.  They have, as promised, acquired  moleche  - soft shelled crab, which is delicious; and much more convenient to eat that most crab because it does not need to be shelled.  There is plentiful everything else, too, because it is a celebration.  And what's not to celebrate?  Augusto is safe.  Maso is reunited with his family.  The  Weevers  owe you a debt that must be partially discharged in releasing Augusto - if Biagio can convince the boy to withdraw.  But that much is between the father and son.  Maso has little fear they will repeat their intrusion on the shop.  And you earned your 'Trollslayer' title for the second time.

...And, for good measure, were afforded an opportunity to finally rain a small portion of vengeance down upon the dread skaven.

 "Taalia; Bella; you will always have a place to rest your head, in Miragliano!" , Franchino toasts, to round approval.   "For you have brought us back lost sons, and new daughters..." 

There might have been more to the speech the elder Cestié brother had planned; but emotion gets the better of him, and his family bails him out by applauding over the truncation of the speech brought on by his hitching voice.  As the clamouring family descends into its normal animated chatter, Bella glances to you from the seat beside yours.  Milo lies on his back in her lap; she feeds him little shreds of chicken, which he chews with out a great mastery for the art of chewing but with plenty of charming enthusiasm for the effort.  " Taalia Trollslayer, hmm..?  Pity we couldn't have this one's skull sent back to the coaching inn, to mount beside the other..." 
 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
You may gain 200 XP for your adventures in Miragliano!  You may also have as many  quality locks  as you would like, though it would obviously be somewhat abusive to just take a bunch of them and hock them at the next village for cash.

If there's any conversations you want to have here, or questions or whatnot, we should do those - you're about ready to move on to Miragiliano, and toward the Irrana mountains that border fair Bretonnia!
 
 
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 


Watching her scatter-shot raking across the thick knots of Skaven brought a satisfaction to Taalia's heart that few things could provide. Were she to take the strongest drug and achieve the highest of highs, it would still only be a fraction of the gratification lighting up her soul as she killed ratmen and helped turn the tide so that her fellow humans could stab, beat, club and strangle the ratmen in the muck - the fate the vermin deserved.

Taalia, tilted over in her seat, facing out the left-side of the craft, saw the injured man who was...kinda injured thanks to her. But healed too! His club, smeared with the colour of its trade, his other hand wrapped in the bandage she provided, drew his weapon up in a salute - one that Taalia returned. Her white braid whipped behind her, she drew  Leonardo  into the air, holding it aloft as almost a symbolic gesture of both defiance and innovation - an analogy for the tools they could use to keep the ratmen in their underempire. The Skaven were technologically gifted and ingenious in many ways...but so were humans. Their inventions were not as potentially destructive perhaps, due to their refusal to use warpstone as a fuel source, but they instead created works that were more reliable and less prone to self-destruction. Taalia did not know who would ultimately win the competition between ape and rat, but she knew that she would contribute to her side as best as she was able, through mind, body and soul. The Skaven were a blight on this world, and their ultimate eradication was their only fitting fate.


 oOo 

When they got back and they were in private, Taalia was furious with Bella. The native Tilean knew she had nothing physical to fear from her friend, but still...with the shepardess' height, her statuesque build and the borderline wild, maniacal fire in her eyes, it was hard to deny she was frightening.

 "The troll was bad enough! Didn't you get your fix back in Bella Collina?! Didn't you see what those things were capable of?!" 
 "...the Skaven were there! The Skaven! They took me when I was six years old - do you know what would happen to you if they took you  now ?!"  her eyes wild with both anger and a deep-seated passionate concern and care for her best friend,  "do you know the existence that would've awaited you!? What they wouldn't done to you?! Put you through!? Used you for?! Slavery to the ratmen - can you even understand what awaited you?! If they had you and I thought there was no escape I would have killed you, to spare you from what I  know  will come you way! Do you know that?!" 

Taalia could not deny how handy Bella's intervention had been, but she let loose with all of the despair, concern and passion she had over the idea that her friend, gentle and sweet as she was, had ventured into mind-bendingly hostile territory and taken a risk that could have had the  worst  possible outcome. This wasn't mere protective instinct - this was from-the-heart experience and mentally glimpsing her friend in such conditions had things gone awry.

Angry, fury, passion, love and concern were all on display as Taalia unleashed. It ended with her arms around her shorter friend, gripping her tightly as if prevent her being carried off by an imaginary threat, and sobbing into her shoulder.


 oOo 

Taalia did herself up nicely for the feast, thanks to help from Bella. The tall, amazonian girl had her hair drawn back in a dual braids, one on either side of her head, a look that accentuated her angular, pleasing features - even with her scars - as her heterochromia eyes took in all around her. She ate merrily, enjoying the fortified wine - a Sherry it was called - and port, as well as the whiskey she had become accustomed to thanks to her earlier efforts in Bella Collina, and Gaulfredo's influence. The crabs were fantastic - indeed, anything was scrumptious when the shepardess had memories of her time among the Skaven rush so vividly back into her skull thanks to the menace they posed in turning into a future for Bella, had she been caught.

Like last time, and seemingly every time, Taalia was a centre of wonder for the children, her height, unusual hair and eye colour drawing little wide-eyed stares and the utterances of children that knew no filter nor decorum. In return, she had done as they desired - lifted them up. Just like her first time in Bella Collina during the festival, she allowed herself to become akin to a carnival attraction, her hands pressing under armpits and hoisting youngling bodies eight-to-nine feet into the air and spinning them about, much to the squealing, endless delight of the children involved. It brought the shepardess a lot of joy, that much was obvious, as her skill with...miniature humans was growing. She had no kids of her own - despite being a 'tad on the old side' for women of this period to be married with her first - but she clearly adored them, and they found her endlessly fascinating.

But, the man of the hour clearly needed her speaking to him. Augusto, the lad for whom all this trouble had been poured into in order to secure his release, was back home. For now. Taalia was bordering the realm of the tipsy when she saddled herself down next to him, mug in one hand, olive-oil smothered bread in the other as she gently shouldered him friendly-like.

 "We never got to chat, 'gusto!"  she said. Indeed, they had not. And perhaps her 'unusual' accent might show through. Her friends were used to it by now and it had softened over time, but Taalia had an almost one-of-a-kind accent: Tilean was clearly her second language, her first was Queekish, and though the accentuation was not discernible to anyone 'not in the know', it still stood out.

 "You know, handsome, we went through  a lot  of trouble to get you back!" 

She left out that she had to kill someone to do it. Well, two people technically. It was doubtless that word had gotten to him that she fought a damn  troll  to protect his escape, so she didn't feel it necessary to bring it up herself.

 "I'm telling you...this..."  Taalia gestured to the clan gathering. The food. The atmosphere. The sheer familial warmth and belonging to which Taalia had never truly experienced. She paused, her lips pursed as she peered across it all, a visible jealousy in her blue-and-green eyes.

 "...I'd give it all up to have what you have here." 
 oOo 

Like the stops before them, Miragliano shrank into the distance behind them as Cestie's fabulous flying machine lifted off into the horizon with its trio occupants.

Taalia had sold the gear they had gathered from those swampee thugs they had defeated as well as cashed in the Skaven head bounty, the money they acquired swiftly being traded in for further gems. The shepardess hadn't grown swiftly back in Bella Collina without knowing about the trading exchange rate. Naturally, as well, she had sent back a letter to Gaulfredo, Arianna and Vitorrio, with the latter being the main subject of address. Taalia issued forth words of their adventures here in Miragliano; the family troubles and history, the mutants with his kittens, the trouble with rescuing Augusto, the troll, the skaven and the embryonic development of aerial strafing.

The earth below them was a blurred montage of beautiful pasture, farm greenery, wetlands and forests, as those towering crags rose up before them and, beyond that, Bretonnia - the land of chivalry.

Behind them was Tilea, the land into which Taalia had emerged and made something of herself. Little did the girl know that if she were to emerge anywhere in the known world after escaping the rats, Tilea was about the best bet she could make. The philosophy that a mans fate was his own making was ingrained into Tilean culture, however disparate the city-states might be, yet this belief would be largely absent in the lands to which she travelled. And though she earnestly believed in her heart that she would return to this realm that had been so fortuitous for her...well, this was a dangerous world, full of the unpredictable and uncertain.

But. With Cestie to her front and Bella to her back, Taalia was as certain as one could be.
MrAbdiel
  
 Spoiler: OOC: 
We'll deal with all these little scenes in this bundle, like we were doing back in Verezzo for a while!
 


When the flying machine has touched down in Griffone's yard and Cestié is inside rambling excitedly to his old friend about the escapade, you and Bella have a chance to talk.  And talk quickly escalates to  stern talk. 

You lay it down for her - the Skaven, and their terrors, and how vividly and helplessly you are able to imagine the harm to come to her forced through what you have been through.  But Bella has some fire of her own, and shoots back her defences at you with a fusillade of Tilean gesticulation.

 "How can you ask me to be okay watching you go into such dangers while I sit aside?  What if you had died, or been taken?  How could I live with myself, having sat back?  We can help each other, Taalia!  I know you want to protect me, but I cannot just wait miles away while you march into such terrors!   You  asked  me  to come with you on this journey, and I'm grateful as can be - but I left everyone else behind to come with you!  You and I - we don't get to leave each other behind!"  

She cries too; so you are not alone in your breakdown as you clutch your friend.  This, it seems, is her own line; her own trauma.  She feels about being  left behind  just as you feel about being  caged.   She can bear it in a moment when there is no other option but not for much longer than that.  Bella is a girl whose family was her life, and whose life got up and left her behind.  She found her strength and formed new attachments in Bella Collina, and dared to pin some hopes on Bertuccio - but in the end, after his own traumatic suffering, he left too.  When you invited her to join you on your journey with Signore Cestié, she made the choice to let go of those roots she had put down in that little town and cleave to you - Cestié too, but principally you.  Her trauma may not be as profound as yours, if it is even savoury to try to quantify such things; but people are not rational about their feelings. You express love for her by trying to shield her from the violent and terrible parts of the world which have defined the majority of your life; she expresses hers by you by striving to find her courage and confront those things as well - to be more  like  you.

It is an intractable problem, the solution to which is not easily discernible.

 * * * * * 
A great feast and a great host of squealing young  Cestiés  later, and you find occasion to sit next to Augusto.  He is quiet through the meal, though he eats plenty; he smiles politely when you call him 'handsome', and then awkwardly when you remind him of the difficulty of getting him back.

 "I... appreciate it. Really.  I feel terrible about everything." 

When you commend the value of family to him, he nods as if accepting it... but does so in that way that people do when they aren't able or ready to take something completely to heart.  He reminds you of the troublemaker boys, before the big battle on Silo Road where fighting for their lives snapped them out of boyhood.  Augusto is a young man fumbling through the world, looking for his place and for meaning in it.  The  fact  that he was recently captured, carried off, tied up, and very nearly throat-cut and fed to a troll at best or snatched up by marauding skaven at worst is undeniable and known to him.  But the  reality  of those things is still making its way toward him, trundling down the track of slow understanding that has to be digested in nightmares and bad decisions until one day it will hit him and make sense.  Then he'll probably have a breakdown and have an opportunity to reevaluate his life.  You've done your part - impressed upon him words that, hopefully, he will remember at that time and understand properly.

On the other side of the table, you see Maso, limping a little still as he aches from his battle wounds, take a plate of the  moleche  and some butterfly pasta up the stairs, for Papa Cestié.  This time, you note, there comes no shouting and acrimony from above.  That is a good sign.  As Augusto gives you his lost smile with his bruised, far-off eyes, you can only be thankful you arrived when you did, and hopeful that this particular son does not wait so long to be really reconciled in his heart to his family.

 * * * * * 
The family comes out to see you off.  The huge clan sprawls out on the green out front of Griffone's house to see Maso's magnificent flying machine in action as you prepare to move on, and they are not disappointed.  The children bounce and shriek with startled delight as you pedal down the hill from the farm and then circle back around in the air, and Maso is sure to do a few big circles close enough for them to see the three of you waving back, before finally levelling out and heading north-north-east, towards the mountain pass.

But just as you find your heading, Bella calls your attention to a rider below, waving a yellow scarf in the air as he rides hell-for-leather along the road after you.  Even a fast horse is not as fast as the machine flies, so he is rapidly receding; but through the spyglass, you recognize the rosy cheeked young Bartomar, Man of the Roads - the Imperial expatriate who once delivered a missive to Polo for you.  As he stands in the stirrups, it seems to you that his waving is quite frantic. 
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 


Perhaps there would be no 100% reconciliation on this matter. Maybe Bella would always find a way to seek Taalia out and help her, or to flirt with danger, while the shepardess would never want to see her sweet, beloved best friend placed in dangers way. This was an argument that would have no end, perhaps not until one of them had a husband and children therefore giving them something even  more  important to consider and to weigh above the other. And so, for now perhaps, Taalia held her friend close after their argument and allowed the time to pass, eternally grateful that the worst had not come.


 oOo 

Taalia grinned a goofily adorable breach of her lips at Augusto's words. In many ways he did remind her of the boys she had hired: young men who were restless and seeking a thrill, perhaps wanting their lives to be different from those who had built upon them both constraints and expectations. The shepardess had noticed this more in young men that she had other women, Bella notwithstanding, this inner drive to acquire status, to do something special, to achieve something that they could look back at in their older years, points to and say 'I did that!'.

When the two watched quietly as Maso happily picked out a little selection of crabs. It was two teenagers watching with bemused expressions, entertained over nothing that made sense, as an elder of the clan helped himself to a dish before trotting off, smile upon his features.

 "You know, he taught me how to make guns?"  Taalia said sideways to Augusto, a grin across her features as she took another sip of her delicious sweet, cream sherry.

But then she sighed and shook her head, flicking her lips and shrugging.

 "I don't get it, handsome, I don't..."  she said.

 "The  Weavers ? Really?"  Taalia asked, clearly confused as she had a 'huh? what?' look on her face as she exhaled and shrugged again.

 "I mean...I  guess ?"  she offered, another shrug as she took one more sip of her sherry, before turning to look him up and down again with her blue-and-green eyes.

 "I dunno honey, you seem too cluey to hang around with them. Look where it got you last time, huh?" 

It was clear by now that Taalia had been drinking...a lot. She was a tall and fit girl, able to absorb more than most, so her imbibement resulted in her friendly, tipsy demeanour that saw her angular, pleasing but-scarred face smiling and happy, with her double-braids and left green eye and right blue eye.


 oOo 

Taalia saw the rider, that yellow scarf standing out to her like a sore thumb. The girls eyes widened, her mouth gaping gently as a sense of urgency seized through her body. Reaching out and tapping on Cestie's shoulder, she leaned towards him while maintaining her eyes on that messenger.

 "Cestie! Bank starboard - messenger from Bella Collina on the road!" 
MrAbdiel
 Augusto listens; offers small polite affirmations.  You have to wear him down with one sided conversation for a long chunk of the night, and you're almost giving up, before he gives something back.

 "I... wanted to say sorry.  About Adriano." 

The name doesn't register initially.  It's only after his elaboration that it is clear he is referring to the young man who led the attempted burglary the night before; Elda's paramour, whose folly had brought him into a collision course with you and led ultimately to him bleeding out in the street.

 "He was always kind of... reckless.  I used to hold him back.  From doing dumb things, I mean.  I guess without me nearby, he was the only one in the group with something that sounded like a plan, and they just ran with it.  They should never have come here.  But... I guess he's paid for it now.  Thank you, for saving my life.  I'll be - ... I'll be fine." 

That, of course, remains to be seen.  The lad is not yet fully baked, one might say; that critical mass of maturity is still in his future.  But he has every chance, now - a family that cares about him, a near death experience, and a place to learn skills in demand.  What he becomes from this point on can only be laid at his own feet.

Biagio makes sure to embrace you with gratitude before he teeters off early to bed, eyes glossy with wine.

"I thank the gods for you, Taalia Giovanni; Verena, and Myrmidia, and Rhya, and Ranald, and Grugnio all.  You've done us such good, I can barely say..."

Like his uncle Franchino, Biagio is an emotionally open fellow; so he truncates his blessings there before he loses himself; then turns to hug his son, whom you pulled from the jaws of tragedy; and finally retires for the night.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
Also, to be clear, she is hocking  everything  she found in the rat den?  Or keeping some elements?


 You find:

• A two-handed military hammer engraved with a motif of hammers and anvils. It has an oilskin sling-strap.

• A wooden staff around which has been tied a string of wolf's teeth.

• A pair of embroidered leather shoes with a small tag bearing the seal of the town of Pfeildorf, home of the best tailors in the Empire. They are dirty, but still in good condition.

• A rain-stained sheet of parchment inscribed with the name and address of a tavern, Signore Pepito's, in the town of Rialto Mio.

• A grimy human skull with the name 'Magnus' inscribed into the forehead.

• A waxed rawhide case of butcher's knives and sharpening files.

• A tiny ivory statue of Shallya.

• A pewter ring etched with an oath of allegiance to the Empire.

• A leather case containing a musket-cleaning kit with muzzle rods, wire brushes, oils, chamois, fuses, flints and spare parts.

• An iron hand-torch with a fistful of charcoal in the cage.

• 23 shillings stuck to the bottom of a filthy rawhide pouch. (Imperial shillings specifically, printed with a wreathed skull on one side a a scythe clutching skeletal rendition of what must be Morr on the other, beside the letters "A L T D O R F".)

• A few sheets of water-warped parchment.

• A deer-hide pouch branded with the image of Sigmar.

• A leather flask of whale oil.

• A Best Quality Fishing Net. It has neatly smoothed lead weights on a large well constructed net and a stained but strong line that cinches in the drawstring. There is a small carved wooden handle at the end of the casting line engraved with the words "Timely Blessings Come From Strange Places. Thank you."

You may take or leave as much of that as you prefer. 
 

 * * * * * 
When you circle around to make an unscheduled landing, Bartomar cackles an exhausted cackle and flaps the scarf a little more; dismounting and jogging to the machine's side as it settles to a stop.

 "Ahahah!  Oh, you had almost eluded me for good, Signorina Taalia!  Why, you must have been travelling restlessly indeed to..."   He puffs.   "To have kept ahead of me this long!  An insistent and slightly rude dwarf bid me catch up to your machine and give you this, the day after you left Bella Collina.  I had hoped to catch you at Verezzo - but Bartomar, man of the roads, is not easily halted by challenge!" 

In actuality, you have been travelling at a leisurely pace; stopping for inclement weather, to explore, to spend the odd day or two enjoying the scenery and the cities.  The flying machine travels much faster and more constantly than a horse - Bartomar must have pursued you like a hungry wolf to catch up to you at all!  But he seems to pride himself on his speed and efficiency - perhaps you don't need to rob him of the sense that his effort, and not your unhurried schedule, played the major part in the feat.

He produces a leather scrollcase, and hands it to you.  Inside are two things - a rolled up sheet of parchment, and a tiny leather pouch with a drawstring.  The hand in which the scroll is written is blocky, and inexact.  It is scattered with spelling errors and it only uses the upper case of letters, the writer perhaps not seeing the purpose of using lesser ones.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: A Letter From Bella Collina 

  DEAR TAALIA

I HOPE THIS LETTER FINDS YOU WELL AND SOON AS I PAID THIS FELLOW A PRETTY COIN TO CATCH YOU AND IF HE DID NOT THEN I WILL OWE HIM A BOOT IN THE DONGLITZ AND WILL OWE ME A REFUND

I KNOW WE ALREADY SAID GOODBYE WHEN YOU FLY AWAY BUT I AM NOT A DWARF WHO IS GOOD WITH WORDS AND ONCE YOU HAD GONE I THOUGHT IT THE CASE THAT I OUGHT TO SAY SOME MORE

I WAS EXTREMELY CROSS WHEN THEY HAD LOCKED YOU UP IN VEREZZO AND IF IT WERE NOT FOR THE RESTRAINING OF THE RAMPOLLO AND OTHERS I WOULD CERTAINLY HAVE DONE A FOOLISHNESS TO GET YOU OUT BUT WE ARE ALL VERY PLEASED THAT WAS NOT NEEDED IN THE END

EVERYONE IN BELLA COLLINA IS VERY PROUD OF YOU AS YOU HAVE COME FROM SUCH HUMBLE BEGINNINGS TO MAKE SUCH A YOUNG WOMAN OF YOURSELF AND WE ARE ALL VERY PLEASED TO KNOW YOU BUT I AM MORE PLEASED TO KNOW YOU THAN MOST AS BEFORE YOU CAME TO TOWN I WAS A VERY UNHAPPY DWARF INDEED

SOMETIMES PEOPLE ARE TOO SOFT TOUCHED TO SAY SO BUT I KNOW I AM VERY OFTEN A VERY UNPLEASANT DWARF INDEED AS SOMETIMES I HAVE TROUBLE MAKING FRIENDS AND THIS IS A VERY UNFORTUNATE CONDITION AS I HAVE SOMETIMES MADE A HABIT OF FRUSTRATING EVEN VERY PATIENT PEOPLE UNTIL THEY HAVE NO TIME FOR ME AT ALL AND EVEN IF THEY SMILE AND TOLERATE ME I CAN TELL THAT THEY WISH I WOULD LEAVE THEM BE AND SOMETIMES I WOULD NOT LEAVE THEM BE JUST OUT OF SPITE BUT KEEP TALKING AND ONLY MADE MYSELF MORE ODIOS

I DO NOT HAVE MUCH FAMILY WHO ESCAPED MY DWARFHOLD WHEN IT FELL AND THOSE I DO HAVE DO NOT LIKE ME MUCH MORE THAN HUMANS USUALLY DO AND MOST DWARVES DO NOT HAVE MUCH CHANCE TO HAVE A FAMILY OF THEIR OWN SO FRIENDS ARE VERY IMPORTANT AND WHEN YOU MET ME I HAD NO FRIENDS AT ALL

I HAD DREAMED THAT I WOULD COME TO A  UMGI   HUMAN TOWN AND MAKE BEER AND THEY WOULD ALL APPRECIATE IT VERY MUCH ON ACCOUNT OF IT BEING SO MUCH BETTER THAN HUMAN BEER WHICH IS WEAK AS PISS BUT I MUST SHAMEFULLY ADMIT I AM A VERY POOR BREWER INDEED AND NO ONE LIKES MY ALE AND IT IS VERY DIFFICULT FOR A DWARF TO ADMIT BECAUSE SKILLS ARE VERY IMPORTANT FOR A DWARF

SOMETIMES FOLK IN BELLA COLLINA WOULD LOOK TO ME AS A FIGHTER AS WITH THE TROLL AND SUCH BUT IN TRUTH I AM NOT MUCH OF A FIGHTER OR STRATEGIST EITHER I AM JUST A LITTLE HARDIER THAN THE HUMANS AROUND ME AND AS YOU CAN IMAGINE TO HAVE NO REMARKABLE SKILLS FOR COMBAT OR CRAFTING AND NO FAMILY TO SPEAK OF AND NO FRIENDS WELL I SHOULD SAY IT IS A VERY POOR CONDITION TO BE IN INDEED AS A DWARF IS MUCH DEFINED BY HOW USEFUL HE IS TO HIS PEOPLE AND TO HAVE NO USE OR PEOPLE IS VERY SORROWFUL

WHEN YOU CAME TO BELLA COLLINA YOU WERE VERY PATIENT WITH ME AND SHOWED ME FAVOR AND THOUGHT TO ASK FOR ME AND INCLUDE ME IN THINGS AND IT IS BECAUSE OF THAT I KNOW THAT THE PEOPLE IN BELLA COLLINA DARED TO TRUST ME IN CERTAIN SITUATIONS SUCH AS THE MISCHEIF WITH BERTUCCIO AND SUCH THINGS

GHERARDINO CAME TO BE A FRIEND OF MINE ALSO THROUGH THESE THINGS AND WHEN HE ASKED ME TO OPERATE THE INN IN THE VILLAGE SQUARE SO HE COULD OPEN THE TROLLSLAYERS REST I WAS QUITE UNSURE OF MYSELF INDEED BUT I HAVE FOUND I LIKE MAKING A COMFORTABLE PLACE OF REST FOR WEARY TRAVELLERS VERY MUCH AS IT IS NOT VERY GLORIOUS WORK BUT AT THE END OF A LONG JOURNEY THERE IS NOTHING MORE PLEASING THAN A WARM FIRE AND A HOT MEAL IN ONES BELLY AND SINCE I HAVE DECIDED TO SELL MY FARM AND BREWING TOOLS TO BUY THE INN OUTRIGHT I HAVE BEEN VERY CONTENT INDEED

I KNOW YOU ARE DOING MANY EXCITING THINGS LIKE FLYING IN YOUR MACHINE AND SHOOTING GUNS BUT I THOUGHT YOU SHOULD KNOW THAT YOU SHOWED KINDNESS TO AN UNPLEASANT DWARF AND AS A RESULT I AM MUCH HAPPIER AND I THINK PEOPLE FIND ME LESS ODIOS WHEN I AM HAPPIER SO I AM TWICE THANKFUL

I HAVE ENCLOSED A RING THAT ONCE BELONGED TO MY FATHER AS IT IS THE MOST PRECIOUS ITEM I OWN AND I WANT YOU TO HAVE IT ON YOUR TRAVELS EVEN IF IT IS TOO BIG FOR YOUR SMALL HUMAN FINGERS I THINK IT WILL DO JUST FINE AS A PENDANT AND YOUNG MARCO WAS VERY EAGER TO MAKE THE BRAID FOR IT

THANK YOU VERY MUCH

YOUR FRIEND NOGROM  

In the small leather pouch is a chunky but very finely crafted gold ring that might fit on your big toe.
It has been thoughtfully hung on a braided loop of fine leather strands.  The 'top' third of the outer face of the ring has three small circular flats, each of which is scored with a dwarven rune marked out with in beautiful precision.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
This is a talisman with three dwarven runes.  IC, they activate based on Taalia's instinct, not her specific knowledge of their function.  Temporary ones vanish when used; permenant does not.  OOC, you activate them at the point at which they are relevant.

The runes are:

 Rune of Luck (Permenant):   The bearer of an item inscribed with this rune gains an extra Fortune Point each day. Characters with the Lucky talent cannot benefit from a Rune of Luck. 
 Rune of the Furnace (Temporary):   A character bearing an item inscribed with this rune is immune to fire damage of all types. Neither natural fires nor fire-based attacks such as fiery blast spells can affect someone protect by a Rune of the Furnace.  Once the rune is activated (a free action), the benefit only lasts for 1 minute. 
 Rune of Fate (Temporary):   The first attack that reduces the bearer of an item inscribed with this rune to 0 Wounds is negated. The bearer suffers no damage from this attack. This rune can only be used once. 
 

 
 
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 

Taalia might have been a touch tipsy, but Augusto's opening up about his friend, or associate rather, drew a more serious tone across the girls face as she nodded. By now she had become desensitised to violence. She had seen enough in the slave pits to last dozens of life-times, and had done so during her most developmental years. Even after emerging onto the surface, her exposure had not ended there. The goblins had shoved a mining pick through her left bicep. The troll. The mutants. The skaven. The Tower. That dead-eyed psychopath Simonuccio. The pirates. Violence followed her where-ever she went...or rather, it was present where-ever she would go.

And so, when Adriano was brought up, Taalia did exhibit a genuine remorse, but it was not to the level a first-time killer would exhibit. Taalia was no gun-shy deer, that much was clear - she'd been around the block a few times.

 "I'm sorry too..."  she uttered, seemingly quiet but with sincerity.

 "I think that some of us, perhaps...the purpose in life is to serve as an example of what  not  to be." 

Sharing a moment of remorse and retrospection, Taalia leaned over and kissed the boy on the cheek and offered a small smile. He'd seen his friend die because of the thievery profession. He'd been rescued at great risk and cost. He had a family here that loved him and a good life to be had with them. That was the best the shepardess could do.

 "I...don't know my parents,"  she said quietly, eyes focused on her drink.  "I haven't seen them since I was very...very young. When I came up here  in Tilea..." she shook her head, looking upwards a little,  "I thank the gods I came up near Bella Collina. Gaulfredo and Ariana...they took me in. Without them, without Maso Cestie..."  the girl shrugged,  "I don't know where I would have ended up." 

When Biagio approached and offered his thanks, Taalia wore a sweet, bright smile and hugged him in return. She would decline his compliments, doing so politely and humbling, though deep down it did feel nice helping out Maso Cestie's extended family. Something of a 'thank you' for all he had done for her and offered in action rather than words. But sent by the gods? Taalia blushed and smiled it way, wishing him all the best.

 oOo 

Taalia read the letter from Nogram with a warm smile across her face. She knew how proud dwarves were - that's why they never lasted long beneath the lash of the rat-men. Their minds just could not even give them the reprieve for a false notion of living-to-fight-another-day. So for Nogram to commit those words to paper, to admit that his skill with weapons was only above average, that he was deliberately a pain in the arse and couldn't really brew beer particuarly well - sacriligious words for a dwarf! - well, the shepardess knew he was genuine.

Of course, being able to merely write these things and send them off on a letter to be read at a later date was considerably easier than looking her in the eye and admitting these things. Even now, Taalia could remember the teeth-gritting reluctance Nogram had exhibited during her trial when he had to admit that she had exhibited notable valour, while he had only shown  expected  bravery. It was a tough pill to swallow, she knew as such, particulary for the 'elder races' such as the dwarves and the elves. And to a human? A girl who knew how many fold younger than they? The pride the dwarf had to swallow to pen this letter must have tasted fouler than his beer, and knowing that, Taalia treasured it even more.

But, she was happy to hear that he had embraced his new profession: Nogram the tavern keeper! A dwarven barkeep situated at the centre of town, providing wonderful hot meals and and overseeing a welcoming atmosphere after a long days travel. That he had actually brightened his disposition and mood? Taalia felt a mixture of happiness, pride and happiness-for-others swelling in her chest as she read it.

 "I'm happy for him!"  she'd announce to the others.

Then came the ring.

If the dwarf's words on paper had been convincing, the dispensement of a  family heirloom  to her, a human, widened the girls eyes and drew out an audible gasp as she watched and felt that stout, golden ring fall into her waiting palm. The braided leather necklace that threaded through it, crafted by Marco, was an additional touch that would allow her to wear it around her neck. That the lad was getting along well - assumedly - after she had had to let him down, also brought a smile to her face.

But this!

Taalia held the ring up and peered at it with wide-eyed wonder as if it held some secret to life hidden within the wrought golden loop of its being. She looked at the others, Cestie and Bella, the full and deep significance of this trinket clear as day on her face. For Taalia, words meant something...but so did actions. They meant a whole lot more, in fact. It was one thing to espouse appreciation, it was quite another to offer something as treasured as  this  as a symbol.

Swallowing gently, the shepardess immediately drew the leather braid open and put it around her neck, tucking that golden ring beneath her shirt so it would rest against her collar-bone.

For several long moments she had no idea what to say to her companions, as a red flush of humility ran across her face and she struggled for words. One hand at the back of her head, stroking her own hair, unable to conjure a sentence worthy of what she'd been given, the girl bit her lip and looked at the others.

 "....wow?"  she uttered in disbelief, shock and gratitude.

Naturally, before they got underway once more, Taalia withdrew her writing kit and insisted on scribing a return message. Though not as long as the one she had received, the girl insisted that she make the effort - after all, Nogram had.

In her fluent and flowing Tilean, Taalia outlined a basic premise of their journey so far and thanked him for all that he had done. It had been his idea on how to distract the pirates during that initial skirmish, after all. He had stories to tell and a warm bed and hot meal to offer those on the long journey between Paula di Silo and Bella Collina, and it brought her enormous joy knowing she played a part in helping him find contentment in this life, for it was a harsh world and decent folk would need as much as they could find. She would treasure his gift and when she had a son worthy of its reception, she would pass it on to him along with the knowledge of where and who it came from.

And, naturally, to thank Marco for the braid.

Taalia offered Bartomar a full duro to return the message, and drew up a second, smaller letter to Polo; a greeting, a summary, best wishes and to provide the messenger with a further five duro from her farm finances for successfully catching her before departure and returning a message. Six duro in total, almost half a years wages for an average labourer, and all in a month or so of travel along safe and patrolled roads.
MrAbdiel
   The Power of One 
  Part 2 - "Transire Benefaciendo" 
   
 Chapter 2 - Traversée   

Cestié is quiet and thoughtful for most of the flight north, away from the fringe of the swamp and toward Nuvolone Pass.  He has a lot to think about - when you set our from Bella Collina, he was leaving a lot less behind than he is now.  But ultimately he is undeterred; and as you camp in a field on the outskirts of the town or Ravola, Signore Cestié is happy to continue his history lessons.

 "These northern principalities - Miragliano, and Trantio particularly - have a more varied history than old Verezzo.  In the ancient times, one of the early Emperors of Sigmar's realm ruled much of the north.  That must have been more than two thousand years ago - but between that and old habits and the Empire more recently becoming more prominent in the world, there are many Miraglianans who use the Imperial Calender, instead of the Verenan one.  Some call Karnas and Ishea 'Taal and Rhya', as they do in the northern realms.  But this town, Ravola, is famous because this is where Tilea turned back the Bretonnian interests a thousand years ago.  As the tale goes, the Bretonnian barons from the north were starting ti impinge through the pass and press their interests into Miragliano, assuming authority and demanding taxation from the northern towns.  For many years there were skirmishes and conflicts - not to say outright war, not like Tileans have with each other.  The Bretonnians never marked an army through the mountains - they just rode around expecting capitulation.  In fact, that's much of the insult!" 
 "At a great banquet held by the Prince of Miragliano, hoping to find terms of peace, an oafish Bretonnian, the Baron du Bors, loudly claimed that Bretonnians were better knights and that the prince ought to save the hassle and hand the city over to them!  Well, as you can imagine, the mercenary knights thought very little of this.  Bretonnians have always had pretentions about the lack of virtue in mercenary work, and a brave warrior, Etto the Fierce, issued a challenge - a joust!  And how could the horsemen of the north refuse such a wager?  The Tournament of Ravola took place soon after, right over there..." 

He points across the field, past the wall of the town, to a conspicuously grand silhouette of a hippodrome against the starlit sky.

 "...and the outcome has been etched in Tilean legend ever since.  Etto was the master of a mercenary knight company, the Venators.  They were not as well born as the Baron's men, but they were all veterans of many campaigns; while the Bretonnians were young men surging about in a foreign land looking for adventure and exploits.  Experience proved the master of chivalry, and the Baron and his knights were roundly beaten in the tournement - subsequently withdrawing in shame, and never again have the Bretonnians pressed their interest beyond the mountains.  Of course, the plagues and orcs and such afflicting them in the north might well have played into the dampening of those interests - but as far as Miragliano is concerned, the Venators gave them such a slap they never came back for more." 

It's coming into winter, but it's an unusually warm night which evens out into a very pleasant evening, for your last under a Tilean sky for a long time.  Graciously, you are not troubled through the night; and the next morning you are flying again toward the Iranna range.  From the air, you can see the peaks rising up like crenulations for the Tilean realms; spreading west to border the Blighted marshes, and beyond that swinging south to become the Abasko range on the other side of the sea, where the city state of Tobaro shares its peninsula with the rapacious and lusty Estalians beyond.  West, the mountains extend and ramp up into the high peaks and deep vallies known as the Vaults, the old battered dwarven realm; and then turning south to become the Apuccini mountains where Myrmidia is said to have explored and discovered the old elven medical texts that form the basis of modern human medicine, and near to where you blinked into sunlight for the first time in ten years.

You might not have known where this pass was, except for the crescent shaped encampment of mercenary regiments bracing its exit.  Through Cestié's spyglass, you can see the soldiers there - perhaps a thousand or so, at a guess - are in a state of attentive idleness.  It must have been some time since the orcs have pushed down and made a concerted effort to break through, but old scars in the landscape and dead patches of grass where pyres have long gone suggest it wasn't  that  long ago.

 "We'll put down here, first!"  the Signore calls back to you, as he starts tilting the flying machine into a descent;  "It wouldn't do to confuse that many crossbowmen - I'd like them to recognize us on the way back!" 

As you descend, it's Bella who notices you are not alone in the sky.

 "Taalia, look!  Look, up there!" 

As you are descending to land inoffensively behind the mercenaries' line, another flyer is rising up on the other side and taking to the skies above the pass.  It's a great chestnut coloured horse with grand eagle's wings sprouting from its forequarters, whose great beating effort carries steed and rider with practised ease.  The knight astride the pegasus is wearing exactly the panoply you would expect of such a sight - chainmail head to toe with sabatons and gauntlets and helm, and both steed and rider draped in black and gold cloth that seems to be heraldic in nature.

 "Oh, Taalia - have you ever seen such a thing?  What is it?"  Bella exclaims, straining against the bindings of her passenger pod in goggle-eyed wonder.  Signore Cestié, who is presently concentrating on a landing, defers the question to you rather than looking around.

 "Is it a problem?"  the old gent asks, as he switches over the gears from the operation of the wings to the wheels. 
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 
   
Taalia wore an extra layer of clothes on her torso as they took to the skies once more and left behind beautiful Tilea, the land that had given her so much. She had quickly learned during the testing phases of this machine that traveling at a particular speed and at a certain elevation resulted in a rather cold climate. And so, when they departed the beautiful, sometimes violent, but self-determining land of Tilea, the shepardess looked over her shoulder, smiled at her lovely friend, and fixed her hetero-chromia eyes on the verdant fields one more time before offering a small, heartfelt wave.

Thus began the flight over the mountains.

From their position up high, the snowcapped peaks and their green, foliage-filled valley's possessed a unique allure. It was easy to imagine how some adventure-hungry youth could look upon these mysterious rivers of tree's moving through the towering crags and think that excitement lurked within. They were often right, but as the mercenary camp ahead and below denoted, exciting didn't always mean safe. Indeed the cliffs, ridges and ravines were home to a host of the mysterious, the dangerous and astonishing. Taalia knew all too well. It had been the light end of the mountains into which she had emerged, the natural sun greeting her grimy face and the greenery of the forest to meet her. The sounds of the birds. The fresh air on her features and kissing her skin. The injured ratman beside her, Ragabash, now gone to whatever afterlife awaited the 'kinder' breed of Skaven, if such a thing were populous enough to warrant it. Taalia peered down from her flying machine as it all sailed below her, each square kilometer a veritable world to its inhabitants, but, when viewed from her station, just one region of many.

When Cestie offered the history lessons around the night-time fire, Taalia listened with wide-eyed interest. The only other exposure about Bretonnia she had received was from the woman in the market to whom she had sold her telescope, which had, in turn, been the basis for her farmland expansion. Unfortunately, she had forgotten all of the language that lady had offered, as it had been so long ago and she had used the phrases to infrequently they had slipped from her memory.

But something Taalia had asked about  :  "Don't the Bretonnians use firearms?" 

It was a simple question that only an ignoramus on the land could ask. Of course they didn't use firearms! Their whole way of life, nay their whole  society  was centred around the knight, the professional warrior. What that knight represented went beyond just swinging a sword, it was the basis for the entire culture in more ways than Taalia could even predict with her naivety, but she would eventually learn.

When the trio banked their flying machine about to land near that mercenary camp down below, it was Bella that spotted... it  first. However, her excitement was contagious.

Hearing her friends excitement, Taalia whipped her head about in search for its genesis - and she quickly found it. The shepardess' eyes widened as she saw a... flying horse ? A man riding a flying horse?! The beautiful, chocolate-collored steed had broad, angelic-like wings drawing out from both sides of its body, powerful enough to grant it and the armored man upon its back the full elevation of flight. Transfixed at the sight, eyes wide and mouth slightly agape, Taalia didn't feel any fear, but rather just excitement. Sure, she could draw up her firearm from its storage and try to blow the thing out of the sky - but why would she? The golden and black heraldry worn by the armored knight clearly denoted  some  type of respect to establishment, and so it was highly unlikely he would mark them as hostiles.

Besides, he was probably just as amazed by their own contraption as they were with his beautiful steed!

 "Cestie! What is that?!"  Taalia joined her bestie like a pair of excited, astonished daughters staring out a window at some new sight and demanding answers from the more knowledgeable father figure.
MrAbdiel
 Cestié hasn't met many Bretonnians; but he definately hasn't met any with guns.  If anything, he considers, that sounds like an exploitable market he's interested in learning about when you're over the mountains!  But when the time comes to boggle at the flying creature, he is torn between his planned landing and laying his eyes on the phenomenon.

 "Err..." 

Signore Cestié begins, leveling off in his descent for a moment so he can afford to look up at the spectacle which has confounded both you and Bella.  Ultimately, he is glad he did.

 "Oh!  Oh, look at that - a pegasus, I think.  A flying horse!  What a fancy thing..." 
 
 Spoiler: Recollection: 

 
 Originally Posted by Madame Suzette 
  "But if you do wander that way - once the orcs are cleared from the pass, I suppose - you'd do well to have a man escort you. You will find most men there will treat you somewhat respectfully, whether you present as a woman of quality or not; but they won't take you seriously without a man to echo your sentiments. But a pretty girl like you can attract a knight errant to squire her about, easilly enough. The nation itself is not unbeautiful, I must say. Her loveliness as a realm is equal to my fair Tilea, I think; especially the Grey Mountains. I grey up in Parravon, a castle-city cut into the mountainside, where you can see the forest sprawl proudly out below; and if you wait on the high places and watch the mountains, sometimes you can see  le Pégase  fly in twos, and threes; stallion, and mare, and sometimes foal. Ah..."  You've done it now; she's a little tearful, but boxes her sentiment with a self-reproaching little smile, and thumbs at her eyelashes to strike away the evidence. 
 
 

 "It, err..."   He contends as he turns his attention back to his own flying, and the descent.   "Looks like he's making back over the pass, as we intend to.  Perhaps running messages between our lads and the frogs on the other side.  Bretonnians, I mean.  Maybe we'll see it again when we cross, but for now - here comes landing!" 

The flying machine comes to a somewhat bumpy stop to the marvel of the mercenaries ahead of you.  You throw the lever that deploys the stand for the machine, and you and Bella are both quickly out of your seats just in time to see the majestic beast and its mysterious rider vanish around the curve of a cliffside.

You get the normal response from the mercenaries, who are present here in a wide array of panoplies and styles of dress and battlefield role.  There are many pavise-lugging crossbowmen - famed  Marksmen of Miragliano  - as well as various ostentatious units of pikemen and skirmishers.  All of them are amazed, even delighted, to see the flying machine.  They bombard Cestié with questions about its manufacture, its inspiration, its obvious design comparisons to the gliders used by Daedalo's birdmen.  They're a little disappointed to hear the design is not a military one - purposed for sustained two-person flight over long distances, not short periods of action like Daedalo's contraption.  But their disappointment does prompt Cestié to recall your recent strafing of skaven at the outskirts of the marsh.  They enjoy that telling - especially the Miraglianans.

 "Fine work, signorina; fine work!"  One of the crossbowmen claps you on the shoulder, eager to congratulate you on ratslaying which is the duty and reward of all Miraglianans.  As you turn to see him, you notice him flinch slightly.  He is a man only a few years older than you, only a few inches shorter.  You are not unused to such attention, though you imagine your stature weeds some potential conversation partners out of the mix.  But it can't be your height that caused the flinch - he knew that when he touched your arm.  It must be the scars.  In an instant his face goes from an easy smile, through a flash of realization, then to a  polite  smile; and you sense the follow up flatteries that were coming rapidly drying up from the man.

Bella does not have such problems.  Her problem is different - after asking her about the machine, what it's like to fly, and where she has come from, some of the mercenaries hovering about her are pushing their luck - asking for kisses for luck, for courage, for to ward off the orcs.  She laughs  politely , but begins to become uncomfortable until a mercenary captain stomps over to break up the gathering and demand the men return to the line, which they do.  It is from this fellow - the bald headed, grey bearded  Capitano Pedaro Niko  - from whom Cestié gets the answers he landed for in the first place.

 "Well,"  says the Capitano with thought, fondling his beard as he looks over to the pass.   "You should be fine, so long as you stay quite high.  Orcs can't hit stationary targets on the ground often enough, I doubt they'll waste much time shooting up at you, and even if they could they're more likely to shoot themselves when the shaft comes back down.  It's been quiet over this end, for a while - the greenskins are in a season of internal strife, our scouts say; and if we're lucky, they'll kill enough of each other to retreat into the high tops against for a few years.  Until then, they'll keep making probing attacks and breakout actions, and we'll keep them penned in.  They've been pressing the frogs more than us, the last month; expect to wave down at them more as you reach the other side." 
 
 Spoiler: Perception Test +20% Success (Hearing): 
As Cestié chats to the Capitano, you notice one of the camp followers, a servant who keeps the officer's tent's, is minding a pair of dogs a little closer to the mercenary line.  One is small (smaller than Corvo and Rocco, anyway) and so slender legged it's almost comical - a racing dog you think, for it must go like a shot on its sparingly little stilt legs.  The other is a scruffy little mutt of indeterminate breed; a squat little something-terrier of grey and white fur.

Seeing such an odd canine pairing reminds you also of a promise you made to Viletta.
 
 
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 


Taalia  should  have been offended by the young mercenary's swift one eighty when witnessing her scarred face. She  should  have. But, by now, the girl had just gotten used to them. Whenever she had saw herself in a mirror or the reflection of a pond, that's what she beheld. There was no changing that, as much as she'd like to. Where the merc saw the marring of beauty and an unpleasant veneer, Taalia saw memories of a time when she was weak and in chains, a life-long lesson she would never forget nor relinquish. And so, when the boys obvious attempts at flirtation skidded to a halt faster than an excited dog, Taalia just pursed a lip, raised a slender whitened eyebrow and gave him a knowing look before turning her gaze over to Bella, whom was having struggles of her own. Taalia knew the girl better than everyone, and she could tell she was not in her element. It was one thing to be fawned over by a single, romantic interest, but to be the centre of attention for a group of young, professional warriors who likely hadn't seen a woman in months, let alone one of Bella's attractive properties, well, it was little wonder she quickly grew to dislike being the centre of attention.

Taalia was going to move over and try to break the growing ice, but thankfully a bearded captain stepped in instead. Something of a mercenary herself now, Taalia offered a darkly humored smile towards her friend as she approached and gave her shoulder a reassuring rub. That was when the sounds of barking and doggy-whining entered her ears.

Turning her head, inhaling that beautiful mountain air, Taalia spotted the two types of pooches - unusual in gait and appearance, moreso than she was used to. Perhaps the shepardess had become accustomed to canines similar to Corvo and his fearsome mother, contrasted with the intelligent and agile sheepdog Rocco. Instead, these ones seemed more...mixed? Versatile? They did not seem particularly specialised for a certain purpose, rather they were here to do...whatever it was that they did. Given the situation the mercenary camp was in and its proximity to the baying, brutal greenskins, Taalia would have guestimated that the only dogs they'd have present would be those of Corvo's presuasion: big, heavy set, block-like heads and powerful jaws. The type of dog that could sniff out an enemy and harass them while their human masters maneuvered into position to put in the killing lead shots.

But these...

Furrowing her brow, smirking, the Shepardess also remembered her promise to Adolpho's daughter: to catalogue the unusual dogs she saw.

Taalia would collect her writing kit and moved over towards the owner of the dogs, or at least their attendnatn.

 "I've never seen breeds like those..."  she started off, smiling at the man and then down at the pooches.

 "What type are they? What's their purpose?" 



OOC:
_____________________

If the attendant doesn't mind, Taalia will write the information and names about the breeds, as well as take sketches of them.
MrAbdiel
  "Oh, well...  This here is Phillip."   The servant gestures to the skinny little stilt-dog.  The servant seems a little surprised at your interest - well used to being ignored at best, or perhaps looked down on by the fighting men.  The polite attention of a stranger, and the request for information he can actually supply, seems to balm his pride a little. You swear he stands up a little straight just for the opportunity.

The dogs, naturally, are dogs; they are very interested to sniff and lick your hands, and are highly receptive to affection.  A small reprimand is all that is required to cease them barking in surprise at Milo, poking up out of his pocket in your vest before snoozily retreating.

 "Phillip's a racing hound - a  Tilean Slimhound  if you want to be technical.  He broke his leg in a race in Remas, and usually the poor buggers just get shot after that; but the capitano happened to be watching and took pity on him.  He still runs real good, now it's healed up.  Just not money-making good.  Throw a stick for him, you'll see; moves like a little bullet, he does." 
 
 Spoiler: Phillip 
 
 

 "And Tiana here is a ratter's dog.  Not sure she's any particular breed; ratter's dogs are  bitzas , you know? Bits of everything.  But in Miragliano and Tobaro they're starting to come into a breed of there on - Tiana here is Tobaran, herself.  In twenty years they'll call it a breed and think of a name, but for now she's just got a very fine nose for rat-hunting.  She's practically fearless, but she's not as dumb as some little dogs are - knows her size, you know?  Doesn't forget she's little, which is important when your dog's job is to go racing down dark tunnels looking for trouble." 
 
 Spoiler: Tiana 
 
 

 "The capitano picked her up in his travels and just fell in love, I guess.  What's, uh... What's that story?" 

He points to the feline lump in your pocket - the world's first flying cat, as far as you know.  The birds nest is still in the flying machine too; though the little ones have hatched and grown up in your travels, and seem to have left the nest.  You see them sometimes, but they don't need their home anymore.  Just as well - Milo might have had trouble sharing, long term. 
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 


Taalia smiles as she listens to the young attendant speak. Her egaliatiran nature, given her slavery upbringing, didn't see him as really lesser or above the others in the camp. He seemed to not be the one to talk to in matters of violence, of course, but as an animal tender, the shepardess felt a gentle alikeness as she kneeled down and rubbed her hands around the heads of the two excited dogs.

 "They're very cute!"  she smiled brightly.

Milo, meanwhile, was ducked into her jacket pocket, his little, furred head and large eyes avoiding the look of the two dogs before his owner.

 "Oh don't worry about him!"  Taalia mentioned in regards to her cat.  "I got him in Miragliano after I accidently shot his owner. Long story!" 

The girl giggled as she rubbed her head with the dogs, taking her parchment out and sketching them, taking their breed names down and notes for their purpose and dimensions.

 "We're just passing through; we wanted to stop here to make sure you didn't shoot us out of the sky on our way back, hah!"  she beamed, her mood noticeably higher in the presence of the two doggo's before her and her kitten in her pocket.
MrAbdiel
 The servant (whose name is Leoduccio) is more than happy to talk about dogs and cats and animals for as long as you indulge each other.  He had a lamb growing up that his father intended to fatten up to eat; but the creature became one of the family and ended up outliving the man who bought it.  Twenty years old, he says; which is older than the heavy-fleeced sheep you were breeding would likely manage, but not impossible for some leaner meat breeds.

Bella finds her way over to you while Cestié jaws with the capitano, just as you are putting away Viletta's little book of dogs.  Perhaps reluctant to let nice people wander off, before you can break away, he offers with a somewhat immature coyness:

 "...You ladies want to see a dead orc?"
 
 * * * * * 
The orc scout had been killed the night before sneaking into the camp, over-estimating his guile.  He did kill two men as they slept, however - so that's not to say there's no guile to speak of.

Well and truly bled, the creature's skin is less vibrant than the goblins you have seen in the past; but its pallor is leathery green, like they were.  The orc is far more intimidating than the goblins - bigger than a man, thick with ropey muscle.  Its proportions are strange; the arms are longer, the legs a little shorter, and you imagine the creatures are not particularly swift on their feet but can swing a weapon to great effect.  The orc's blade lies next to it, in the pit just off the mercenary camp where the viewing takes place - a slab of metal that seems to have the impact sensibilities of an axe and the blade length of a sword, and looks like a bloody nightmare to try to actually wield without the orc's powerful arms and core.  Beady little red eyes gaze blankly up at the sky above a flat stub of a nose and a positively huge underbite full of yellowed spike-teeth.  There are seven wounds on its body that seem to be from crossbow bolts, all in the torso.  Judging by the way the bloodstains run down the filthy leather jerkin, he must have had atleast five in him while he was upright and still going - four in the front, another in the back - before he finally keeled over.

 "I thought the orcs came from the west - from beyond the mountains, in the Border Princes.  How are they here?"  Bella asks, grimacing at the corpse.

"Don't know where the came from, but they're everywhere, now.  Like weeds, they are; they spring up if you don't root them out well and good.  The Bretonnians have been driving them up high into the mountains for a long time, now; but every now and then enough of them get together in the caves up there to come down and make a ruckus - like these last few years.  Capitano says if they had a proper leader we'd be in real trouble - orcs need a good leader or they can't get nothin' done.  But when they get together, they can drag down dwarf holds, and principalities and all sorts.  And you know the weirdest thing?"

Leoduccio looks around, as if telling a valuable secret.

 "No one's ever seen their women.  The mercs say when they sack an orc camp, or drive them out of a settlement, it's just more of the men.  No one knows where they come from.  They just come out of nowhere when no one's looking, form gangs, and start looking to ruin the world."   He shakes his head.   "Thank Myrmidia for crossbowmen, I think." 

This seems outlandish.  The same could be said of the skaven - humans don't know where they come from except that they boil out of holes in the ground in great droves, all male.  But how would anyone know that the female skaven are kept deep in the warrens, from cradle to grave in a chemicle stupor, birthing and nursing swarms of the repulsive vermin without ever having a free and concious thought in their lives?

How would anyone know, who had not lived among them?  And how would knowing change anything of the horror of them, for those who live above?  No doubt the orcs and goblins have something similar - some hidden place where they keep their women to create their armies.  Though if it's underground, it's a wonder the rats aren't finding and enslaving them, too.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
It's not worth an insanity check.   If there were 'disgust' points, I'd make you roll for one. But if Taalia has any immediate reactions to seeing her first orc, you may log it now for posterity.  Otherwise, it's time to hit the skies again!
 
 
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 


Taalia pursed her lips and furrowed her brow at the news that an orc had snuck into the camp. What were the sentries doing? If anything? Didn't they use dogs to 'man' the perimeter?

But the star of the show was the green cadaver of the orc. Taalia had been around numerous goblins, the smaller, less lethal, but far more devious kin of the orcs. Seeing the greenskin in person, dead as it was, the shepardess could imagine its ferocity in her mind, those ape-like arms and unusual gait providing an awkward movement that would surge forward with powerful locomotion. The girl reached out and gripped one of its large, green hamfists, drew it up at the end of its thick, rope-muscled arm and let it drop drown heavily onto the floor. Flicking her lips, Taalia shook her head and exhaled, standing up.

 "No females?"  Taalia asked, narrowing her brow at the revealation.

 "Not one has been seen?" 

The girl knew about the Skaven breeders, the corpulent, chemically-comatosed miserable stand-ins for "life". What Taalia had gathered of Skaven "females", if they could be called such a thing, was that there were very few of them, each one a highly prized commodity and they were sometimes even traded. To gain access to a breeder was sometimes an honour or a payment dolled out to ratmen that provided some heroically valuable service to one whom owned enough of the wretched things to dispense such a reward - because that's how the Skaven were. The girl had to shudder back the very idea of being such a pitiful creature, not something that 'lived' as much as it simply existed to multiply in service of an empire that deserved to collapse onto the ashpile of history.

But that brought her back to the orcs: how did they reproduce?

 "You mean this one is..."  she thought of a delicate word,  "... intact ?"  she asked.

The shepardess was no stranger to such things. She had ran a farm after all.

If the confirmation is given that the orc is absent such armaments, her next question was simple.

 "...if they're not males, why would we expect there to be females?" 
MrAbdiel
 It would be easy enough to conclude that, there being no female orcs discovered, these might not be male, and have no male anatomical markers.  Easy to conclude, though not easy to theorize - all creatures from  birds to bears to dragons to men to elves to skaven produce through coupling.  The exceptions are very strange and rare - slimes, and daemons, and monstrous things about which little is known.

And so prodding back the creature's loincloth with a stick, to discover the beast's inhuman, but not unrecognizable protrusion is puzzling.  Perhaps there  are  female orcs somewhere, hidden in caves.  Perhaps urinating with manual precision is so important to the species that the require such dextrous aid - skaven piss on their slaves and possessions to mark them, and dogs do so over locations they are fond of.  Or perhaps whatever malign god created these green monsters did so as a direct parody of the upright and noble races of the world, particularly their fighting men - and the presence of such a feature is a sort of mark of design economy. The creature seemed aware enough of itself to wear a loincloth - ultimately, you come away from the viewing with more questions than answers.

You bid Leoduccio and the dogs farewell, and return with Bella to the flying machine.  "What awful creatures.  The rats are a horror to be sure, but the orc looks like every worst feature of a man made repulsively overpronounced - brutish, smelly, strong.  And also made green, for some reason."  The seamstress ponders with disgust, hoping not to ever see one again.

It is a hope that would be shortly dashed.

You say your farewells to the mercenaries and return to find Signore Cestié quite chipper indeed.  The praise of other men, especially strangers, is deeply gratifying to him.  You remember when the Rampollo Damio invited you into conference with the local livestock barons, and you were treated with slowly mounting appreciation and even admiration for your youthful ambition.  And also, after the stress and fear of his reunion with his family, it is nice to see him happy.  You secure yourselves to the machine, put on your helmets, and pedal back into the sky; ascending up above the winding mountain pass, following its snaking way from the safety of the sky.

A couple of hours into the journey, as the rocky peaks and cliffs scroll by beneath you and the green land beyond them is glowing on the horizon with the dipping sun, your ears first pick up the distant, tinny clatter of battle far below.  Soon, the conflict is visible to you and your companions as well.

Far below, on an upcoming shoulder of cliff on one of the mountains, a lone human fighter makes a slowly failing stand against a small mob of orcs.  The cliff ledge is narrow enough that the familiar knight - in his gold and black heraldry, you have seen him before - is able to control the approach of the orcs with great wild swings of his longsword and mastery of his shield.  Your keen eyes watch as one of the green brutes blurts out a cry of violence and tries to move around to flank, and his slammed in the face with the shield to tumble down the cliff with wet, cracking impacts all the way down the jagged rock.  But the knight is flagging, and tired; and there are a half dozen more orcs cagilly looking for their moment to fall on him and bear him down with their numbers.  The largest among them is a foot taller than the knight, and has a crude wooded rack of spears rigged to his back on which are mounted the heads of two orcs, a skaven, and a human.

You see two more orcs strewn in blood behind the mob, suggesting this has been a fighting retreat, but he can retreat no more - immediately behind him, barring his way both physically and as a matter of chivalry, is the beautiful winged horse; stricken, bleeding, stilled.  It would be impossible to land the flying machine on such a ledge; but it seems the pegasus has more options of maneuverability, and the knight landed to attack the orcs only for his companion mount to suffer a terrible blow and strand him in the fight for his life.

 "Taalia, oh no!  His horse, Taalia, how awful!"   Bella's response is instinctively empathetic, if incomplete.  Her attention is drawn to the suffering of the beautiful and noble animal.  Your attention, sharpened to a razor edge of survival math in the dark places under the earth, is drawn also the the immediate mortal peril of the knight.  He has fought well, and will die surrounded by the bodies of his enemy - but he will die; and the fine helm with its gold and black ribbons will be mounted on that trophy rack.

Signore Cestié looks over his shoulder to you, and gives you a nod.  "Just like the rats, I think.  Transire Benefaciendo, Taalia!  Yahoo!" 
 Transire Benefaciendo  - to travel, and do good deeds; a Tilean expression you have heard before.  It is not the explicitly required lifestyle of any Tilean, but holds a place in the culture as a kind of counterpart to the expectations of hospitality.  Ishea (or perhaps Rhya) will hold accountable those who do not open their home to travellers in need; and Karnos (or perhaps Taal) will look darkly on those vagabonds and freebooters who enjoy the hospitality of strangers, but do not perform those good deeds they can, on the roads through the forests and mountains.  It is the principal that you unknowingly honored when you leapt to Gaulfredo's defense, in the woods in Verezzo against the goblins; and that he honored in turn by opening his home to you afterward.  And it is the principle that Signore Cestié, who has lived most of his life in cities and towns and is just now catching up on his backlog of travel, seeks to honor as he gives you a moment to get your blunderbuss ready, and then puts Maso's Magnificent Flying Machine into a controlled dive and bank to give you a shot at the snarling greenskins.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
Boom!  Give me six damage rolls upon these startled orcs.

Actually, also, you should be rolling a d100 every time you fire that thing, just for the unreliable quality - 1-95 you hit, 96-99 it misfires and jams, 100 it explodes.  You can reroll this with FP.

But after that, six damage rolls.  And, you know, commentary.
 
 
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 

The inspection of the orc had stuck with Taalia for a while following its manifestation. Prodding at particulars of the ugly thing had felt less than wholesome, and when Bella expressed her disgust for the beast on their return to the machine, Taalia had nodded in acquieces to her thoughts. Truth be told...Taalia had seen worse. If Bella thought these things were nasty and horrifying, hopefully fate would spare her from witnessing a cage full of hungry rat ogres...and being the slave whose duty it was to throw the slop bucket to them to fulfil their feeding time.

Even when they ascended back into the mountain sky, the sketchbook tucked away safely and the wholesome images of the dogs filed within her memory, Taalia kept thinking of that green beast. For all the characteristics it possessed, each one a grotesque deformation of a more pleasing form, the girl found the jaw to be the most unsettling. Protruded as it was, brawny, thick and tough, it looked more like the base of a mountain than a functional house for the rows of teeth within its mouth, the way it jutted forward granting the creature an overbite that must have forced it to have the most loathsome of table manners. That ghastly overbite beneath those beady, red eyes...a hideous package indeed.

A hideous package Taalia would be happy to never see again - but fate was not so kind.

The wind was pressing against the shepardesses face like a cool companion when the commotion was spotted. Sailing through the air amidst the crags as they were, the world beneath them was smaller than up close, and so when movement was spotted upon a ledge, with the sun shining off of a blade being swung about in skilful arcs, Taalia noticed it immediately. Turning her head to face it, she tapped Cestie's shoulder once, twice, three times quickly and clicked her fingers of the offending hand: their gesture that he was to pass her the telescope. Having received the item, Taalia extended it and peered through the lens, the world suddenly falling away as her vision was transported hundreds of yards to a spot of conflict straight from a knights tale: a lone, tired man of the blade against a baying mob of savages, his wounded, noble steed by his side and reliant solely upon his survival.

 "Cestie - hard to port!" 

With his attention drawn to the event by the younger set of eyes behind him, the elder Maso drew back upon the yoke and angled the craft to come about. Taalia could see over his shoulder towards the action, the tall pines of the mountains all baring witness to this lone, gold-and-yellow heraldry-swathed knight and his lone defiance against the half a dozen of the savage greenskins baying for his blood. One of the beasts tried his luck, but his bulk and strength proved ineffective compared to the knights skill, as the armored man used the orcs momentum and mass against him with a deflection of his shield and shove of his shoulder to send the cur hurtling off the cliff behind him and down to the splattered fate it deserved.

But there were still more, and the man was visibly tiring.

 "Just like the rats, I think. Transire Benefaciendo, Taalia! Yahoo!" 

Taalia smirked and nodded once.  Leonardo  was stored to her right, and the shepardess gripped its stock and withdrew it. Riding shotgun as she was, Taalia felt the breeze run its cool fingers through her hair as she brought the blunderbuss up and pressed the butt against her shoulder - aiming down the barrel as the green figures grew and grew...

 Crack! 

The shot exploded from the firearm and raked across the puzzled and astonished orcs, peppering their tough, green hides and drawing blood. But it wasn't enough. It might warrant momentary fear, but Taalia doubted that would be enough.

 "Bella - firearm! Reload!"  Taalia yelled over the whirring of the flying machines gears and flapping wings. She held  Leonardo  over her shoulder with her left hand, while her right hand sat likewise, open and waiting to feel the weight of  - there!

Drawing her right arm forward, Taalia brought her firearm up and the butt against her shoulder. To think that she had built this beautiful weapon with the sole intent being to preserve her personal wealth and sell it in Bretonnia or the Empire. The girl wasn't clueless: she had spoken to enough traders during her enterprising time to discover something called an "exchange rate", and how Tilean duro's only possessed approximately half of their value in Bretonnian lands. But, ahhh, material goods were worth the same anywhere! Thus, Taalia had built this firearm with every intent to sell it in the Empire. It was worth a veritable fortune by the common mans standards, hundreds of gold pieces that would take a lone peasant a lifetime to accrue. But here, right now, the power of its lead shot may just be worth even more.

Reaching forward to tap Cestie's shoulder to confirm she was read, Taalia felt her stomach lurch as the flying machine banked starboard to bring itself back around for another run.

Drawing the firearm up against her shoulder and aiming down its sights, Taalia droned the surroundings out and allowed them to become just a green-and-brown blur on her peripheries, while that small handful of orcs dominated her attention, namely, the boss - the big bastard hollaring and hooting. Doubtless he had the savvy to send forward a few of his grunts to wear the knight down, so that he may stride forward and defeat a weakened opponent and claim some item of his possession or person as a grisly trophy. Well, not today, Taalia thought to herself; her green eye staring down those ironsights, the background rushing past so quickly. She had barely a half second to predict movement, the speed of her own passing and the spot on the orc that would do the most damage, and by the time their machine drew close enough, the girl had aimed, taken her mark and pulled the trigger.

 Crack! 

A great puff of smoke billowed out of the machine and wisped off into the mountain air as that lead shot sailed through the distance between them and the bellowing orcs, that bullet blasting forward and carrying more kinetic energy than any arm could possess, its trajectory aligning it squarely with the orcs thick, brawny midsection...
MrAbdiel
  Leonardo  throws his baleful shot, over the orcs.  One is blinded by the flechette, howling and teetering to be trampled by his fellows. But even the best of them is alarmed and harried and blooded by the blast, who are suddenly contending both with the obstructive knight and attacks from a vector they had not expected to ever defend.  They howl and roar at you as the machine buzzes by; and you trade the blunderbuss for the musket, imploring Cestié to afford you another shot.    But you have swooped low in the valley to bring the blunderbuss into range; the cliffs are there with the howling orcs on one side and not so far away on the other to allow a comfortable circle about for another shot like was the case with the skaven.  "Hang on!", the old tinker shouts, pumping his legs in the pedals and pitching the flying machine up from its drive, up until it is spiking directly up into the sky.  You are at the extreme of your range now, but there is a perfect moment of weightlessness where you are not competing with the turning and torquing forces of the machine's movement.  The world is sideways to you; but the bullet flies straight and thumps into the chest of the biggest orc in the mob; the brute seems as shocked as anyone as dark red blood begins pouring down his front, and strength leaves his limbs, and he falls below the mob of his foul kinsmen.

Bella screams.  Her efforts to reload your blunderbuss are faltering at best - she is not well trained with guns, though you have taught her the basics - but now the machine is upright and the sense of soaring turns to one of falling as gravity, that  grudge bearing old coot , seizes a moment to snatch at your magnificent vessel.  Once more however, Cestié seems to know what he is doing.  He manipulates the wings, uses the forward listing of the machine's nose to turn into a new dive instead of a flat spinning fall, and hauling up on the yoke and relying on your desperate pedaling as well as his, the flying machine skims just above the beaten track of the mountain pass and then begins ascending again, northward, leaving the heroic knight in mystery behind you to capitalize on your  Benefaciendo .

 "Show me a dwarven flying machine that can do that, hah?  Hahaha!"   Cestié calls back, face flushed with effort and thrill.  His eyes are the same kind, keen set that beheld you as a newly freed slave living in Gaulfredo's barn; but his face is brighter now, more full of life and somehow more complete for all the experiences you have shared with him and the encouragement you have given him; now an inventor and master of a flying machine that the world had never witnessed.

But men are not the only creatures who dare to slip the surly bonds of earth...

As the flying machine ascends and smooths its erratic recovery, you can see in the distance what must be the Bretonnian containment line.  They are blurs even for your eyes at this distance; you see red and blue pennants, and a press of what must be a band of greenskins trying their luck.  But you hear them much closer.  Racing past the cliffs, as you prepare to start reloading your musket and Bella resumes her work on the blunderbuss, you spy a motley crew of goblins manning strange contraptions on the cliffside beside, then quickly behind you.  They are some kind of catapult, or siege weapon - they pass too quickly for you to see - but their terrible payload is quickly revealed as you are joined in the air by three shrieking goblins.  They are rigged in some kind of gliding contraption of their own, like the kind that Daedalo's men wore, though glacingly you see no pedals or means to propel themselves on.  They wear pointed helms and angle themselves as they are shot high, high even above you like trebuchet stones and then dive toward you like horrendous green raptors.  It is not ambling, swift pedal power that drives them on, but a lunatic rush of gravity arrested just enough to steer the suicide fall of the flyers.  For any point of comparison, this is a thing that skaven would never do - these goblins, these living weapons, must know they are bound to die on impact with their targets on the ground.  No skaven would destroy itself for any reason; no man would do it except for some sense of honor or spite; but the greenskins zipping through the air towards your flying machine seem to be willing to do it for the idiot thrill.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
Goblin revenge!

Your unloaded firearms are unhelpfully unloaded presently; but I would allow you to aim with a pistol and fire when the first one comes into your long range - the +20 for sharpshooter aiming cancelling out the long range penalty.  If that's something you're interested in! Bella will keep reloading the Blunderbuss, and Cestié can only take evasive action.
 
 
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 


And just like that, they had to press on. Conditions and circumstances forced them onward, though Taalia wretched herself about in her seat to try her best to look over her shoulder at the outcome of the confrontation. She'd taken down one normal orc. And the boss had received a fist-sized hole in his chest that had been announced with a splatter of gore, bone and bits of green flesh: he was likely toast too. That would leave the orcs down one goon and remiss of their leader, if things were lucky, and facing a stalwart and skilled opponent. That might be enough to turn things in his favour, Taalia hoped and preyed.

But, the aerobatics weren't over yet. The flying contraption caught the attention of further greenskins, the mountains home to some form of warband that was pressing their forces against the distant Bretonnian lines. Here, in the back ranks where they were, Cestie, Bella and Taalia were sailing over an unfolding battle, the situation only becoming obvious to Taalia the deeper in they got. This realisation struck the girl like a bolt of inspiration, her eyes widening as she immediately attempted to view and spy upon the greenskins encampments and guess their numbers - all the better to tell the Bretonnians later. But the shepardess' scouting efforts were soon disrupted by a new menace - flying goblins.

The white-haired girl stared in disbelief, blinking once and shaking her head in the hopes that she was just seeing things under the influence of adrenaline. But no, there it was: flying goblins.

Bedecked in a laughably primitive, but seemingly functional, version of the personal flying suits the engineering students had used when Cestie had taken Taalia camping in the mountains, the goblins soared high and far after being catapulted into the sky. The steel helm upon their heads was pointed and armoured, clearly to provide the greatest impact the suicidal creatures could impart, while the poorly crafted wings taped, roped and glued to the hideous little creatures body was visibly oscillating beneath the force of the wind. Had the goblin continued for any further distance than which they were propelled, the poor craftsmanship of their flying harness would see them crash uselessly into the ground.

Barely hesitating, Taalia handed her firearm back to Bella and withdrew one of her own pistols that was also holstered next to her. Holding the weapon up and aiming it, she waited...waited...waited...until the goblin drew within effective firing range before pulling the trigger...
MrAbdiel
 Bella shouts the report to Signore Cestié.

 "Maso!  They- they're flying!  Goblins!"
"What?"
"Flying!  Goblins!"
"What?!" 

Maso holds the yoke with one hand and produces a steel mirror on a stick, holds it to one side then then other.

 "Well that's -... I've never seen- Hold on!" 

You snap off your pistol shots at the soaring goblin pursuers.  Neither are clean killers like the shot you took at the orc - but considering you're both flying through the air, and you're firing pistols, you can be pretty proud of yourself.  One pistol ball smacks into the shoulder of one of the flyers, the other almost misses but smacks into the top of the goblin's foot.  Both dip, flapping wildly; the latter loses control with his spasms of pain and spirals catastrophically to the ground, falling out of sight to make what you assume to be a fantastic smear just behind the lines of confused Bretonnians as they run off the land-bound greenskin forces.  The other shows admirable tenacity, if you could permit yourself to admire such a creatre; looking up at you with red-eyed malice and glee as it stabilises and angles its soaring to rejoin pursuit.  Cestie begins forcing the machine to climb.  Pedal-power will take the machine higher, but once the goblins have bled off enough momentum they won't be able to pursue higher, though for now they continue to bob and flutter and gain; the uninjured doom diver and his resilient, desperately sadistic companion.

 "Shoot them, Taalia!  Shoot them!"   Bella calls, as she juggles your spent musket into the pod with her held between her knees as she resumes trying to reload your blunderbuss.  At the rate the two flyers are closing, you might have just enough time to reload one pistol and fire before it's too late.  If Bella can have Leonardo ready, you might get another shot from that weapon; but otherwise, it will be up to Signore Cestié testing the limits of his machine against aeriel aggressors for the first time, with the highest stakes.

You do not have time to appreciate the other milestone - you have emerged from the mountains, and below you are the hills of Carcassonne; the highlands of southern Bretonnia.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
One wounded doom diver, and one healthy one, remain in pursuit.
 You have time to reload and fire one pistol!
 
 
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 


Taalia felt her stomach come up to her chest as the flying machine yoke was drawn back and it took a steep climb upwards. The manoeuvre was useful, she knew. The goblins were propelled by a singular initial explosion of energy and were basically coasting along as gliders, their momentum able to be maintained as long as they didn't attempt to gain altitude.

Not that Taalia was keeping count. By the time she managed to reload one of her pistols, she pivoted around in her seat and half-leaned out of the machine; the wind whipping at her hair as she drew her gun up, aimed it at the slowing goblin and pulled the trigger...
MrAbdiel
 When you pivot to snap your last shot, the lead glider is almost upon you - the reliable snap of your pistol dispatches another bullet to that finds its mark.  The goblin shrieks, curses you in its black heathen tongue, and loses enough momentum in its pained recoil from the shot that all it can do is snarl and howl up at you as it dips toward the ground to smash into a hill somewhere behind you.

But the last goblin, the one with the pistol ball in the shoulder who has maintained form by sheer desire to cause you misery on its lunatic final flight, is still with you.  Just a few feet away, losing speed as you gain it but perhaps not fast enough.  You look behind you at Bella in her pod, and reach for  Leonardo ...

...But the seamstress, overwhelmed with the tasks of receiving firearms and trying to reload them while a flying machine swerves and dips and gunfire goes off  two feet away from her, is not done.  She is trying to work the ramrod but her movement is restricted in the pod and the reload isn't complete -

 "WAAaaaaaghhhh AHAhahahha!" 

Releasing his grip on his flappy wings, the goblin does what no doomdiver has done before - survives impact with his target.  Dirty green digits snatch on to one of the the flying machine's larboard wings.  Immediately, the pumping revolution of those wings judders and stalls as the greenskin is pulled up and snarled between the revolutions of the wings on those sides.

Bella finishes her reload and is ready to hand off the weapon to you, but you can't fire the blunderbuss at the creature on the wing - the scattering shot would tear the light wood and canvas to shreds, dooming you all.

 "Get off, you-"  Cestié cries, one hand holding the yoke as he fumbles for his sheathed short sword with the other.

All of this calamity is compacted into a couple of horrible seconds that you will remember in perfect detail for the rest of your life.  Cestié has stopped pedalling so the wings are set and gliding, rather than stressing the frame as the wing assembly on the larboard fails to rotate with its hanger-on.  The goblin hangs on to the wing with fingers and bites on with teeth, and then all at once the wing's construction gives way.  The machine is a lightweight design; it relies on its slender dowels and waxed canvas and minimalist design to defeat gravity, but is not designed to stand up to intentional damage.  The canvas on the wing gives way, and the goblin slides back snapping dowel after down and slipping free completely; cackling and howling as he spins away to the ground leaving one of the larboard wings jammed, the other mangled and stripped, and half the teeth of his upper jaw embedded in the frame.

Immediately, the flight of the machine loses integrity, and you begin sharply descending.

 "Bloody- damn!  Damn, we're going down, girls!  Brace!  I'm going to try to... glide us in!" 

It's a rugged, terrible descent.  Maso tries to bleed off speed by yoking up the nose of the machine but he is hard pressed not permitting the wounded machine to go into a spin.

You almost get away with it; but the machine is travelling a little skewed as it touches the top of a Carcassonne hill, and still too fast.  The contact hits the wheels at an incline; the front wheel rips off right away.  You remember the tumult, and the ripping crunch of the light woods you helped cut and sand splintering and smashing; and one tremendous burst of pain.

And then nothing.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
It is the fate of heroes to experience terrible reversals in their march towards a greater destiny.

Also I must go to bed.  But I invite you to offer Taalia's dream/coma fantasy while she's out cold.
 
 
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 


The clear water gently pushed past Taalia's feet and through her toes as she sat upon the riverbank, a throne of soft grass about her ad the umbrage shade of tree's protecting her from a late afternoon sun. She didn't have to work today, that was always a bonus! Instead she had time off where she could sit by the fresh-water river and enjoy its final moments before it snaked around a hill and disgorged out into the vast, blue ocean several hundred meters away.

The birds sung in the foliage. The river kept its gentle voice as flowing water rolled over rocks, the gentle warmth within the current carried forth from up along the water-way where the tree's provided no shield and the warmth of the sun was absorbed by the running stream. But here, where the umbrage loomed protectively over the creek, here was an ideal spot that Taalia kept a secret. Or at least she tried. She knew her brothers, sisters, mother and father all knew about it. The gentle strum in the air from the crickets and frogs. The choir of birds nestling within the trees. The pleasant breathing of the river.

 "Look, Molly, look!"  Taalia piped up excitedly, straightening her shoulders as she peered through the natural hedge-canopy of the surrounding forestry and spotted a broad set of sails upon the ocean beyond.

The creature to whom she referred, Molly, was not interested. Instead, the white-and-chesnut cow was laying on its side next to the girl, its large, bovine head resting comfortably in her lap and her cheek receiving the absentminded, gentle pats and strokes of its owner. Its deep, heavy chest rose and fell in a gentle and slow motion, a signifier of peace and contentment with the situation.

 "Oh, come'on, have a look!"  Taalia beamed. But it was no use. The cow just didn't care.

Frumping her face, but smiling anyway, Taalia shook her head and kept her grin up as she returned her gaze to that ship drifting lazily across the horizon.

 "I wonder where they've been?"  she asked, her imagination running wild with speculation as all manner of exotic and far-off locations tumbled through her mind. Dreaded Norsca? Other provinces within the Empire? Far reaches of Bretonnia? The Wasteland? Oh - what if they had been to distant Araby?! Or Tilea?

The girl grinned, her hetero-chromie blue-green eyes transfixed as she silently watched the sea-borne craft slowly move onwards, its image disappearing behind the foliage of her own surroundings.

Then a bell rang out. A signal bell. Just a few short bursts of clanging, echoing communication, but already Taalia's tummy rumbled at the long indoctrinated response.

 "Oh! Molly - it's early supper time!"  Taalia beamed, looking down at her cows large, adorably-stupid head. It gave a token exhale as a response, sensing its smaller masters excitement as it begun to stir.  "That's it girl, one...two...three...upsie-daisy!"  the girl grunted-laughed-grinned as she helped her cow stand back up onto its hooves with that awkward gait, her own body rising to stand as she did so, crinkling her limbs about to shake loose the pins and needles.

 "Drink what you like, but remember, the fences are there for a reason!"  she said happily to her cow, the animals big eyes considering the human before it as Taalia leaned down to kiss it upon its broad forehead. Putting her arms around its large neck, the girl gave it a quick, tight hug before hurrying off.

 "See you soon Molly!"  her voice rang out as she hurried away, the semi-wild river and tree's slowly giving way to the arranged regiments of the apple tree's that stood to attention: row after row after row after row, columns and columns, square, neat, orderly. Their precious, red fruit had been harvested earlier during the week, but as Taalia moved through the familiar territory she could smell the lingering aroma of the sweet crops and vanilla. The girl's trot slowed down to a walk as she moved through the orchard, the sun glistening against her skin as her long, white-blonde hair was back in a single braid that ran between her shoulder blades. Her boots, excellent quality riding boots, were black leather and were one of her favorite possessions, the well-crafted soles enabling her to move through the grounds and simply enjoy her surroundings without having to worry about feeling any loose pebble or sharp stick she might accidently tread upon. And did she ever have to move through the orchard! Row after row, column after column, it was a vast operation that stretched for dozens of acres in all directions.

Traveling towards the centre of the orchard, Taalia passed discarded tools and mostly-empty barrels and bins where the workers would normally be depositing the red fruit of the trees, though no person was visible to her yet. She'd have to tell her father about that. Tools set aside and against the tree's for lunch breaks were fine, but it was unusual to see such untidiness towards the end of the day. Maybe some of the new workers would come through and clean up?

As Taalia walked deeper into the orchard, she could sometimes spot the blue haze of the ocean through the trees, its enormity hidden by the foliage of the apple tree's that surrounded her as she was only afforded glimpses through the patch-work of leaves. But, the ocean was not the only other object of interest, for soon she could see the sizeable, large house her family owned, seated at and rising above the centre of the fruitery. That is from where the bell had been rung. That was where they were to all gather and partake in a spring early supper. As the regimented orchard gave way to the open paved roads and court-yard of the home, Taalia spotted the huge wheels of the cider mill within which her father spent so many days producing and bottling that sweet, alcoholic golden beverage. Their names were on that drink, she was sure of it. The road connected to their house would take them down to the town and, from there, to the docks or elsewhere. Her father could never produce enough!

But never mind that: it was dinner time.

The house was large and built upon a foundation of stone, with painted white walls reaching up three storeys to a slanted, wooden tiled roof. The cream-white of the houses body was further decorated with lumber archways and glass windows that glowed softly with the golden light emanating from within, while a single, small open-air barn-stable sat adjacent to the entire affair. That was where the horses and single cow would rest. The horses from their work and the cow for its precious milk.

Stepping up onto the veranda, Taalia could see nine pairs of shoes already arranged neatly by the main door: everyone was here already, except her. Moving up to the collection, the girl leaned against the wall and withdrew her own boots and set them beside the others - her own pair being taller, more ostentatious than the others that were of simple, but no less sturdy make. Placing her hand on the entrance, Taalia slowly pushed the door open, the gentle creak announcing her arrival as she peered inside the large antechamber of her house, her nostrils immediately hit with the scent of slow cooked meat, sausages, roasted potatoes, gravy and - what was that sweet scent? Apple pie and custard!

Taalia moved inside, the door remaining open behind her as her ears searched for any hint that the others were home.

 "Hello?"  she asked, her voice echoing through the large house. Nothing felt out of place. Though she received no reply, she did not feel unwelcome. She headed forward and into the large welcoming chamber through which was connected the dining room and the kitchen. Passing by the former, she spotted the long table around which her family had sat countless times, the cutlery arranged and ready, the plates shiny and waiting, the candles set but not lit.

 "Hello? Mama? Papa?" 

The kitchen was ready. The food was all there and prepared. This was no great banquet or celebratory feast; this was just another supper. Cooked sausages, potatoes roasted golden, bowls with gravy and others with cooked, green peas and beans. The scent from the oven - pies and custard.

The creak of the door opening further brought Taalia around in an instant, her eyes open, a smile on her face as she knew others were arriving. Hurrying back to the antechamber, her excitement growing, she saw the doorway through which she had come was now even further open than it had been - someone else  had  used it! They were here, doubtless playing a prank on her! Smiling brightly as if ready to laugh at herself with the others, Taalia headed over to that door and opened it further, the warm, spring sunlight on the other side engulfing her completely.
MrAbdiel
 When you return to the dining room, you find they have snuck in, indeed!  Your father and mother seated in their chairs; your siblings arrayed along the long table and gabbling impatiently for you to join them, so you can eat together.  As is sometimes the case with such dreams, the faces and natures of your family are both not apparent and do not strike you as odd for not being apparent.  Not until you have sat down, and your father is leaning over to ladle some food on to your plate, does the illusion start to unravel.  After all, this is not your home; this is not your family; this is not a life you have lived.  And the first thing to betray the blissful fugue is the smell.

Foul.  It rises from the food slopped on your plate - a repulsive splash of grey-brown mush that smells of rot and discarded scrap-flesh.  Your stomach used to know how to eat such food; back when that was all that was on offer.

"Come-come,  Nee-Ruh-Kaha .  You no eat-eat, you no get dessert!"  Your father, his russet fur with its familiar grey streaks crisscrossed with the stripes of his torture, implores you with paternal fondness.

"If you're not hungry,  Mey-La , then your brothers and sisters will leave none for you!"  Your mother warns, her eyebrow tilted; the norscan mistress seemingly in one of her doting rather than cruel moods for the moment.

"I'll eat it!" Vittorio cries, reaching over the table to grab your plate in his his hands and drag it greedily toward himself.

"Share!"  Demands The Boy; with whom you played at swords in the northern snows between your oppressing duties.

"Boys, don't fight - you'll spill it, and ruin the tablecloth!"  This is Bella pleading for peace beside them, her good nature falling on deaf ears as they tussle.

Bella's presence is the breaking point.  This isn't right.  You're not here - and as soon as you pick at it, all the manifold, insane conjunctions of characters strike you with all their absurdity and horror.  But the moment you flinch and push back from the table, the chair beneath you crashes apart in a burst of clattering timber.  You hit the ground so hard you taste blood.

 "Taalia!"   Bella whispers.

 * * * * * 
 "Taalia!"   Bella whispers.

You taste blood.  And your body aches all over - the crash of the flying machine returning to your sense of events.  You are on your back.  Above you, a sky just now filling with stars tells you at once you have been unconscious for an hour or more.

Bella is a mess.  There is a cut or scratch somewhere behind her hair line that has been trickling blood on to her face, which is now mostly dried in palm-smears to one side; but the smears have been cut through with the run of tears.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
You are battered and bruised for certain - down to half your maximum wounds, rounding up.  This might also be a good time to decide on a new scar from the crash of the flying machine.
 

 "Taalia, you need to get up - there's not much time." 

Signore Cestié largely succeeded in his controlled crash.  He bled off enough momentum that no one was killed, even if pieces of wood and canvas are scattered all around the top of the grassy hill where you have ended up.  Even Milo was spared, thrown free of the crash and scooped up by Bella in the aftermath; mewing in distress when not being actively soothed.  Bella's injuries, and yours, are largely superficial.

But Signore Cestié lies on his back, breathing in shallow wheezes, shivering beneath the blanket Bella has pulled over him while you were unconscious.  Your immediate examination finds no critical wound - he was battered in the crash like you, and his old skin has split in places; likely some of his bones are fractured.  All the same, you know with heart-splitting assurance that he is dying.  His pulse is shallow, and slow, even though his breath comes in those wheezy puffs.  Bella has been going back and forth between you while you were out, trying to manage the crisis; now that you are awake, and you have no miracle knowledge that might restore the flagging energies of your elderly friend, she sits with you both in the cold night air, sharing the helplessness with you.

Signore Cestié gives you a damp eyed, apologetic smile from where he lies.  He reaches for your hand. 
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 
 From the shards of tattered dreams I rose, unwilling, tossed upon tides of pain that flowed and ebbed, and left me – searingly – awake, and – more revoltingly – alive. 

The world of her family's dining room disintegrated away, consigned to the perenial life-support of a distant memory. In its place came into focus the night sky, a sheet of diamonds across a black ocean with a single, lone moon standing vigil and gathering the light it would soon reflect down upon the mortals as their sole source of illumination. Her head hurt. It ached, actually. As if she had suffered a concentrated hang-over reserved only for the excessive levels of drinking that stopped just short of sending the imbiber to an early grave.

The taste of blood. An aching mind and a pained body. Taalia grunted and moaned in the dull blanket of aching pain that chewed upon her nerves as she slowly sat up within the grassy field of their aerial decline. But harrowing and nauseating as these things were, obstructing her thoughts and seizing her attention, their efforts vanished the moment the girl spotted the weak and pale figure of Maso Cestie, his feeble image arousing within the girl a second wind that beat back all tormenting sensations and drew her immediately to her knee's and feet as she scrambled to the older mans side.

 "Cestie - Cestie!"  Taalia harkened, green and blue eyes open, her hand grasping for his as she returned his almost resigned visage with one of opprobrium at his current state.

Flashing her look down his body and up at him again, drawing her ear to his chest to takin in his heart-beat and breathing, the girls mind scrambled for to connect the accident with possible injuries as a wide variety ricocheted off within her skull. Pale...no outward lesions that were capable of such blood loss...internal bleeding.

 "Get one of our backpacks - put it under his feet, get them above his heart!"  Taalia beckoned to Bella, gesturing towards the crash-site and the collected remnants of their belongings.

Turning back to Cestie, Taalia gave the best reassurance grin she could, given the circumstances, her grip on his hand perhaps a little too strong as if she sought to tether him to the world and halt any spiritual ascension.

 "Breathe easy - focus on me, Cestie! You're breathing so your lungs aren't punctured and you're still with me  - how long have we been out?"  she called over to Bella. Receiving the answer, she spun her head back to look to Cestie.

 "If it were terminal you'd have gone by now Cestie!"  she grinned and laughed, desparately hiding the terror clawing at her heart, her words almost to convince herself as much as her 'patient'.

 "You stay with us, rest, recuperate; I'll get you to the nearest town! You can't let me enter Nuln and take all the glory for this on my own, can you?"  she laughed again.
MrAbdiel
 Bella is almost as desperate as you are to provide the best possible conditions, hoping to stave off the mortal event.  She brings her own pack over from the wreck - drenched in fragrant  grappa , from a smashed bottle of the spirit - and elevates Signore Cestié's feet as you instruct.

He gives you small nods at your encouragement, the same frail apologetic smile on his lips.  You cannot help but feel it is not guilt for the crash; but for the looming moment of separation to come.  He holds you hand for a long time; a half hour maybe that races by in the evening chill like a couple of minutes.  Bella manages to get a small fire going to stave off some of the cold; forced to use part of the wreckage of the flying machine for fuel.

And then it comes; and no prayer or medicine can deny it.

A wetness in the old man's eyes gleams, as he smiles up at you.

 "Taalia... You gave me... everything." 

And then he closes his eyes, and his grip on your hand softens; and he is with you no longer.

He was right.  His declarations of intention -  to Nuln! to Nuln!  - have been on his lips almost as long as you have known him, and his desire to bring his machine to the Miraglianan enclave and its community of artisans was no secret.  In this much, he has fallen short of his grand wish.  Yet he did not die like an unfulfilled man.

After all, you inspired him to finish the outlandish contraption and make his own modification to a design that Daedalo, and even old Leonardo couldn't make fly.  You came with him to travel the length of the princedoms and republics of Tilea not as a lonely wanderer but a companion to people who loved him.  You chased after him and talked him down when he lost heart in Miragliano, and ultimately saw him reunited with his lost son, and estranged father.  And before giving him back his first family, you gave this lonely man wiling away his final years in a far flung village a new family also, by choosing him to participate in your salvation from obscurity and destitution.  How many men live their whole lives without cramming in as much living as Maso Cestié has, in the time you knew him?

Bella embraces you in the sorrowful loveliness of the Carcassonne night, and shares the grief with you.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
I know I haven't given you much direction here other than misery to react to, but it seems fitting for Taalia to have another post before getting on with the business of gathering up belongings and carrying on on foot.

There are no more encounters in the evening.  The critical parts of Cestié's invention are the plans, and the mithril gearbox, both of which are in tact; and with them, a skilled tinker or engineer could recreate the machine over time.
 
 
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 


One would think that Taalia had gotten used to loss by now. Taken from her family before she was even six. Cast across a world of slavery and destitution until taking the chance at freedom just a few years ago. Since emerging onto the surface there had been Rocco, among others, but only a handful had managed to penetrate Taalia's hardened, outer core to reach her heartstrings within. It was a mental and emotional defense mechanism, after all. She'd seen so many people die in the pits, people she knew, that becoming detached was the only way to stay sane for another day. But, Cestie was not one that she could keep at an arms distance, nor switch off her heart to. If she had had an adoptive grandfather that had encouraged her in every way, it was he, and now, having just breached beyond the Tilean landscape and into Bretonnia, he was gone.

Taalia felt the warmth intensify around her eyelids as her vision blurred and her lips pursed. As his grip loosened around hers and his old eyes slowly closed over, Taalia leaned forward and just hugged him. She held her ear against his chest and beheld those last few beats until the final moment of their finality that signalled his ultimate release.

She'd hold Bella's hand when the other girl drew closer, but for now all of her physical aches had rescinded and disappeared as not even the cool bite of the night air could draw the girls attention.

This entire adventure had been Cestie's idea, his dream - to see Nuln! Not just to see it, but to travel there as a pilot of his insane machine that not even the famed genius' of old could craft into practicality. It would have been his name that was etched into the history books, his likeness and memory hailed alongside the greats that his nation had produced.

Swallowing, holding back the worst of her tears, Taalia hugged her adoptive grandfather one last time before drawing back up and looking upon him.

If there was anything she had to say about it, that's exactly where his name would go.
MrAbdiel
 It is a grim and isolating business managing Signore Cestié's body.  This is Bella's first time doing this.  Tragically, it is your second.

Once again, you have emerged into an alien land full of people whose tongue is not your own; and your first act in that place is to dig the grave of of your grandfather.  In the dark of night, you and Bella exhaust yourselves making the old man's resting place as dignified as possible.  His burial shroud is the canvas from the wings of the flying machine.  Bella has a small camp spade mostly for digging fire pits; and it makes the job easier than when you improvised Rashabang's shortlived interment.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: The Personal Effects of Signore Maso Cestié, of Bella Collina 

1 * Set of Corrective Lenses (For Reading)
1 * Aviator's Helmet
1 * Short Sword (Hand Weapon)
1 * Dagger
1 * Best Quality Set of Tinker's Tools, Compact
1 * Good Quality Writing Kit
1 * Flying Machine Plans (In Best Quality Scrollcase)
1 * Set of Keys (for the Workshop in Bella Collina)
1 * Mithril Gearbox
1 * Telescope
1 * Crossbow
15 * Crossbow Quarrels, in a Quiver
1 * Good Quality Leather Vest (Many nifty pockets)
1 * Warm Woolen Overcoat
1 * Purse with 12GC, 8S, 4p and three small gems each worth perhaps 20GC.
1 * Storm Lantern
1 * Inkpen
1 * Small Ivory Carving of a Donkey, engraved with the name "Lazlo"
Several cluttered notebooks full of technical notes of varying quality
 


It is traditional for a priest of Morr to bless the dead; even in small villages like Bella Collina, itinerant priests are directed to the graves of those lost since their last round.

You mark the grave with a spar of wood from the wreck.

 "When we find a town... We'll show them where.  We'll... make a proper marker.  We just need to find which... Lord or Prince owns this land." 
But first comes sleep.  And after a few hours of desperately needed rest, you wake without the benefit of adrenal denial of pain.  Bella has signficant whiplash and her neck hurts to move, but neither of you are concussed.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
Give me a healing roll for you and Bella, as you begin your journey in Bretonnia.  You're both, after the crash, at half wounds - but that's still lightly wounded, so 1d10 on a success, no poultice required.

I would also like...a Navigation Roll.  From Bella, because you don't have it.    vs77  - (1d100)[ 3 ] 
 


Bella is looking over your plotted map, anticipating where you should go from here; but you can tell also she is watching you carefully.  You are her best friend and vice versa; but Cestié was a level more special to you than to Bella - and she loved him.  You have no stomach for breakfast; and without the smoke of the fire, your keen senses pick up a familiar scent - sheep.  Higher on the slope, you squint to see the shape of a shepherd - a young girl, perhaps fifteen years old.  She carries a shepherd's crook, and watches over a flock of a dozen sheep that graze the hills with familiar, chatty laziness.  Perhaps, like Gaulfredo, she will look kindly upon a stranger without the local language.  Or perhaps she will be scared - perhaps it is wiser to seek the road, and try your luck with elsewhere. 
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 


It seemed that fate wanted to repeat her departure. When she fled the underground empire of the Skaven, she emerged upon the surface with the closest thing to a relative - as perverse as it was to think of - requiring a burial. And now, now that she had left the sunny lands of Tilea, she was being called to once more dig a grave and say some final words for one who had been good to her.

Naturally, her bond with Cestie had been more than what it had been with Rashabag. The ratman had not been consciously cruel, but his kindness steeped from the  absence  of cruelty, rather than deliberate impartment. Cestie, however, had fostered Taalia's development ever since he met her, providing an aged and experienced mind and arm upon which she could rely, learn and draw inspiration. Such had been his influence that she had continued her fascination with the mechanical, learning how to craft firearms beneath his tutelage and even becoming familiar with the workings of his flying machine. Naturally, she could not recreate itself from the plans, not yet anyway, but she had come to understand enough that she was able to assist with the experimental procedures and test-runs so that they could further refine the craft that had brought them so far...and yet had met such an ignominious end.

And so, battered, bruised and aching though she was, Taalia set to work digging a grave for her adoptive grandfather, and she kept at it for hours. She was a tough girl, used to hardship and toil, and it showed when she used that small spade to dig a hole six feet into the ground and wide enough that Cestie could be laid within, wrapped in an impromtu mumification with the materials from the damaged wings of the craft. Though it was the best they could do, Taalia knew that Cestie would probably find the situation amusing, and that made her smile just a little.

Filling in the hole wasn't as difficult, but it was still arduous and time-consuming. Hours and hours of gravedigging and re-allocation had passed before the girl was able to stand before the grave and utter a prayer from the little book that the High Priestess of Verena had handed her. Taalia had crafted a headstone from the remnants of the craft and Bella had picked some local flowers to lay upon it as a small wreathe. It was the best they could do under the circumstances.

 "To Nuln he had told me,"  Taalia spoke while standing upright before the gravesight. She spoke both to herself and Bella, her eyes focused on Cestie's resting place.

 "To Nuln, Maso Cestie. Thank you for everything,"  she concurred with a gentle nod,  "we have to cross the mountains still to get there. We will see you on the other side." 
 oOo 

Taalia spotted the lone little shepardess, her large rod ending in that curl intended to wrap around a loose sheep and draw them back into the flock. She looked barely younger than Taalia had been when she emerged from the Under Empire, and that she was out here on her own meant that she was either under extreme circumstances, or it was safe enough for her to do so.

Taalia herself was now dressed in all she had; her clothes, her armor, a rifle slung over one shoulder, Bella carrying the blunderbuss, her pistols on her hips, her shield on her back and sword sheathed. Around her shoulders was an impromtu harness that was hitched to the remnants of the flying machine that the girl was dragging behind her. The machines wheels that had been used to help land and take off were now serving a second purpose, as they allowed the taller, stronger Taalia to act as a human mule and pull their broken craft along with them as the rest of their belongings were stored within, as if it were a particularly ugly, skeletal cart and she were the donkey.

Should the girl look over in their direction, Taalia would draw one gloved hand up and give her a wave before continuing on their way. Bella and her were now strangers in a stranger, but beautiful land. It wouldn't do to bother the locals. No, they were much better off getting onto that main road and following it to a population centre. There, someone was doubtless able to speak Tilean, and there they could rest, recover and figure out how the hell they were going to continue now.
MrAbdiel
 With your rickety shamble-cart, you weave between the hills down the slope and leave the shepherdess to her flock.  Bella tries to take turns pulling the cart, if you let her; but you are certainly stronger, and any arrangement is going to burden you more than she.  You do not have a tremendous amount of goods - you packed light to be able to fly - but it is easier to pull your improvised cart than to lash everything together and walk with it on your back for many miles, so that is what you do.  Bella is confident she can fight the way back to the grave marker; and that she can navigate from here.  The pass terminates in the land between the fork of the river Brienne.  You must follow the road north, which will take you to a bridge over the river's east branch, and eventually to the town of Marguilles - the first town of note enough to appear on the map that your cartographer friend provided for you.

But before that, there is the road that winds slowly down from the foothills of the mountains to the interior of Carcassone.  But on your first day of travel, just as the sun is high in the autumn sky staving off the chill of the wind for a few hours, you meet your first Bretonnian - for the second time.

The clop of hooves comes from behind you on the road in the distance first, so it is no surprise when a lone rider comes around the  curve of the grassy hill you rounded not long ago.  The road is wide enough that you do not need to pull off it for a rider; just to one side.  But you and Bella pause to watch, as he comes around.

The horse is the biggest you've seen - the biggest you've seen, bar none.  You had heard talk about Bretonnian horses, but the creature is truly a goliath of its kind; a warhorse larger than even the warhorses you'd seen under the Knights of the Blazing Sun riding out of Verezzo, or the draft horses that pull coaches and plows.  Its coat is glossy black with striking exceptions; a white spot between the eyes, white cannons from knee to hoof giving it the appearance of wearing fluffy white socks, and majestic white hair of the mane and tail - whiter than yours.  It is clad in a light panoply of studded leather barding which it has no trouble carrying at all; the rider's effects likewise trivial to its burden in saddlebags and a pack behind the saddle.

But the rider you have seen before - the knight in black and gold tabard, with scarred and battered mail.  He rides in the sun with his helm off and coif and skullcap off, and you see the warrior beneath now - a young knight, no more than ten years the senior of you and Bella.  He is not unhandsome - his skin olive, his hair is black; and his eyes are a pale grey, and all of these features are arrayed pleasingly in his presentation.  A thin moustache does considerable work elevating his face from 'boyish' to just barely the right side of manly.  His most unusual feature is a tattoo on his face - a jagged line that stars just at the line of his hair, drops down to above the right eyebrow, hooks back to the right temple then jags straight down over that cheek to terminate at the jawline.  This, alone, seems quite unknightly; more of the kind of odd marking a pirate might have, or some thug in a city gang.

What he does not have with him is a glorious chestnut colored pegasus. But he is distinct enough in his person that you recognize him anyway; as does Bella, who reaches to grasp your hand instinctively as the knight - one of the fabled knights of Bretonnia - trots up on his massive steed and slows to a stop beside you.  His  pale grey eyes behold your ramshackle cart as he dismounts - then you, and the blunderbuss, marking this familiar elements of the encounter in the mountains - and asks in his incomprehensible native tongue:

 "Pardonnez-moi, jeunes filles. N'ai-je pas... Rendez-vous, dans le col de montagne? Parlez-vous Breton?"
 
 
 Spoiler: OOC: Successful Speak Language (Tilean) test, at +0% 
Breton has the same classical roots as Tilea and Estalian, in many cases.  You think he is asking, politely, something about the mountains; and if you speak Breton.
 
 
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 
   

The two young ladies pushed on into this new, but undeniably beautiful land. The verdant green sweeps of the grasslands, the rolling, gentle banks of the hills and all of it framed by the snow-capped mountains through which they had just passed. It was an unusual sensation for Taalia, as she felt the impromptu harness clasped around her shoulders and waist, that they would emerge into such a lovely land only to have their arrival marked with lamentations.

Perhaps the walk was good for them though, for dwelling on loss would do little but drawn one into the self-reflective spiral. Cestie was gone. There was nothing she could do. Nothing she could have done. The sparks of the town festival were still in her memory. The first time she had talked to Cestie properly. The way she had unwittingly and amusingly embarrassed him in front of others by kissing him on the cheek, thinking it was the proper social greeting.

Taalia smiled, dew forming in the corner of her eye, a small snicker leaving her lungs.

As they carried on, the clippity-clop sounds of a horse rounding the hill from whence they had just came immediately grabbed Taalia's attention. Her ingrained slave instincts called her to alert immediately, as she unhooked the harness from her body and spun about...but eased herself when she saw who it was.

And the horse! The girls eyes widened as she beheld the enormity of the destrier, the huge animals size making even her feel small. Her heterochromia eyes remained transfixed on that warhorse, before the familiarity of the rider struck her mouth open in a silent gasp, before it morphed into a smile.

That was him! He had made it after all - some good news!

And it seemed like he was coming to a similar conclusion. He doubtless spotted the blunderbuss, the passing-familiarity of the flying-machine-turned-human-drawn-cart and, perhaps most recognisably, the firearm slung over Taalia's shoulder.

 That  firearm that had blasted a fist-sized hole through the chest of the orc boss he had been fighting.

 &lt; From the Bretonnian's Perspective &gt; 

The two women couldn't look less alike. One was classical Tilean or Estalian, her olive skin and beautiful, dark wavy hair framing those smouldering eyes. The other was from...not there. Her lightly tanned skin, towering and statuesque figure wore well-crafted armor with a steel helm upon her blonde-white haired head, from under which peered a pair of alert eyes, one green the other blue. She had to have been from the north, perhaps around the Couronne region, or the Wasteland or Nordland. Maybe even Kislev? Somewhere with exposure to the Norscans. Her face was handsome-pretty. Not beautiful in the classical, feminine sense, she was too tall for that, but her angular features were nontheless pleasing, though perhaps marred by the presence of a few scars. One ran right down the left side of her face, from her forehead, down over her eye and ending at her cheek, while on the other side was a lighter, three-line parallel scar that was visible.

Where-ever she was from, she was the first to speak, raising her right hand in an open-palmed wave.

 "Ben incontrato e buona giornata!"  she spoke with a smoky, sonorous voice.

 "Parli Tileano?" 

There was the phonetic word: Tilea.

The word 'parli' was also similar to 'parlez'.
MrAbdiel
 Cestié had taught you the little Bretonnian he could remember from some hobby study many years ago - but it is very little indeed.  As it turns out, the knight has about as much Tilean.  He squints between you and Bella, and tries to make it work.

 "Ah... Small, small.  Ah..."   He holds his thumb and forefinger in the air an inch apart, indicating the measurable quantity of Tilean he knows.  He resorts to pantomime; gesturing to your firearm, and back and the mountain and then, after a moment, pulling his cheeks down with his palms and grimacing.

Bella giggles quite involuntarilly.

 "An orc, maybe..?  The orcs in the mountain." 

This catches the knight by surprise; he hadn't expected the word for 'orc' to be recognizable.  But then, who thinks about such things before they come up.

 "Yes, yes; orc, yes?" 

And so you establish identities.  You are those who flew by and fired on the orcs he fought in the mountain.  As a gesture of goodwill, he moves to one of his saddlebags and produces a wheel of cheese in a festively red wax covering.  He breaks it in half with his hands, then breaks off a smaller part from the larger of the two halves, keeping the smaller bite for himself and offering, somewhat insistently, the larger parts to you and Bella.

"Briant Dubois, chevalier du Parravon.  Je suis à votre service."  He bows, having given you  what you gather is his name - and you catch  Parravon  in there, too.  Bella curtsies and introduces herself.  He does not kiss her hand like a young man of Tilea might do, especially one meeting Bella; and neither does he kiss yours. But you measure in him a genuine wealth of good will and a sense of indebtedness, for your deed in the mountains.  After some pantomime establishment that you are going some way down the road, he looks to hitch your cart to his destrier - but being a ramshackle thing it is, without a purpose built hitching apparatus or a knowing human hauler consciously and tiringly correcting for the bent wheels, the proposition is a failing one."

 "Ah...  Put, ah... Here?  Sur here?"   He pats the Destrier's saddlebags and saddle, and ferrets around in them to come up with some leather straps and rope.   "Sur Clémence?" 

Bella, who you note immediately is blushing with this bombardment of attentive helpfulness, draws close to you.

 "I think Clémence is his horse.  She's huge - but if we load her up with our things, he will have no room to ride.  Knights are bound to do good deeds and serve ladies, isn't it so?  If we do not intend to go through this whole nation trusting no one, perhaps we should start with ...Sir Briant, here."  
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 


A couple of minutes of broken-Tilean/Bretonnian conversation, and Taalia's troubles were momentarily forgotten. She found this amusing in its entirety, and her smile returned as she admittedly had a bit of fun trying to figure out what the unorthodox knight was trying to say.

Years ago when she had emerged as a skinny, escaped, frightened girl in the woods, the language barrier was a dread specter that separated her off from those around her. Perhaps, though, at the time it was terrifying because of how it cut her off from her means of survival: the Tileans. Now, however, Taalia was far more confident and capable. Perhaps this man and her would fail to properly communicate, wish each other well in their languages and then part ways...and that would be it. Taalia still had her fit body, her skillful mind, can-do attitude and, as witnessed by her rickety human-pulled sled, her tools. She'd be fine. Back then, fitting in was literally life or death.

Would it be as such here? Well, hopefully not. But as the saying went, hope springs eternal.

 "Orcs, SÌ, SÌ!"  Taalia would smile happily at the over-lapping word for those disgusting greenskins: orc. A universal menace, it seemed, and one whose brutish name was despised in all the realms of man.

But, when Bella giggled, that's when Taalia gave a 0.5 second sideways look, the tiniest of knowing smiles tugging at the corner of Taalia's lips before focusing back on the knight.

 "Si, orc?"  Taalia established, unslinging her firearm and bringing it up to aim off in a harmless direction, offering a smile as she pretened to receive recoil that pushed her shoulder back.

 "Kaboom-a!" 

Then the identities were shared.

 "Briant Dubois, chevalier du Parravon. Je suis à votre service." 

There were those familial-language words again.

Chevalier. Chivalry. Who were chivalrous? Knights.

Service. Servizio.

His name was Briant Dubois, a knight of Parravon, whatever that was, and he was at their service.

Maybe she'd get the hang of this language after all?

Or maybe...was it familiar to her, because it was her true mother tongue, back in her formative years before being stolen away?

It was a nice theory. But until the years unfolded it would remain that, a theory.

When it was her turn, Taalia gestured to herself,  "Io, Taalia Giovanni,"  she spoke slowly, but wearing her friendly smile.

The cheese was delicious also! Receiving the bit of yellowed, tasty diary, Taalia held it up for him to see while saying  "Grazie mille signore!" 

The next few minutes were spent attempting to straddle the cart onto the destrier, Clemence apparently. She was a beautiful animal, Taalia took a few moments to go towards the animals long face and affectionately rub her cheek. Cunningly, it also gave the girl a few moments to watch the exchange between Briant and Bella, with her friend blushing and giggling gently, opening up in a way she hadn't to anyone before. Well, not in a long time anyway. To this, Taalia smirked knowingly, but her little smile was sheathed immediately when Bella approached.

 "I think Clémence is his horse. She's huge - but if we load her up with our things, he will have no room to ride. Knights are bound to do good deeds and serve ladies, isn't it so? If we do not intend to go through this whole nation trusting no one, perhaps we should start with ...Sir Briant, here." 
  Yes, I'm sure you'd like that,   Taalia thought to herself silently with an internal snicker.

 "I'll see..."  Taalia said in good humor, as she looked over Bella's shoulder - which was fairly easy, given she was over a foot taller - and caught Dubois attention.

 "Singore,"  she said, her sonorous voice easily reaching him.

Taalia then patted her hand against her chest,  "Io..."  she started, then drew her hand up and her fingers down, her index and middle finger wiggling back and forth as she moved her hand forward; a universal sign for 'walking'.

She then pointed to Dubois and repeated the gesture.

Then, Taalia motioned towards Bella and drew her hand up to the top of the horse, onto its saddle.

Taalia and Dubois would walk alongside the horse, while Bella, the fair, sweet lady that she was, would ride upon the horse, her smaller frame avoiding any obstruction that the harness would impart upon the beast.
MrAbdiel
  
 Spoiler: OOC: 
How dare you demand rolls from moi!  From  Moi!   (1d100)[ 5 ] .
 


And so you walk.  Sir Briant seems content enough to walk as Bella rides.  He is pleasant company; affable; chatty, if mostly incomprehensible.  Possibly funny - or atleast, Bella seems easily led to giggle when he produces a sequence of words with the cadence of a joke.  All in all, there are two things about him that hitch an otherwise very fine first impression.

The first are his eyes; which are pleasant to look at, but, after the surprise of the initial encounter, seem to avoid direct contact with yours or Bellas.  He conducts his negotiation with a lot of glancing away, a lot of looking at the left or right shoulder of whomever he is trying to speak to.  Typically, a Tilean would associate this reticence to lock eyes as a sign of shiftiness.  Is it a cultural quirk?  Or something else?

 
 Spoiler: Successful Perception Test (Intuition - Not Hearing or Vision) 
At first you think he might be partly blind, or concussed or something; but then you begin to put together that it comes off as a more social disinclination than a physiological one.  When you confer with Bella, she whispers to you after a gasp.

 "Oh - do you think it's our hair?  Bretonnian women cover their hair in public - those who are marriagable, or married.  They only show it on their wedding day, or indoors to their family.  Except for little girls, and their holy Maidens, and - oh no!  Taalia, does he think we are prostitutes?!" 

That would explain his immediate goodwill - but observing the knight as you have travelled, you don't think that's the case.  More likely, having grasped that you are foreign, he is simply not heaping upon you the expectations that he would someone local - but he averts his eyes with almost desperately dutiful regularity just as if you were walking around without a shirt.  Can uncovered hair really be so...  intimate  to these people?  How scandalized they must be, when they go to other countries and women shake their hair around with such rampant godlessness!
 


The second is that, in the silences between attempts to communicate, he progresses from walking alongside you with silent confidence and contentment that grades slowly but surely down to quiet, deep sadness.  It blows away like scattered fog when you or Bella try to ask/pantomime a question or he thinks of something he would like to communicate otherwise; but it's there.

 
 Spoiler: Successful Visual Perception Test +10% 
With all your belongings strapped up on Cleménce's back, you are inclined to keep an eye out to make sure they are not overweighted to one side or the other to cause irritation to the steed, or to fall off.  During one such glance, you see the corner of bright silvery links of  fine chain and black leather poking out the corner of one saddlebag.  You recognise it as a very fine horse's bridle - the kind of thing that one does not normally carry as spare.  The pegasus, you fear, did not make out of the mountain conflict alive - mortally wounded by the orcs before you arrived, after all.  Sir Briant must have brought both his destrier and his pegasus to the battlefront, using the pegasus to run messages across the gap and make opportunistic strikes at the orcs high in the mountains - and now, with that critical casualty, he is making his way home.

Another strange country; another stranger to whose defence you were compelled to leap, against the perfidious greenskin; another equine casualty, and its human master in mourning.  The young knight's distress at this loss is less raucous than Gaulfredo's.  Your more-or-less adoptive father was very emotive, even by Tilean standards, especially when it came to the horse Bartolemi slain by the goblins, or Rocco felled by age.  But restrained as it is, you intuit that Sir Briant's greif is just as deep; even if his way is to bind it within himself, instead of release it.
 


As evening comes on, the cold comes again - and with it comes a very faint dusting of snow.  You haven't seen snow up close since Norsca - and there, it was a brutal, everpresent monster of a phenomenon that locked you in your service in that village as surely as did the skaven's cage later.  You remember your abortive effort to flee before returning, blue-lipped and shivering, to the Mistress and Master's home for a hiding and a return to thralldom, if only to sit by a fire again and sleep under a roof.

But here, it's quite beautiful.  It settles on the road ahead and the grassy hills beside it; not enough to cover the surface, buy enough to add its frosty glow to the palette of the land.  Bella is mystified - she has never seen the stuff at all, and from her perch on Cleménce's back, she is compelled to look at the flakes as they settle on her hands  and on the horse's mane before they melt away.

This would be the time one would make camp - find shelter or make it before it's too dark, get a fire going, hunker down.  But Sir Briant seems keen to push on - if anything, he pulls on the horse's reins a touch faster as if eager to get somewhere.  Or else, he intends to make you walk through the night!

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
You may, if you like, insist on camping and eating now; or you may trust your guide knows what he is doing.  Decide!
 
 
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 


Taalia took the walk in stride, for one who had just lost someone so close to her. She moved along, her eyes focusing on the beautiful environment about her, while her excellent hearing regularly picked up words here and there from Briant's speech - and Bella's giggling.

It was the latter that caused the shepardess to smirk gently. It was nice to see her friend...interested in someone, or at least receptive to them. Though Taalia doubted she was the first pretty Tilean girl to have large eyes for a dashing knight from Bretonnia. And who could blame her? He was a handsome and brave fellow...though that moustache...Taalia didn't care for it. And where had he acquired that tattoo? It wasn't something they usually wore, was it? But who was she kidding, it's not like Taalia possessed some vast and deep knowledge of the chivalric code of conduct of the famed knights of Bretonnia.

Upon seeing the excellent quality bit and bridle, however, Taalia felt her heart drop just a little bit. She pursed her lips and exhaled, offering a silent prayer to the gods she had come to venerate and thanked whatever spirits existed for the loyal services of the beautiful beast. For such a lovely creature to meet a violent end like that...it was awful. Though the deja vu of her emergence into a new land was not lost on her. Ragabash and Cestie. The goblins and the orcs. Bart and the pegasus. Gaulfredo and Briant.

By the time the snow arrived, Taalia's spirits had lifted as her mind had drifted away from the morose topic of loss. There was time to mourn later, she told herself, and that time was not now. Besides, Bella's reaction to the gentle, frozen water was too precious. The shepardess smiled at her friends response, reaching out with a glove to catch a snowflake or two as the gentle fall lay soft blanket of sparkling white across the greenery around them, each flake catching a hint of the dusk-borne sunset. It was quite a welcome sight!

 "It's snow,"  Taalia spoke up to Bella.

 "I saw it all the time back in Norsca, but in that blasted hell it was an oppressive menace. This...this is beautiful..."  she remarked, the words she spoke doubtless registering in Briant's mind for what the brave knight could understand with the family resemblance within their languages.

Trusting their new companion to know the lay of the land better than they, Taalia pressed on.
MrAbdiel
 Briant allows your group's pace to slow as both you and your good friend revel in the novelty of the gentle snowfall.  The knight gestures to the falling flakes and chats on comfortably for fifteen minutes or so, occasionally gesturing in different directions.  He must certainly know that you both do not quite understand him; but it is easier to talk and not understand each other than to march on in silence.  It becomes quite dark indeed, but eventually the road gives way to something up ahead; at first a dark shape blotting out some of the low stars - a coaching hell perhaps, waystation, or fair sized home.  When you get near to it, Briant fiddles with a lantern from his pack and a few matches; but even before it is lit, you and Bella are able to make it out with your night-eyes.  It's a shrine, or something like it; standing alone here by the roadside, built from fair even granite stones.  Above the doorway is a small steeple and statue of a feminine form clasping a cup in her hands.  Briant goes inside, and lights a couple of disused lanterns within.  Inside is a single hall with a soaring ceiling; narrow shuttered windows along the sides and, at the wall opposite the entrance, a tall window with stained glass pane.  In the night time, it is robbed of some of its aspect; the dark renders the glass in its riot of colors to be much more washed out and subtle; but you can see the likeness of the lady within - the  Lady , of course - holding out a chalice in her hands.  A very modest wooden annex has been constructed along the building's left side; a couple of stalls, suitable for visiting steeds to rest without putting the open sky to their backs.

The interior of the chapel is almost bare; there are a few dozen old wooden chairs stacked to the walls, but mostly the stone hall is empty.  The exception is at the end, beneath the stained glass window; a jutting element of stone rises up about six feet in its natural, uneven shape like a blunt tooth of earth around which the chapel must have been built. From a crack near the top of the stone, a trickle of clear water bubbles quietly down a groove worn smooth and drains away into another cavity in the stone.  Briant fills a waterskin by pressing the mouth of it flush to the stone; then empties the skin into a bucket, and takes the bucket out for his horse to drink from.  He seems amenable to a pantomine indicating that you, also, might drink your fill herefrom.  You share a little of the food you have left with each other, and sit around a fire outside the chapel in the evening.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: Charades 
If you want to try to ask Briant anything in particular, you may attempt to get an answer for up to three specific questions, each one requiring a Speak Language: Tilean roll.  Naturally, more complex questions ("Who is the present patriarch of the Church of Ursun, in Kislev?") will require a more impressive roll; where simpler questions assisted by body language ("Who dat?") will require easier rolls.

Also... you may give a Perform roll of your choice, with a +20 for assistance from Bella, because...
 


As you all tire of pantomine for the evening, Briant produces something from his saddlebags - a battered little violin, which he tunes and plucks at playfully.  He starts cycling through the early bars of songs, trying to gage your reactions and therefore find ones you might know.  "Oh - that one is almost Say Farewell Tomorrow, but not quite.  Do you think he knows Delighted Mistress?  Is that too... racy, for Bretonnia? Sir Briant, do you know -... Erm..."  Unable to bring herself to pantomime that question, Bella gives up that one with a snicker.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
If you succeed on this Perform roll, you're able to connect with Briant through the language of music!  And you spend an evening singing with Bella while he plays the violin; perhaps learning a song from him in Bretonnian whose lyrics you do not understand, but are able to parrot for now.  You may also, now that it's been a day of not knowing, take another swing at that intuition test you failed.  If you succeed, you can read that spoiler.





ALSO... Give me a Hearing Perception test. +0%.  For nothing.
 
 
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 


Taalia enjoyed, as best as she could given the circumstances, the simple walk alongside the enormous destrier and with Briant's company. And Bella's too, naturally. To be honest, it was rather cute watching her friend react to snow, and it was relieving for the shepadress herself, whose last experience with the stuff was far less wholesome and whimsical. Instead, this was pleasant. The gentle blanket of snow, Briant's soft talking in his both foreign but oddly familiar language and the quiet excitement and wonder of her friend behind her. It made walking off into the cold night almost magical.

It didn't take long for them to discover where Briant was leading them. Or rather, had assured them would exist, in his own language. The road would have taken them there eventually, with or without his gentle insistence. The chapel was a a beautiful, but sad little place. During the day the shepardess could envision the light being caught in those beautifully stained windows and mesmerising all who came to sit and partake in reverence to the Lady. Who this Lady was, her decree's and requirements, Taalia could not say. But she quickly gathered that she was a big deal in these lands, and if she wanted to fit in, or at least be respectful, she would treat her image with the same respect she would treat that of Myrmidia or Verena. Besides, her own patrons would be take note of the hospitality she would show when she was a guest in the land of foreigners. It did not pay to be rude.

Assisting Briant with establishing a little camp, Taalia put up the tents she had bought for just this occassion, thanking her foresight back in Tilea. She brought out the pot and cooking utensils, and it wasn't long until a simple  non-meat based ragu  was cooking in the pot, enough for a hearty serving for each. There was some dried beef jerky, but it went to Milo, the small kitten running about the little camp near the fire/cooking pot, rolling onto its back and patting at any fingers that came close to pet it, before springing up and darting around once more.

When the Bretonnian withdrew his violin, however, Taalia smiled, her eyes moving over to Bella. At her friends suggestion, the shepardess blushed and giggled gently, hiding her mouth behind her hand as she did so. She lightly slapped her friend on the shoulder with her spare hand as she giggled, shaking her head.

 "No, never! What if he could understand it?"  she snickered along with her friend.

 "No no, something pleasant at first! We'll do  Finiculi Finicula , you lead, I'll back you up!" 
MrAbdiel
 The psychology of it isn't entirely clear; but perhaps because of the horrible tragic burden of the day before, it feels especially good to sing and laugh tonight.  And there is plenty of both - you have to teach Briant the tune of Finaculi Finicula, and when he spirals off into some other tune he knows it is funnier every time, for some reason.  By the end of it, he knows the song, and most of how to sing it.  He has a decent singing voice, though not like yours, and certainly not like Bella who taught you.  Still, it's a fun tonal compliment.  In payment, he teaches you a song in Breton, and it takes a bit of learning on your end has he puts aside the bow of the violin and strums away at it like a little lute.

 J’ai Vu Le Loup , you gather after fireside pantomime, is a song about a wolf that meets with a variety of other animals - foxes, hares, and so forth - to dance and drink and engage in other fancifully human acts.  It's quite fast, and between the dancy pace and the content you take it to be a folk song rather than something for the consumption of rarefied courts.  When you are good and tired of laughing at the game of trying to understand each other, you mete out an approximation of understanding of shifts and the evening passes without incident.  He takes first watch, you and Bella take second; though you let her doze off leaning on your shoulder murmuring about foxes and wolves dancing.

The next day brings two encounters.  The first is benign; the second is not.  You awake to the sound of Briant's Breton lilting away with another pair of conversants.  A narrow peasant man, who might be mistaken for entirely chinless except for a short cropped beard, is standing before Briant and speaking haltingly.  You can understand only fragments -  knight, we, road, thank, sheep, think  - and so forth, but you can tell by the cadence of the conversation that the man is nursing a sense of intimidation in the face of Briant, who for his part seems to be offering no reason to be intimidated.  The knight is winning him over slowly, and you watch as the expectation of some negative outcome drains out of the man's hunching shoulders and he is actually able to laugh a little at something Briant says.  With the peasant his a little girl, six or so years old, in a very plain child's dress but a somewhat fetching pale blue bonnet over her blonde curls.  She sits in the small cart behind an ox who has taken this break to graze at the side of the road.  You think briefly of Tomasso.  That ox will be enjoying winter in the warm barn, waiting for spring when Gaulfredo's fields will be plowed for another round of corn, or spring wheat.

The girl, whose Breton is constantly curling up at the ends with questions, is much more comfortable asking the knight things than her father.  After a while, the man waves her over and she slides down from the seat of the cart.  In the bunched fabric at the front of her dress, she carries some precious treasure very carefully which she shuffles over to Briant to deliver.  It turns out to be three eggs, which Briant takes as offered but then, crouching down and with the sporting  well-you-know-what  tone of voice that seems to be the same in all languages, concocts some logic that permits him to offer one of the eggs back to the girl.  She seems not to have expected this, and is very excited to have an egg back; almost dancing back to her father's side to show him as if he hadn't witnessed the whole exchange.  Then they are on their way, turning the cart around and heading back up the road the way they came.  The peasant gives you a brief blushing look before looking away; the little girl waves and gives you a wide, gap-toothed grin as they go.  Bella turns the two eggs into an omelette that you split between you.  It tastes unlike the eggs in Tilea - but before you can marvel that even the chickens are different up here somehow, Briant informs you, with a fluttering sentence terminating in  quack quack , that these are duck eggs, and the mystery is solved.

Packed up and back on the road, you wander north and 'chat', and begin feeling more and more confident with your fragmentary Breton even over these short couple of days.  You can make out, and produce, simple sentiments if not sentences now; which partially assists you understand what is going on when, passing by cheerful little wooded patch of land on the west, you are stopped by a man in a ragged hooded cloak who wanders slowly out onto the street and holds up a hand to halt Cleménce.

 "Tenez-vous, bon chevalier! Avec tout le respect que je vous dois, je dois vous demander de payer des frais pour utiliser cette route."   The hooded man says, cordially, and bows.

 "Cette route?" , Briant says with cold firmness coming into his voice as he signals back to you and Bella to stay behind him with the palm of his hand.  "Cette route appartient au Seigneur Donallo, qui m'a accordé la voie. Pour qui pensez-vous percevoir un péage?" 

In the wood by the road, a dozen cloaked fingers lean out from behind trees with arrows knocked in their bows, ready to draw and fire.  You remember the ambush of the mutants on the Silo road - but these men do not bear visible mutations, at least.

 "Hélas, la route appartient au peuple, étant donné que Lord Donallo ne se sent pas important de défendre son peuple. Il n'y a pas de honte à cela, monsieur le chevalier; Abandonnez votre sac à main et partez et personne ne sera plus sage pour vous. Vous et vos femmes n'avez pas besoin d'aller en danger ici."   The hooded man gestures open handedly, magnanimously.  Briant pauses to consider his options.

 
 Spoiler: OOC:  
I permit you the right to google translate these things and decide Taalia's fragmentary understanding and respond accordingly!
 
 
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 

It was an enjoyable night for the shepardess and, judging by Bella's musical inclinations and attempt to stave off sleep to stay away that little bit longer, her companion thought so to. Twenty four hours earlier if she had been told that she would be camping out in the ruins of a beautiful old chapel with a Bretonnian knight and sharing nothing but the universal language of music, Taalia would have laughed at such a ridiculous prospect. But, here she was.

Smiling as she watched Bella slowly sink into sleep while drowsily mumbling about alcohol drinking foxes and dancing wolves, Taalia snickered gently and leaned over to kiss her friend on the forehead, before gently reclining her back to rest. Getting a pillow underneath her head and a blanket over her, the shepardess then took her turn on watch and sat by the fire and stared up at the wintery, star-filled night sky. The sizzled crackling of the flames, the gentle choir of the crickets in the gentle dark while the fields of lightly snow-dusted fields stretched out in every direction from her while high above, that opal-black star-studded canopy, the moon drifting in all its pale, shimmering magnificence. The air was chilled and cool to the touch, but at the moment it didn't bother the shepardess. She sat there and pondered, the amusing, festive lyrics of their last song speaking to a culture that at least enjoyed the happier times in life. But as she looked up at that earthly cover, her mind wandered back to Cestie, doubtless in the belief that he had now joined that innumerable host of diamonds high above. Quietly, the girl pivoted her torso and dug through one of her bags until she found one of her good bottles of spirits. Pouring herself a small little drink, she held it up to the heavens, muttered  "'till next we meet, Singore Cestie,"  and in a quiet toast and took the shot down.

The next morning Taalia helped to pack things, though she watched the interaction between Briant and the two locals with great, hidden interest. Seated in the shade, her work complete, the shepardess silently watched the knight and the likely farmer converse and it wasn't so much  what  was said, but  how  it was said. You see, for the first couple of years she existed as a slave, Taalia didn't know Queekish. Not fluently. So, she relied on reading body language to survive, and the hidden fear in the peasants stature, his reluctance to laugh or look at he knight in the face and his awkward chuckling once prompted, all sent a clear message to the former slave that there was very much a social hierarchy in this land, and this man was at the bottom of it - and he instinctively  feared  those above him. In Tilea such interactions existed, of course. The land had its nobles, both decent and petty, but even the wealthiest of nobles could not inflict such instant and consequence-free punishment that merely standing in their presence and receiving their address was cause for concern. After all, Taalia had already picked up on Briant's reluctance to look herself or Bella directly in the face, likely due to the presence of their scandalously uncovered locks of hair. T'was a normal thing in Tilea, but here in this beautiful land with its different customs and outlooks, such a thing was only performed by women indoors or harlots in the street. That they were audibly foreigners was the only saving grace that would buy them a pass. For now.

Taalia gave the adorable little girl a wave, offering her a gesticulated blown kiss and a bright, smiling laugh in her direction. Were they related to that first girl they saw in the fields? Maybe. But it was a handful of days later when they encountered an all-too-familiar situation: an ambush.

As soon as Taalia saw the lone man waiting upon the path, flanked to one side by tree's as they were and the other a rolling bank of green hills, the shepardess' guard was up. Her prior instincts as a slave and experience with the mutants told her what to expect, as she said up to Bella hurriedly, "Bella, quickly, off the horse, and get on this side - put the horse between you and the trees."

It turned out to be a prudent move, as the man was every bit the ambush predator the shepardess was expecting; his amicable nature and confident mien masking the cold-borne fact that he was a highway thief.

Taking a quick assessment of the situation, Taalia knew that she couldn't tell Bella to run.

 "Tenez-vous, bon chevalier! Avec tout le respect que je vous dois, je dois vous demander de payer des frais pour utiliser cette route." The hooded man says, cordially, and bows. 

She quickly scanned the treeline, spotting the dozen or so men with bows. Bella couldn't get far even if she tried. Serruptitiously, Taalia shoulder-nudged her towards the blunderbuss holstered on the side of the horse.

 "Cette route?", Briant says with cold firmness coming into his voice as he signals back to you and Bella to stay behind him with the palm of his hand. "Cette route appartient au Seigneur Donallo, qui m'a accordé la voie. Pour qui pensez-vous percevoir un péage?" 

Taalia's keen hearing was helping her considerably to discern individual words within the Breton language. Surprisingly, Tilean and Bretonnian had remarkable similarity. Oro was the Tilean word for 'gold', while in Bretonnian it was "or', for example. Just small details and similarities were helpful, but once again, it was the body language and situation that allowed Taalia to discern what was going on: they were being robbed on the highway, and the man was demanding payment. If they were truly cutthroat brigands they would've just attacked them and ransacked them entirely, perhaps even take Bella away as a slave. But, from the relatively...average appearance of the man before her, his swagger and amicability aside, Taalia was guessing that they were not so ruthlessly inclined.

 "Hélas, la route appartient au peuple, étant donné que Lord Donallo ne se sent pas important de défendre son peuple. Il n'y a pas de honte à cela, monsieur le chevalier; Abandonnez votre sac à main et partez et personne ne sera plus sage pour vous. Vous et vos femmes n'avez pas besoin d'aller en danger ici." The hooded man gestures open handedly, magnanimously. Briant pauses to consider his options. 

With the distraction away from her, Taalia reached towards her bag and surreptitiously withdrew a small, rough, green stone from a purse before securing it away again.

 Click! 

The hammer drew back on one of Taalia's pistols as she withdrew the firearm and stepped forward next to Briant, the muzzle of her weapon aimed directly at the man before them whom was close enough to be in conversational range. On her other hip was another pistol. Slung over her shoulder was her longer firearm/rifle. In Bella's hands, though she was using the horse as cover against the woods - as was Taalia - was their blunderbuss.

Bringing her right hand about, Taalia used her thumb to flick the uncut, green gem into the chest of the man.

 "Malachite,"  she said, visible contempt in her eyes beneath her steel helmet.

It was the same word in Tilean or Bretonnian.

 "Vale un oro,"  she continued, using her pistol to gesture towards the man to clear off the road.

 "Vale un mese di stipendio per un uomo. Prendilo e togli il tuo brutto guscio dalla strada prima che lo faccia saltare in aria!" 
MrAbdiel
 The hooded man has impressive enough reflexes that he catches the malachite as you toss it.  You hear the tensing bowstrings as you introduce yourself into the exchange, but they loosen when it is clear you aren't presenting with hostility.  Briant looks back at you, a little undercut by your grandious offer, but not fool enough to foul it up, or violent enough to want a fight anyway. You can't know how much of what you said made it through, but gems are a universal language, assisted by the brandished barrels of firearms.  The robber bows, and takes a few steps off the road, waving for you to pass.  Bella is relieved; Briant is mostly pleased to not have to expose you and Bella to combat, and you ease by.  You past, with no arrows in your back, when Briant halts the horse.

 "What?  What is it?  We should go!"  Bella urges quietly; her previous few experiences with the blunderbuss in hand not filling her with confidence.  Briant gives you, battle ready as you are, a look that begs your indulgence, and holds up a hand that you might wait with Bella, rather than follow him.  Then he heads back twenty paces toward the woods, and calls out; and from the line of the trees, the recently enriched bandit responds.

 "Est-il vrai que le seigneur Donallo vous a laissés à vous-mêmes? Vérité maintenant ou les dieux vous connaissent un menteur."   Briant asks, and then sternly appends some kind of additional charge.

 "Je ne te dis pas de mensonges, jeune chevalier."  The reply is short, almost amused.

 "Est-ce une question  d'orcs ?" , questions Briant;  orcs  in there again.

 "Non, jeune chevalier. Une bande  d'ogres  sur la terre, prenant du bétail qu'ils veulent. Peut-être des gens, bientôt. Nous devons les payer pour qu'ils partent; ou bien payer quelqu'un pour chasser le dehors." 

Before long, the exchange has turned somewhat conversational, and the knight and the bandit parley a moment longer, the bandit pointing and explaining in detail about directions.

 "Did he say ogres?  Do they have ogres in Bretonnia?  I thought they came from-"  Bella begins, then frowns, and looks at you.   "I guess I don't know.  I don't think I've met one outside of a story." 

When the hooded men retreat into the wood, and the young knight returns to your group, he makes what sounds like an apology.  He rambles a little with a sigh; pats Cleménce's nose, and then looks to you. You, the obvious protector in your group.

 "You go, uh?"   He tries, in his fragmented Tilean; and gestures on down the road.   "You go, uh? Village -..Uh... Villagio, you go.  This road." 

And tries to press Cleménce's reins into your hands. 
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 

Taalia watched, her visible contempt slowly rescinding as the man before them stepped off the road and let them pass - the easing of drawstrings sighing from the trees.

Taalia  hated  thieves. Everything she had she had either worked for, traded for, bargained for or earned in some capacity, whether by luck or circumstsances. She had never stolen anything directly from someone. Indeed, she had displayed unusual honesty when returning the Hunters daughter's share of the bounty on that pistol - it had been completely within Taalia's power to deprive her of that one hundred duro, keep it and smash the girl in the face if she had come around seeking restitutions or to make a complaint. But she hadn't. She'd paid her as promised. But depriving someone else of their belongings against their will? That was something she despised.

And so it was with narrowed eyes that she kept an eye on the highway bandits when they were permitted to pass, and surprised orbs when Briant halted and ventured back towards the brigands. Was he going back to challenge one to a duel in order to satisfy some unknowable decree of knightly honor? No, as it turned out - he was just going to  talk  to them.

Orcs. That's something she picked up, as well as a few smatterings of words here and there.

Then  ogres .

Taalia knew of ogres.

 "They exist,"  she answered Bella, a dour tone in her voice and her eyes remaining on Briant.

She had seen several in the slave pits. Big, tough, stupid, dim-witted, but monstrously strong and capable of enduring unbearable hardship. The ratmen had even used them in their experiments to created the disgusting Ratogres, creatures that were even more foul and savage than they were but far more powerful and threatening.

 "I saw some back in the slave pits,"  she said softly to her friend,  "not creatures you want running around on their own initiative." 

Then Briant returned, his gloomy disposition already raising Taalia's alertness level.

 "You go, uh? You go, uh? Village -..Uh... Villagio, you go. This road." 

Taalia exhaled. She knew what the lad was planning: he was going to help the group fight the ogres. It was his  knightly duty .

Pursing her lips, Taalia shook her head gently.

 "Non..."  she started, shaking her head, having to once again consciously think about the words she wanted to say, much like she had when first learning Tilean.

 "Je...aide..."  she tapped her chest, her gloved fingers against the mail she wore. With her other hand she gestured to her own weapons, particularly her firearms. You wanted to keep a good distance from ogres.


If....


Briant is open to hearing as all able-bodies are needed against the ogres, and those guns could be useful:

 
 Spoiler 
 "Je...aide..."  she'd say again, unslinging her rifle and holding it up, pretending to receive recoil,  "...d'ogres." 

She wanted to help fight the ogres.

 "Bella, you will have to take Cleménce ahead to the next village; store our things, show his tabard and colors. He cannot go and fight the ogres like this - look at his conditions, he is not properly equipped to do so, I must be there to ensure he doesn't do anything stupid!" 
 


If he is not, no woman no matter how well armed and physically capable, the Lady decrees as such:

 
 Spoiler 
Taalia could see that she was not going to sway the man. There was a pained look on her face. She'd purse her lips and try again, but it was no good, his stubborn inclinations of 'honor' ran deeper than anything Taalia had encountered before, crossing between understandable self-respect to an almost suicidal ideal.

Exhaling, before her eyes widened a little, Taalia moved to her bags and started to rummage through them.  "Ah!"  announced that she had found what she was looking for, as she soon returned to Briant and held up a...root? A bit of a tree root?

It had been with Taalia for years. It had been the first item of any real value that had been hers upon the surface: the lucky charm from the river-bank all those years ago.

She held it up and tucked it into a pocket or somewhere affixed on Briant's person, her look solumn and regretful. Doubtless Bella had her own thoughts to add, given the way she'd blushed and giggled over the handsome knight since first meeting him.

The next stop would be the village...
 
MrAbdiel
 Briant seems less than delighted at the prospect of putting women in harm's way - but he has had a practical demonstration of your capacity to help in similar moments, and he appears possessed of a particularly rare noble virtue which is the capacity to see past one's own opinion of their own capacities.

 "Aide. But, uh..."   He places a hand over his own chest and pats it, and then a palm towards you as if pushing back a little - he will take your help, but you must follow his lead.  He is surprisingly agreeable.

Bella, unsurprisingly, is not.

 "What?  No!  No, I'm not going on alone.  I'm coming with you.  I'll stay back, with the crossbow." 

Briant misses the content, but seems to understand the context; and approaching he raises his hand with that pushing gesture, insisting on that protective distance.

 "Mademoiselle, j'ai besoin-" 
  "NO!"   Bella cuts him off with a refusal that is as much scream of fright as it is petulant defiance; so forceful it shocks the knight back a step, sending him wondering that he might have said something offensive by accident.  But you know Bella; now, as before, she refuses to abandon you even to better sense; and refuses to be sent off alone or isolated even for her own protection.  Her pretty features are hard with wild alarm and defiance and her slim hands have their calloused fingertips, firm from the lonely domestic industry of her seamstress trade, curled into their palms to make shaking fists at her side.

Previously she has agreed to such conditions and then been overwhelmed by secondary thoughts to follow you, going back on her word by erring in her profusion of love for you and fear of being alone.  This time, no amount of reasoning or insistence will divide her from you.  Briant wants peace and seems pliable to you both coming, as long as obvious risks aren't taken and he is permitted to act at the front of matters; and by this compromise - you to the knight, Bella to you - you find yourselves following Briant, in the wake of this gang of a dozen hooded bandits off the road and into the hills nearby.  Observing the brigands then, you perceive they are not professionals, it seems.  All have long bows; but the weapons on their hips are wooden mallets, sickles, cloth-wrapped kitchen knives and other tools repurposed to war.  A couple have gambesons, but most are dressed in simple tunics cinched with short lengths of rope; feet shot in sandals of goat skin with wooden soles.  If they are robbing travellers regularly, they are not being greatly enriched by it.  Their most conspicuous item of clothing is the mantle they all wear; a flop of roughspun wool over the shoulders with a hood they use to, quite conciously, try to conceal their features from the knight.

It's only an hour or so of walk through the green hills in the cool air of the day before the brigands hold up, and their leader points to the hill up ahead.  You can already hear them from here; three heavy, basso voices from jowly throats complaining to one another in a gutteral language you have never heard before; neither in fragments, nor in lexical nearness.

Briant signals the brigands to move back, and they are happy to do so - they remain behind the curve of the hill two hills back from the sounds.  Taking a moment to unfasten the load from Cleménce's back and stashing them on a heap on the ground - he seems confident the bandits will not steal from him, which is a great amount of faith to place in such people - he pulls himself into the saddle.  This hazardous situation seems to be an exception to his normal refusal to ride while ladies walk.

Together, you and Bella with guns in hand and Briant in the saddle of his warhorse, approach the hill, until Briant signals you to halt.

 "Salut à vous, ogres! Je viens de l'autre côté de la colline, maintenant. Voulez-vous traiter avec moi?" 

The chatter over the hill silences, and you hear a rustle of movement as those beyond prepare themselves.  If surprise was an option, Briant has spiked it early.

A voice calls back.

  "Peut-être que nous le ferons - qui y va? Si vous êtes le chevalier de Donallo, venez faire une trahison, je vous mangerai et je vous chevalerai tous les deux."    The ogre, clearly, speaks surprisingly verbose Breton.

The knight replies.   "Pas le chevalier de Donallo; mais un chevalier quand même. Je m'appelle Sir Briant - et mes compagnons sont deux dames de Tilea sous ma protection. Voulez-vous me donner votre parole de sécurité?" 
  "Vous l'avez, Sir Briant. Allez maintenant, où nous pouvons voir."  

That seems to be enough, and Briant mounts the hill on his black steed.

Standing on the other side, in a gully between a trio of hills spared some of the sharper breezes, are three massive ogres.  They are as physically imposing as you remember: brutes of eight feet tall in smallest case, and closer to ten for the leader.  Two have huge clubs with metal spikes jutting out of them; the leader has a greatsword in each hand that were clearly made for smaller hands. Their hilts have been bulked out with rugged wraps of leather, but the brutes arms hold them loosely at his sides as easily as a human might hold a pair of fencing swords.

Most remarkably is their garb.  For armor, they have iron shod boots, leather bracers around their thick forearms.  And each wears a kind of thick hide girdle that suspends a plate of iron over their protrusive guts, each plate larger than a man's shield.  But beyond those elements, the clothing beneath - oversized as it is - is familiar to you.  Puffy sleeves, high collars, fur trimmed tabards of velvet cloth.  And each with an  armin  style wool cap; stained with greasy and bloody fingerprints but worn with obvious pride, each with a feather in varying states of crumple and disrepair.

And each of them wears a great, big, pronouncedly green sash from shoulder to hip, in the style you are familiar with indeed.

Beyond these familiar trimmings, their condition seems rather ragged.  Each might have had a confined beard and moustache but they have grown out to ambiguous chin-mops now.  Each of them is fat and well fed, but a crumpled, fly-swarmed pile of woolen skins nearby suggest that numerous sheep have been eaten, blood and bones and all except their wool - but you detect no trace of a campfire.  Each of the ogres is grubby and bloody especially from the chin down - a condition that might disgust someone who did not grow up to become accustomed to much, much worse.

The leader of the ogres swings the dark but obviously intelligent beady eyes over you and Bella.  He squints at you, as if trying to... guess, or determine, or recognize something about you.  Not a lascivious look - however tall you are, you can't possibly register on his spectrum of amorous pursuit if ogres do such things.  He is more likely to regard you as food - but you don't think that's it, either.

And then his big fat face splits into an ugly, if not completely unwholesome grin - and he sticks one sword in the dirt at his feet to free a hand.  He snaps his fingers, and points his huge index finger at you.

  "You..."   he begins, in perfect Tilean,   "are Taalia Trollslayer!"   
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 

Taalia watched as both frustration and weary love as Bella injected her typical passion into her resistance to Briant and her own attempts to send her forward the the village. In many ways, Taalia knew this would be the result: Bella was too stubborn by half. She'd already shown it with the troll some years ago. And if words were to be believed, she had expressed it when she had learned that Taalia had sneakily went away to fight the pirates in her absence. It was a beatuiful loyalty, a truly content companionship she felt with the other orphan of the world, and her heart ached that she had to try and ask this of her each time - but Taalia was, by far, the more 'seasoned' of the two of them. Bella was no stranger to violence. Not now. But fate had always preserved her each time, while the shepardess knew how ugly it could get if things did not go their way. The idea of putting her beloved friend into harms way like that drew a knot in her stomach each time, but Taalia knew she couldn't convince the slightly older girl of any other option. The last time she had attempted and 'agreed' to do so was back in the swamps when she had set out to rescue Cestie's grandson...Bella had come along any way, following along behind by ten minutes or so.

And so, with regular, weary resignation, Taalia put one arm around the smaller womans shoulders and kissed her on the forehead before letting her go.

 "Stay near the back; you don't know ogres, these aren't cowardly rat-men or animalistic trolls. They're not brilliant, but they can be cunning. And they can move a lot quicker that you might think; you won't be able to out-run them if things go poorly." 

With that, the troupe set off through the forest, Taalia with her rifle over her shoulder, among other weapons. She took the time to visually inspect the men about her, noting their lack of standard-issue items, instead haphazardly carrying about whatever melee weapons they could. Cudgels were easy enough. A solid, sturdy stick would do. That so few had weapons of iron or steel spoke of their poor situations, though those bows could be nasty if they were massed upon a target and the men had any practice at accuracy at all. Given how well they seemed to know the woods, as Taalia sometimes peered across as the towering tree's about her, stretching up to blot out most of the sun with a green leaf canopy, it was likely they were hunters, part time at least. Maybe if they mass-focused on one ogre at a time they could bring them down in due order. But...that would likely depend on the terrain. Finally, they brokered upon a hill and Taalia's excellent hearing could detect the throaty, guttural voices of the ogres. Even just the baritone gravel of their sounds gave hint to the size of the brutes, as the shepardess turned her eyes to look at Bella, almost with a  'I told you so...'  look on her face.

When they neared the top of the hill, Taalia's inner slave instinct was already wondering how they could best use this situation. Assumedly, the ogres, however many there were, were down in a gully: they could open fire and then retreat back down their own hill, drawing the ogres up to the top where they would be open sitting ducks for the thirteen bowmen waiting in the trees.

That was about the best tactical planning they had at the moment! But what Taalia  had not  planned on was being recognized.

Moving up to the crest of the hill, crouching, rifle in hand, Taalia felt her muscles clench and a shiver run down her back when she spotted the beasts in humanoid form. They were every bit as hulking and imposing as she remembered; big, muscular arms as thick as a mans waist with deep, broad chests and ugly heads that were too thick and tough by half. But what immediately stood out to the shepardess was the way in which the beasts wore their clothing. Or at least, the apparent leader. He had a green cloak that ran diagonally from one thick shoulder down to the other side of its waist, a style that was distinctly in her memory as being the fashion of the politically outspoken back in Verezzo. She had given her loyalty and vote to the Yellow faction, naturally, out of gratitude for their rescue of her from the pyre. But she remembered the greens as being some type of forward-minded lot...they even encouraged women to serve openly as elected politicians. Or was that the blue faction? had the greens been the religious ones?

 "You...are Taalia Trollslayer!" 

Right now she was a deer in the lantern-light, because Taalia's hetereochromia eyes widened in shock, her mouth gaping a little as her rifle rested in her hands.

 "Yo...you recognise me?!"  she balked, her voice carrying in the wind from the top of that hill, the surprise rescinding from her body as she straightened herself up, eyes narrowing.

 "You know me? Who the hell are you?" 
MrAbdiel
  "'Ard to mistake, I think, based on the gossip.  Tall for a human, white hair, all scarred up. I heard you blew the top off the tower in Verezzo, and all and sundry were making a song and dance about it."   The ogre gestures loosely with one hand toward your head.   "I see you've kept your neck in place, after all that.  Good for you, I say." 

Bella is amazed to hear this, and lets the muzzle of the blunderbuss point a little further away from the chatty ogres.  The idea that the saga, with you in the tower and she and Gaulfredo dancing for awareness of the injustice while Emio fiddles and Nogrom badgered the local peacekeepers, had echoed in some legendary form this far north... Well, it's more impact that she'd ever imagine she would have in the world.  But the ogres do seem to be in some fashion  Tilean , and even  Verezzan ; and less like bare-chested hooligans pouring down over the eastern mountains into the lands of men and dwarves.

 "Est-ce que vous, euh... Connaissez-vous?"   Briant asks, clueless at this baffling turn.  The ogre shifts back to Breton; the trilingual behemoth cordially replying.

 "Seulement par réputation. Vous voyez les cheveux blancs et quelle est sa taille? c'est la fille tueuse de trolls de Bella Collina." 

This doesn't clear things up much more.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: Perception +20; Insight based 
The other two ogres watch on and listen in, but they seem less canny at understanding the Breton being spoken, and immediately understanding of the Tilean.
 

 "Giorno Boddok,"  the ogre introduces himself; the first name distinctively Tilean and the second perhaps more true to his older origins.  He even gives you a little bow, which prompts the other two to bow also.  He thumbs toward them, as they do.   "Bruk, and Tiny." 

Confusingly,  Tiny  is the one who is neither the shortest nor tallest of the three.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
This would be a good time for a charm roll, if you're interested in giving peace a chance; with a +20 bonus for your reputation and common 'origins'.  If you'd prefer to try to leverage yourself as a threatening presense, you could try Intimidate instead.

Briant seems to be banking on a peaceful solution; but he doesn't speak Tilean, so he can't keep track of what you're doing!
 
 
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 

Taalia couldn't help but smile at the mention of the Tower of Verezzo, her expression turning into a grin and spreading across her face as a flushed, almost bashful look. That had been almost two years ago - what a spitfire she had been! Then her 'scene' in the court room...the shepardess bit her bottom lip as if remembering a fond but slightly embarrassing memory.

For now, the idea that she had a 'reputation' that not only moved through parts of the country but across boarders, and this far up, was not settling into her mind. She'll allow that mixture of ego-boosting and humility to arrive later in her attention.

For now, the girl looked bashful as she seemed to relax a little, her rifle muzzle moving down to face the ground as she held the weapon over her forearm, its butt against her shoulder/chest connection.

 "Yeah...that was me..."  she finally spoke. Reaching to her neck, the shepardess probed her fingers to her collar and withdrew from beneath her mail the tooth of the troll that was affixed about a necklace. She held it up to display the trophy, the finger-length fang smoothed out around the tip by now so that it was relatively safe to wear, and not prone to self-stabbing accidents.

 "Taalia Giovanni..."  she gave a little bow, her free hand doing a little curl by her side for a touch of flourish.

 "This is Bella de Pescari, the beauty of Bella Collina!"  she gestured to her companion cradling the blunderbuss, a playful smile on her face.

 "And you've met my new companion here,"  Taalia motioned to Briant.

 "What brings you this far out? You originate from Tilea?" 
MrAbdiel
 Giorno laughs; a sound that reminds you for some reason of a great bullfrog croaking away in a swamp somewhere.   "Much further east than that; but you're right more or less." 

When no violence manifests - neither from your guns, nor Briant on his horse, nor the ogres with their great clubs, an level and peaceful accord settles over the gathering; and the ogres (especially the subordinate two) are happy to divulge their story to you and Bella - with Giorno generously looping Briant in with his apparently polylingual mastery.

Tilea is a popular destination for ogres looking for distant mercenary work, and Giorno's gang did just that for several years after working their way through the Border Princes and looking for somewhere  "a little more civilized, innit" . And after kicking about in Luccini swatting Sartosan pirates, they drifted north to Verezzo to seek new fortunes.  But they arrived too late to take place in the war against Pavona (just as well, since that was an embarrassment for Verezzo!), and after a number of smaller contracts sorting out property disputes for senators, they were sponsored by the Green faction as a Verezzan contribution to the effort against the orcs up north - a token offer from the southern Republic for the Principality of Miragliano guarding the mountain pass.  This must have been around the time of your incarceration, considering their knowledge of your adventures; and ever since they had worn their sponsor's colors and worked with the Miragleanan cordon to keep the greenskins contained.  Their particular duty involved roaming into the mountains and busting up pockets of greenskins hiding in abandoned mountain towns; a situation that would be a costly ambush for human soldiers but, for the mountain-savvy and arrow-resistant ogres, was steady and rewarding work.

But the greenskin infestation in the mountains comes in ebbs and flows; and during their mountain operations a few months ago, they found their way back to the Tilean border blocked by too great numbers of opposition, and were forced to retreat to the Bretonnian side.

 "Lord Donallo and his knights were serving at the cordon at the time, 'an he seemed trustworthy enough.  Carcassonne is the place one goes in Bretonnia for mercenary work.  But two weeks on the job on this side of the mountains and he choofed off, and never bloody paid us. And when we knocked on the castle door, they shot at us.  Tiny took an arrow in the head, he did." 

The medium sized ogres nods, in placid agreement.  You can see the broken shaft of an arrow, now that you're looking for it, poking from a tuft of hair on his scalp.  How deep it goes is unclear; but he seems to be used to it.

 "And we've been camped out here ever since, eating his sheep until he settles accounts. I used to like sheep, too; but it's hard to go back to raw and bloody meat when you've lived in Tilea for years." 

Lord Donallo seems to be neglecting his promises both to his peasants and his mercenaries, and this has brought them into conflict. Briant looks to be worried - he seems to know the name of this Lord, and is less than pleased to accept charges of his failures; but you detect a relief that this interaction with the ogres at least didn't come to violence.

Bella whispers to you.  "I thought they didn't accept mercenaries at all, north of the mountains - all knights and peasants, and no one who doesn't belong to a parcel of land somewhere. It seems hardly fair to accept their work without paying them... But they're ogres..."  The tone of her voice betrays a lack of commitment to the sentiment that their ogrishness should override the integrity men owe each other in contracts.  "This... Donallo has a great deal to answer for.  What do you think?"  
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 


Taalia listened with a curious eye as Giorno told them the story of the traveling ogres, and the curious way that fate had intersected their movements along with that of Taalia's. To think that the green-cloth wearing ogres had  heard  of her! And at that time! They had carried the story of her exploits, rash and reckless as they had been, through the mountain-breach of Tilean's eastern regions all the way up to here. Imagine if she had not come upon them today? Would they have spread words of the tall, fiesty human girl who used gunpowder to solve the problem of impenetrable walls, and then had taken the time to blow the people kisses rather than affect an escape? The girl would be lying if she would have had to answered whether it fed her ego a little, the idea that  she  would be the talk of the town and so far away! Her spectacle at the tower and her ensuing court case having captured the publics imagination. But, in another way it was humbling, to think that even after she was gone in the years to come, there would always be the legend of Taalia Giovanni - the one who detonated the walls of the 'inescapable tower'.

Thankfully, Bella was on hand to give the girl a gentle nudge in her ribs when she noticed her taller friend starting to get carried off on the flights of her own image.  "Ow!"  the shepardess would utter, pursing her lips and blushing gently in an admittance and silent gratitude for the course correction.

But then matters changed to those more proximal and, arguably, important.


 "Lord Donallo and his knights were serving at the cordon at the time, 'an he seemed trustworthy enough. Carcassonne is the place one goes in Bretonnia for mercenary work. But two weeks on the job on this side of the mountains and he choofed off, and never bloody paid us. And when we knocked on the castle door, they shot at us. Tiny took an arrow in the head, he did." 

Taalia furrowed a brow as she looked over at Briant. She was glad that the knight seemed relieved that a fight was not necessary, as the ogres seemed more hospitable than their brutish appearance would suggest. (though perhaps such a result would have been more likely had the surprisingly intelligent Giorno not been with them) However, he seemed conflicted about the news on this Lord Donallo, as if he was acting out of character. Taalia knew very little of the customs of this land, but she doubted stiffing ones workers and retracting on ones deals was seen as a particularly noble thing to do. Was there more at play?


 Bella whispers to you. "I thought they didn't accept mercenaries at all, north of the mountains - all knights and peasants, and no one who doesn't belong to a parcel of land somewhere. It seems hardly fair to accept their work without paying them... But they're ogres..." The tone of her voice betrays a lack of commitment to the sentiment that their ogrishness should override the integrity men owe each other in contracts. "This... Donallo has a great deal to answer for. What do you think?" 

 "Still..."  Taalia replied in a soft whisper, holding both hands up flat,  "a deal is a deal; you keep it or find acceptable settlement,"  

The girl pursed her lips, looking over at the hulking ogre.

 "How much does Lord Donaldo owe you?"  she asked.

After receiving an answer, she would look at Briant, try or think of how to speak to him, before pursing her lips, and asking Giorno to translate.

 "You seem like you know Lord Donallo to be a respectable man as his normal self. Should we investigate his condition?" 
MrAbdiel
 The account, it seems, is not a small one. Ogre mercenaries are juggernauts in combat, and their services tend to come at a premium. Giorno's Brawny Three is strictly speaking a recognized Tilean mercenary company with a hiring fee of 200 gold crowns, and then 50 crowns a week for weeks spend in active engagement; food and lodging only for those weeks spend on march (though that doesn't seem likely to be much cheaper.) Lord Donallo would owe them 300 crowns, plus whatever damages might be reasonable to smooth over this kerfuffle - an amount that gives even your malachite-slinging digits pause on the way to your purse.

It's odd using the ogre as a translator, but he seems conversational enough and it beats pantomime. Briant agrees - Donallo must be questioned, and the questions of a peer might demand an answer more than those of peasants and foreigners.

 "Mighty decent, signorina Troll-Slayer. These froggy nobles aim high, but I prefer a paymaster who is honest in his greed."  He says this to you with a wink, as if Tilean to Tilean, at the expense of the clueless Briant who, beside you, is engaged in a part-charades exchange with Bella.

 "Taalia,"  she reports when she has decoded the knight's will and the ogres aren't listening closely,  "Briant wants to send us up the road with the horse to bring back some beasts to cook - a feast for the outlaws and the ogres and outlanders, so we can head off tomorrow on full stomachs to see about Donallo. I think he's trying to smooth the displeasure for his friend, but I suppose that's his right. Look!"  She flashes you the glittering interior of a purse she has been given - there may be forty Bretonnian  ecu  within.

 "You were making deals in Bella Collina before you could cleanly speak the language, right? We can do it - come back with a few sheep or an ox.  Maybe - maybe even some spices and vegetables to make sauces. We don't have a full kitchen, but I think we could make it work!" 

Briant, who seems to intend to remain here as a peacekeeper and a form of human collateral, looks to you, and mimes eating with a spoon. 
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 


Taalia felt unusual, but slowly reassured the more that she spoke and chatted with the ogres, particularly Giorno. The other two weren't bad but...well they were dumb. They were pretty dumb. The way they spoke, the way they viewed concepts and their perspective, Taalia was by no means some elite snob from her ivory tower, but it was most definitely a test of her patience to smile, nod and laugh a little whenever one of the other ogres said something that the two of them thought was hilarious, but for which Taalia was just left to feign a smile. It didn't feel nice to do. Giorno, on the other hand, was interesting to the shepardess, as he was clearly gifted with expanded mental faculties compared to his brethren, which allowed him to appreciate the world in more ways than one. He spoke of Tilea, Bretonnia and beyond. He was a traveller and had lived a fascinating, if violent, life.

At the mention of what was owed, the girl rose her eyebrows.  That  is how much ogre mercenaries could make?! That was an incredible sum! The shepardess knew that she had the gems to cover such a bill hidden away in her belongings, but she did not see any point in paying the ogres the full guarantee...because that wouldn't solve the underlying problem of the oddly behaving local lord.

Then came the suggestion...


 "Taalia," she reports when she has decoded the knight's will and the ogres aren't listening closely, "Briant wants to send us up the road with the horse to bring back some beasts to cook - a feast for the outlaws and the ogres and outlanders, so we can head off tomorrow on full stomachs to see about Donallo. I think he's trying to smooth the displeasure for his friend, but I suppose that's his right. Look!" She flashes you the glittering interior of a purse she has been given - there may be forty Bretonnian ecu within.

"You were making deals in Bella Collina before you could cleanly speak the language, right? We can do it - come back with a few sheep or an ox. Maybe - maybe even some spices and vegetables to make sauces. We don't have a full kitchen, but I think we could make it work!"

Briant, who seems to intend to remain here as a peacekeeper and a form of human collateral, looks to you, and mimes eating with a spoon. 


Taalia was...suspicious. None of the Bretonnian men,  none , were going to accomplish Taalia and Bella to the next town? None at all? The girls slave instincts were ringing in the back of her head: they were trying to get rid of the two girls so they could try to sort the problem out themselves. The lords castle was fortified, so best send the two ladies away lest violence unfold. She couldn't be mad at Briant, if that's what he was planning, as it's probably a ploy she would do to get Bella out of danger. Besides, she didn't have any real proof...just her suspicions.

Pursing her lips, thinking about Bella first...she didn't want to bring the girl near a potentially hostile lord armed with a castle, bowmen and knights, even with a few ogres and Briant by their side. She hoped that what Briant was offering was the truth, as he seemed quite the ideal image of Bretonnian chivalry so far, but who knew - maybe deception was acceptable if it meant 'vulnerable ladies' could be placed out of harms way?

Receiving the purse and opening it, Taalia could see how her single gold coin-worth Malachite had saved Briant a considerable sum...but, if this was his pocket change, he surely had a particularly wealthy family waiting for him somewhere. Again, the shepardess looked over at her Tilean beauty friend with an idea lingering in the back of her own mind. Would that be the happy ending Bella deserved? After a life of abandonment and neglect, she was whisked away by a handsome knight to live a wealthy life?

Nodding, looking over at Briant with a look of I-suspect-you-have-an-ulterior-plan-please-do-not-go-through-with-it on her face, Taalia smiled and nodded, "Si," she said, standing up and brushing herself down.

 "Singore Giorno,"  she addressed the ogre politely.

 "My friend and I will go to the nearest Bretonnian town. We will try and gather the materials for everyone to enjoy a hearty meal! I...don't know how much ogres consume, I am assuming it is more than we?"  she gestured between Giorno and his two companions,  "we will try and make it a sheeps worth each - would that be satisfactory?" 

If it were, then Taalia would provide the necessary and polite departure protocols to the ogres, Briant and the bowmen, before taking her friend Bella by the hand and leading her back towards the road and on to the next town...
MrAbdiel
 You track your eyes between the ogres, and Briant, and the pack of poor highwaymen behind. Why, in this land of vaunted chivalry, would none of the men try to accompany them to the next town? Slaveborn suspicions smoke away in your mind, but no amount of scrutiny yields a flaw in the demeanour of those accompanied to suggest some kind of ruse. Ultimately, it seems to be a matter of lack of choices. Sir Briant is reluctant to leave the outlaws alone with the ogres, lest a bloody fight erupt, or the outlaws return to the road and shake down a less accommodating knight and exchange steel over it. But however ready he is to bargain with the ogres and the Lord Donallo in their interest, he does not trust them to escort the two of you without an unacceptable risk of ribaldry.

But he does seem to trust  you . He struggles to look at either of you directly with your scandalously uncovered hair, but while Bella remains a maiden to be protected, he has taken some combination of your stature, scars and personal bearing as a suggestion that you are a woman of action who can be trusted in the role of a man.

It is possible you managed to run into one of the most egalitarian knights in all of Bretonnia.

When you ask Giorno about how much they eat -  I am assuming it is more than we?  - he cannot resist the set up, and gives you a big jowelly grin.

 "Oh, about as much as you, I think. But you're such charming conversationalists, I think we'll wait for the sheep, if it's all the same!"  He laughs, and the other ogres look to him and laugh as well though they have lost the thread of his joke, and Bella grimaces a little. They were relatively peaceful examples of their kind; but eaters of men, all the same.

Perhaps, all the more reason to get them back on the line and eating orcs and goblins as soon as possible.

 * * * * * 
You set out with Bella and arrive in the village up the road after a few hours travel sharing Clémence's saddle, arriving just as the sun is highest in the sky and burning away the resistant chill in the air. It's not much of a village; not compared to those you're used to in Tilea. A collection almost two score small huts and houses, with a single larger cruck house that likely contains the village headman. The cruck house is mostly timbre and roofed in wooden shingles, but the rest of the homes are humbler still; constructions of crooked beams and boughs, made as straight and sturdy as possible with built up walls of wattle and daub. There is little color here; an abundance in Bella Collina that now seems to have been a priveledge. And the village has the enduring, lingering waste smell that is common to small, poor communities that have not ordered their disposal and cities whose order of the same has collapsed.

But working hard to redeem both sight and smell are clusters of lavender growing in rock-circled gardens at the front of the houses and in unbidden but welcomed clusters on thatched rooves and sometimes halfway up walls; the last burst of flowering before the plants yield to winter's advance.

The peasants are as uniformly poor as you have seen them, wearing likely their only sets of clothes well stained and repaired as they go about their petty industry. Beyond the town itself are grazing fields trimmed low by what you recognize as the flocking of hungry sheep. There is no market immediately apparent in this village, but there is atleast one familiar sight.

The little girl, the one who came with her father to offer eggs to Sir Briant, does her part for the village with admirable autonomy. Still in her plain dress but permitted to wear the fetching blue bonnet for the rest of the day, she bustles back and forth between the few clusters of grass near the edgemost house that the sheep have missed, and woven basket of tough reeds set down by the house itself. The basket, you gather as you approach, contains two or three rabbits, and the girl is fetching them fistfuls of grass one at a time and tossing them in through a hole in the basket's top.  She does all this one handed, as under her left arm she holds a chicken which she seems to have decided is important to the process. The bird takes it all in with clucking indifference, obviously used to being so favoured.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
You can roll me charm to win over the little girl.  Difficulty is a mere +20%; but you can make as many as three preceding rolls at skills that you think a little girl might find impressive or amusing, and each that succeeds gives a further +10%. No penalty for failing - she's too poor to be a harsh judge of entertainment.
 
 
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 


There was still a part of the former slave that told her the men wanted to provide a gentle excuse to evacuate the two ladies from the area so that they may have their little showdown. Afterall, sheep would buy the ogres satiation for a few days, but enough arrows would buy it forever. And it wouldn’t be  that  hard to accomplish, Taalia estimated, her eyes sweeping the area. The ogres had brawn, that much was sure, and they were certainly frightening when roused to anger and violence. But a couple dozen men with bows melting into the tree’s? Moving from cover to cover? They’d take casualties, but there was a reason humans were so widespread across the world, and it wasn’t down to one on one punching matches with creatures bigger than themselves.

 "Oh, about as much as you, I think. But you're such charming conversationalists, I think we'll wait for the sheep, if it's all the same!" 

Taalia gave an amused, but unimpressed look at the chuckling ogre, one of her white eyebrows raised in paternalistic ‘really?’ as Bella grimaced beside her. The ex-slave had seen such a fate befall plenty who couldn’t keep up within the workpits and collapse into exhaustion, only to get tossed into the rat-ogre pens.

When they were set to depart, Taalia gave Briant a nod and a smile, her right hand coming up in a gentle little salute from the rim of her steel helmet.


 oOo 

Moving back through that country side and Taalia took in lungfuls of gentle, spring air. She mentally contrasted this verdant, green land with its rolling hills and plains that stretched out in all directions, save for that of the forest of course, and thought of her home back in Bella Collina and the slightly dryer atmosphere. And the fragrances! The sun was brighter back in Tilea, its greater presence lending a heightened sense of warmth. Such a feeling was still here in these richly green lands, but the girl thought about the slightly warmer weather further south and remembered back to her time in Norsca. Would the Empire be like this too? Already her mental comparisons between the trees here and in Tilea were moving through her mind like a slideshow, with the thicker, greender and more towering oaks and forests of this land dressing its woodlands with a slightly intimidating bent compared to the more open, lighter timbers in Tilea.

It was all so familiar yet so foreign.

Hah! Foreign! Like Taalia had grounds upon which to consign such a thing.

But if her sense of the recognizable was challenged by the beautiful lands of this nation, the village was something else entirely. The common folk of Tilea were seemingly little lords unto themselves if one were to judge solely by their lodgings, as Taalia beheld the dozen or so huts, shoddy hedges that passed for walls and the nucleus of the town – the head house. The distinct reduction in the local color palette also struck the former slave, as the riot of color that were Tilean villages and towns had always gotten her spirits up so much in her early days of ingratiation, but here the hues were more dour, less impressive. Indeed, Taalia’s own excellent quality riding boots seemed an item of luxury compared to what anyone was wearing in this town, let alone the beautiful, glossy golden cloth Bella frequently wore about her waist.

Why were they in such a sorry state? Were they out of dye to produce colorful fabrics? Had they none to begin with? The lack of a market was already a worrying sign to the girl, as she knew such locations were the heart of local commerce and provided access and opportunity for the locals to ply their wares and acquire new desirables. After all, that’s where Taalia had gotten her start: a silver mirror for credit, credit for sheep and chickens, the rest was history.

But here? Where could the locals cleave unto themselves such opportunity?

Drawing herself off the destrier and taking the reins in one gloved hand, Taalia looked up at Bella and exchanged a slightly worried look with her. The two of them would stand out like a like orcs at a fancy dress party. Bella, with her natural radiance and well-kept, beautiful clothes, looking the part of a foreign lady of good breeding, doubtless with a title to her name if she had no brothers to receive it first. While Taalia…well, Taalia was Taalia. Nature had seen fit to grant her numerous oddities to ensure she could never blend in anywhere she went, with her height, her athletic physique, the scars across her otherwise pleasing, angular features, her white-blonde hair back in a single braid and, of course, the eerie oddity of her heterochromia eyes: one blue the other green. That was before one observed her regalia of her mailed armor, clearly well-made clothes and boots, the steel helm upon her head and, finally, the pistols and sword on her hip and rifle and shield on her back.

Yes, they stood out.

But soon a sight evoked a sense of passing familiarity within the former slave – the girl they had seen tending her flock! She had also been the one that had passed by the old church and sold Briant some eggs.

Immediately, Taalia smiled her warm, welcoming smile.

 “I’ll try and talk to her, do you want to stay astride,  my lady ?”  Taalia asked up at Bella, her last words emphasized for some gentle teasing of her friend.

Handing the reins up to Bella, Taalia approached the girl as she moved back and forth between patches of grass, overseeing both her flock of sheep and…rabbits? The former slave smiled at the sight of the cute little things, as she neared close enough to speak at a normal decibel.

 “Bonjourno, singorina…”  she spoke with her sonorous, smoky voice, a warm smile on her face.

She gestured to the girls flock, “I used to tend sheep in my home village as well,” she continued, her voice slower than normal, but not condescendingly slow. She imagined the girl couldn’t understand most of what she was saying.

 “But – I had help!” 

Taalia then reached to her pack and drew it around to her front, opened the flap, reached inside and withdrew…the orange-and-white kitten, Milo.
MrAbdiel
 
 
 Originally Posted by Taalia 'Trollslayer' Giovanni 
  “I’ll try and talk to her, do you want to stay astride,  my lady ?”  
 

 "As a matter of fact..."  Bella preens,  swinging one leg over the horse to adjust herself to sidesaddle, straightening her back a little to project a posture of feminine dominion. It's undercut by the fact that she is clad in traveller's leathers rather than a dress, somewhat; but she enjoys the pantomime it seems.

The little girl takes one step back when she spots you; but she recognizes you from the earlier encounter that went so pleasantly, and that seems to be enough to give you a chance. You speak clearly and warmly to her, and she looks up with big bright eyes in incomprehension at your foreign tongue. But tone accomplishes much of what a lexicon cannot; and you ensorcel her with big-sisterly gentleness. And then with Milo, your sleep but willing familiar, who snoozilly dangles from your hand and takes in the girl to whom he is offered.

 "Ooh!"  She releases, at once caught up in the moon-eyed rapture that comes upon little girls who idolize their mothers and who are presented with a chance to mother something. You establish a temporary trade, chicken for cat, so she can hold the soporific feline in both hands and stroke his fur with her palm. She sings Milo a Breton lullaby and rocks him in her arms; and that suits him just fine. You're able to communicate your name, the cat's and Bella's. The girl is named Fanette. The chicken is Aloïse. She points back at the rabbit hutch and out to the field beyond where somewhere the sheep are, and releases a torrent of additional names that blur together.

The girl's mother - intuited both by a fair resemblance and her emergence from the adjacent house; joins you shortly as she overhears the conversational gabbling. You hear Fanette ramble what you hope is a glowing introduction to her mother for you, Bella, and especially Milo; and the child's contented demeanour does heavy lifting cutting through outsider-suspicions. You gather her name is Naemi.

But once that part is clear, and you are obviously not a couple of strangers passing through but a couple of strangers stopping and a very strange couple of strangers at that, half the bloody village seems to come out to meet you with interest.  Most of them are housewives with children in tow and a few old men; the dearth of industry in the village suggesting the men work mostly on larger farms during the days rather than our of their storefronts as is common in cities and not vanishingly rare in Bella Collina. It's an effort for you and Bella to try to communicate what you want. None of them seem to speak Tilea in full, but several of them speak it in part. When you speak, there is a conference of rapidfire Breton linquistic debate and then one of them answers you in what is usually a simple, comprehensible Tilean sentence.
 
"How are you come here south-ladies?"

"Who horse is this of?"

"Are you wife for Lord Donallo?" (this one, to Bella on the horse, now somewhat overwhelmed by the attention.)

"You will eat soup yes no?"

"Have you see large dog?" (this one, accompanied by a gesture to your facial scarring.)

"How you are very tall south-lady?"

"Are l'orque dead south-lady?" 

Bargaining here will be challenging. But you're used to challenges.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
Well, you've passed the first hurdle. Now give me a haggle roll! There's a language barrier, but you've thwarted that with the earlier roll, so we'll call it +20% because these peasants are quite eager to trade. You have 40 Ecu from Briant's purse. You can spend as much or as little of it as you want on livestock. They have plenty of sheep; they can spare an ox, and a half-dozen rabbits and chickens at the price of chickens for both. If there's anything else you want, feel free to make a gossip roll (challenging +0) and I'll let you know if they have it.
 
 
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 

To be in a small town again where she was visible outsider - the sense of deja vu was great!

But where last time in Bella Collina she had been a malnourished, escaped slave, both curious and frightened and awake in a new world, now she had matured under years of her own initiative and the warmth of a communities embrace. And so when the villagers popped out of their houses and gathered around with curiosity alive in their eyes and chatter upon their tongues, Taalia felt reassured and perfectly comfortable being the centre of attention. After all, with her striking image she was used to it where-ever she went, and that was without the remembrance of her trial and gladiatorial excursions.

Looking over her shoulder, the girl smirked at Bella's growing trepidation at the onrush of inspection, her previously amusing imitation of a lady upon her destrier eroding slightly beneath the innocent curiosity of the villagers - particularly at the mention that she was 'a wife for Lord Donallo'.

Comfortable with the crowds attention, Taalia formed the main point of communication between herself and Bella and the hamlet's inhabitants, and she visited particular affection on Fanette, allowing her to take temporary ownership of Milo the kitten and kissing her warmly upon the forehead before standing up to receive the attention of the rapidly expanding crowd of adults.

Though the questions came fast, Taalia tried her best, noting that she was almost a head above the tallest present, though they all seemed to be the women, children and elders of the hamlet.

 "We flew!"  she answered with a bright smile, drawing her gloved hands to her side and mimicking a birds wings.

 "A Chevalier - Sir Briant" 
 "She is a wife for someone, but not Lord Donallo,"  Taalia answered this one while sneaking a cheeky smile over her shoulder at her friend, giving her a teasing expression.

 "Yes - munga? Si!"  she made gestures as if holding a spoon and drawing it to her lips.

 "Non, non, burning house fell on my face when I was a child,"  Taalia's answer was bashful, her hand drawing to that prominent scar that run down her face, as if only half comfortable with it drawing attention.

 "The gods have a sense of humor?"  she shrugged and laughed gently, her left hand moving up her figure to the crown of her helm to gesture to her height.

 "Most - it is still not safe yet. We flew over some - I shot two!"  Taalia motioned to the rifle slung over her shoulder.

As to what was needed?

Lots.

Feeding sixteen humans and three ogres was no minor feat, and Taalia doubted that Bella and her had ever prepared such a vast quantity of food to be served at once. Nevertheless, after conversing with her friend over the matter, they came to the conclusion that simplicity would be best: the fewer ingredients, the shortest amount of time, the easiest to parse out etc Though these logistical problems were solved by military baggage chains, Taalia and Bella would need to improvise and take their first steps into the balancing world of culinary preparation for a unit of men, so that would mean...

 "Si, si, five pounds of butter?" 
 "Ahhh, non, ten dozen eggs, madame..." 
 "Fifteen chickens - do you have twenty, monsieur?" 
 "Four sheep, five - two pigs?" 

For the next few hours Taalia was mentally transported back to the streets of Verazzo and Paula de Silo where she had fostered an innate talent for bartering. Her personal key was never to be too greedy as to sour the pot, so to speak, and to ensure the other felt as if they had been treated fairly. After all, by estimating the condition of this village, she didn't want to trade poorly with them. Myrmidia would not look kindly upon her if she ripped off the peasantry.

Naturally, she left mead or spirits off the menu, as much as she desired to acquire some. The men needed to keep their senses sharp, and Verena knew how one could apprehend a drunken ogre if he became rowdy.

 
 Spoiler 
So, I went through originally to try and mark out the precise ingredients they'd need. However, that was too much and a little too silly, with prices not making sense if you're trying to collect them in such a manner. So I decided to simplify it:

16 humans x2 good meals each = 576 p = 48 silver
- This'll be a mix of gnocci, ragu, mostly chicken based with good quality vegetables, with bread as asides. With 20 chickens that's a chicken per person which is already itself a meal for a day.

20 sets of wooden cutlery (100s) - 100 silver
Butcher tools (13gc) = 260 silver (these can double as cooking tools under the circumstances)
50 yards of rope (50s) - 50 silver  (to leash together all the animals)
20 chickens (100p) = 8.3 silver

8 sheep (16gc) = 320 silver - 2.5 sheep each is about 110 - 280kgs worth of sheep per ogre.

= 786.3 silver

= 39.315 gold
 
MrAbdiel
  
 Spoiler: OOC: 
That's a lot of animals!

You can get away without the rope; you know driving sheep is easier without it, as they're less likely to hurt themselves or become confused by their instincts to follow one and being tethered to another. But we can probably write of that 50 silver and the remaining change in baskets for the chickens, the means to secure all those baskets to Cleménce, and assorted herbs and spices.  Perhaps even 11.
 


This is a remarkable sale for the people of the little village of Leveau; and the whole process gets everyone buzzing and marvelling. You end up with just about all you need, and by the end of the sale, the warhorse is an almost farsical walking bundle of netting filled with sacks and baskets and parcels, emitting a subdued but regular clucking. With the eight sheep you once again find yourself at the head of a small herd; and the villagers throw in for good measure a spry old billy goat that the sheep will follow, when he is tethered to the horse. Fanette and a trio of other girls of about the same age get about watering the beasts for you, working in a little crew to crank water up from a little well next to the town's only shrine - to Ishea and Karnos you recognize by their wooden likenesses carved into the doorframe, who north of the mountains you are given to understand are called Rhya, and Taal.

While the animals are prepared, the buzzing wifery of Leveau plies you and Bella with a somewhat tasty but thin soup that seems to be mostly onion and cabbage with the ethereal suggestion of protein cast about in the pot like a rumour. An old man sharpens the knives in the bundle of tools you buy before carefully rolling them in sack cloth; Naemi arranges for your extrodinary egg requirement as a combination of those available in the town. Some are duck, some are chicken, but all seem fresh.

And finally, after this rest, Fanette reluctantly surrenders Milo back into your care. The kitten bops combatively at one of the chickens during the handoff, but he's way out of reach, and no harm is done.

 "They certainly are friendly; though we did wander in to town with a purse full of gold and a desire to spend it all. Still, they seem sweet enough,"  Bella decides. Neither are they so different to look at, as you might have guessed. While the lands are divided by strife now, the mountains alone have not been historically enough to prevent intermarriage between north and south; and a decent minority of the peasants here are as swarthy of skin as any Tilean.

When the time comes to go, Naemi and Fanette have additional tokens for you.

 "Ici! Tiens, tu dois prendre, s'il te plaît."
 

For Bella, Naemi has a square of pale blue cloth that has been pressed with lavender; and a short game of charades teaches Bella how to draw it over her hair and tie it off beneath her chin, in the modest fashion of the ladies of the town for whom the full wimple is a cumbersome expense. The scent may help some peasants, too; though Bella herself is decidedly too well invested in her own hygiene for that have been a pre-existing problem. She doesn't seem to mind it, and is touched by the gesture.

You, with your helm, coif, and skullcap, have a scalp that is mostly spoken for; but Fanette reaches for your hand and, when plied with it, produces a slim, lapis blue ribbon that she ties around your wrist in a bow. It is the most colorful thing you have seen in the town; almost certainly, the most colorful thing her household possesses.

Then it's back you go, plodding with the beasts at a comfortable pace back to where you hope you will not find a massacre.

It's about halfway back when you smell it, on the wind as it shifts. Two things. The first, you're quite sure, is goblin sweat. You remember it from your desperate brawl with the little monsters with Gaulfredo, when you fought for your life and got a pick through the bicep for your trouble. The second scent you don't know directly, but close enough: dirty, unwashed... not quite canine.


  Have you see large dog?  

 "What is it?"  Bella says, picking up on your tension at once.  "What's wrong?" 

What's wrong is that there is a party of goblins behind you, with dogs - or, given the stories you've heard, probably giant wolves. Given that you can't hear them, they must be at distance, and tracking you by smell; and the change in the wind so you're smelling them will make that hard for them until it changes back. You're not far from where Briant at the nascent armistice of man and ogre should be - maybe twenty minutes out. You might make it.

Maybe.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
Exciting decision time. Congrats on passing that smell roll.

If you want to hustle your animals back to Briant, give me your choice of Animal Care or Trade: Farmer, at +10 for passing that smell roll earlier. Bare success means you get back to where you hope the others are at the same time the goblins close in. Beating it by more, or failing it, will adjust the breathing room on that outcome.

If you want to stand and deliver, you can send Bella off with the animals and try to hide in ambush (which would be Hide, at +10). Same expectation as above; better success means better hiding spot.

Or you can do just about anything else you want to do, because this is an RPG woo hoo! But those are the most obvious options.
 
 
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 

For Taalia the bartering and trading for goods brought a bright smile to her face, as this is something she truly loved. There was something so human to this act, this exchange of goods and services, that it could penetrate the language barrier. Goods and services on offer for those with the coins or goods to exchange for them - it was the beating heart of human cooperation, and Taalia was clearly enjoying herself enormously as she pushed through the linguistic differences, inspected items and bartered in broken Bretonnian. To think she'd be here when just a few years ago she had been deep, deep down below...

For a moment the girl even sent her thoughts back to Bella Collina, and Gaulfredo and Polo, no in charge of Giovanni Farms. Taalia smiled on the thought, picturing Gaulfredo putting his gusto into the operations with his typical emotional energy and Polo sagely cataloging every expense and keeping his ear to the ground for incoming word of economic changes. She would see them again, one day, she promised herself, in the years to come. But if fate decided otherwise, if she were not to return to those quiet, pleasant lands that had been so good to her, she took solace in knowing she'd helped the man fulfil his aspirations and had given back to the town just a little of what they had given her.

 "They certainly are friendly; though we did wander in to town with a purse full of gold and a desire to spend it all. Still, they seem sweet enough,"  

Taalia nodded in agreement with a small smile, before Fanette and her mother caught their attention to grant them parting gifts.

 "Ah - magnifique!"  Taalia smiled brightly as Fanette wrapped the lovely blue bow around her wrist. In actually it was just a bit of colorful cloth, nothing more. But it was the warm sentiments attached that touched the girl, as she looked at it with a warm smile before turning back to Fanette.

 "Merci, singorina,"  she said, giving her a hug with one arm before kissing her on the forehead before pausing,  "Ah - un moment." 

Taalia returned to the destrier, rummaged around in search for one of her bags and then soon returned after she found it. Kneeling down before Fanette, she made sure no one else was spotting the moment as she moved her gloved hand forward, turned it palm side up and opened her fingers to reveal one of her uncut malachite's, just like the ones she'd used to bribe the bandits. Taalia then drew one of Fanette's hands to her own where she conspicuously deposited the gem, using her other hand to draw her index finger across her lips  "Sssh!"  she smiled, giving the girl one more hug before standing up. The girl could keep it forever as a token, sell it when the need was dire, she could do whatever she wanted with it, Taalia didn't mind.

 "Au revoir!"  she bid the town farewell.


 oOo 

That smell.

She'd never forget that smell.

The moment the scent of the goblins reached her nose, Taalia froze, her head moving about and her keen eyes peering for the source.

They couldn't be far.

Her demeanor had shifted in an instant, having been walking alongside the destrier and holding the reins while Bella sat atop the great beast. Now, the shepardess was visibly on alert, her gaze shifting to the trees, then the trail from which they'd come, then to where they were going.


 "What is it?" Bella says, picking up on your tension at once. "What's wrong?" 

Taalia didn't answer at once, bit her grim visage suggested that it was nothing good.

 "Goblins,"  she said finally,  "and wolves. They're on our trail." 

For a moment, the shepardess considered tying one of the sheep or some of the chickens in place, to buy them some precious minutes to affect a retreat back to the camp with the bandits. That would give them the necessary preparation to meet a group of wolf-mounted goblins.

Or she could stay here. Hide somewhere in the trees, count the minutes down. Twenty minutes to camp. Say twenty five or so back to this position. Could she wait that long? Armored or not, she did not want to end her new time on this world by being gnawed apart by a pack of wolves to the cheering delight of greenskins.

...but what if they didn't follow them into the forest?

A chill ran down Taalia's back. They'd go back to the village! Why follow humans and their animals into a forest? It was clear, even to low intelligence but cunning little beasts like goblins, that they were returning to some sort of camp. Why take that risk when they could just go back to the village instead, where there was currently only the elderly, women and children of a hamlet to defend it.

Feeling her heart seized, Taalia turned to look up at Bella.

 "Direct the animals back to the camp and tell them what's happening here. The men there, Briant, the ogres; tell them to come to this location. If the goblins have no reason to stay here they'll go back to that town, and those people who were just so kind to us will be at their mercy!" 

The shepardess wore urgency over her face like a mask, it was clear she would not broker dissent.

 "I'll stay here. I and that village are counting on  you  to get back to the camp and tell Briant. Go!" 
MrAbdiel
 Bella's gaze flashes with fear and defiance. You are sending her away, again; trying to keep her out of danger so you can shoulder it alone... But sense clears her brown eyes, and she gives you a quick nod before setting off without a word; leaving you with one chicken in a basket under your arm for your plan. Even your very attached friend can see, this time, that her best opportunity to help you is to bring the others back here as quickly as possible. As Bella and the animals hasten down the road, you set the basket by the side of the road at a tilt, pressing it to break some of the weaving like it had fallen off and has been forgotten. The sacrificial bird within warbles in suspicion as you abandon it, dashing into the light cover of trees at the side of the road - near to where the outlaws had ambushed you in the first place. The trees themselves aren't great cover, and you get to work trying to clear a buildup of leaves and sticks that occupy a much better spot wedge between a tree and a shrub you could kneel in and peer from.

But the greenskins come too quickly, and you flatten yourself against a tree sparing glances when you can over your shoulder around the trunk. There are nine of them; green skin and bloodshot eyes, clad in hides and tatty furs with spears and short bows. And each one of them rides a massive wolf the size of a pony, bounding down the road with all boldness in pursuit of the smell of prey. The two lead wolves reach the basket first, and both scent the creature inside. They snap at it, ripping the wicker apart and shredding the bird within; leaving one of the beasts with most of the bird and the other with a mouthful of sticks. For a moment, you are able to hope this will work more to your advantage, as the wolves begin fussing and fighting with each other over the meagre kill; but the leadmost goblin (you can tell on account of the trophy rack strapped to his back, featuring three human looking skulls in helmets in various states of disrepair and defilement) roars at his minions and they get their animals under control.

They dawdle on the road for a couple of minutes; precious minutes in which Bella is continuing back to your motley allies. You are too far away to get a sense of their discussion from tone, and your hiding position is too precarious for you to try to look consistently enough to intuit body language. But after those few minutes, the order is given, and the party sets off down the road again.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
Your stunt has bought time. Now, a critical decision: reveal yourself in ambush, or sprint overland after the pack to try to join what is likely to be a battle at the other end with your allies. The latter means your allies will likely engage the enemies before you do. The former means you'll be fighting a vastly outnumbering force. Before you ask, a blunderbuss shot at them as they past will catch, at the best point of timing, three riders and their wolves.

If you want to attack (which is a decision I would describe as  brave ), feel free to make a surprise round attack and I'll set up initiatives.

If you want to pursue on foot, give me an agility roll, and a toughness roll. If you had lucked out on a better hiding spot, I might have interpreted that as a better sense of the terrain to pursue without being seen and offered a bonus here; but as it is, it's challenging in both cases... though I'll give a +20 to the agility roll as a credit to your Flee! talent. You're not running for  your  life perse, but for lives you care about atleast.
 
 
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 

Taalia remained steely-eyed as she watched the three by three column of goblin wolf-riders paw their way into view, the slavering tongues of the beasts hanging wetly from the corners of their fanged muzzles. Though she was caught in a horrifying moment, the shepardess' mind couldn't help wander to the practicality of wolves as mounts. Horses were magnificent steeds, not just because of their speed, strength and trainability, but because of their long-distance stamina. Their short fur allowed them to sweat across their bodies and buffer them against overheating, just like humans, allowing them to run for hours and hours at a time. But wolves? Those long, ghoulish tongues dangling from their mouths, slathered with foamy ichor, was the sole avenue for cooling down, rendering them short-ranged beasts. That meant their camp must be somewhere within riding distance.

The death-wail squawking of the poor chook tore Taalia from her mental exercise, her face grimly acknowledging the little birds unwitting sacrifice as she uttered a tiny prayer to the gods of fertility in thanks for its deed. Peeking her eyes around the corner of the tree trunk that was her current separation between life and death, the shepardess watched as the goblins convened, every minute they stayed here a minute longer Bella had to escape and the men to prepare themselves. One...two...four...five...how many precious minutes had she bought them?

The goblins seemed to have decided their course of action. Consultation over, they reared about on their wolves once more and departed along their original trajectory. If there had been three or so, Taalia would have ambushed them. Pick them off from the trees and blast them with  Leonardo  when they got too close. But nine? She'd be insane.

Slinging her rifle back over her shoulder, Taalia turned towards the forest depths and took off, her long legs picking her over the umbrage and scrub and powering her forward into a sprint...
MrAbdiel
 You run like hell. Like you haven't in a long time. Even when you were running from the rats in the swamp of Miragliano, you had to slow yourself not to outpace Bella. Here you're running like you haven't since - when?

Since you were fleeing with Rashabang up toward the surface, with a knife in your shoulder?

But you're not running from death this time, but toward it; and when your lungs burn and your legs ache, it is fear for Bella, and Fanette's village, that balms the pain.

As scramble over a green dusk-lit hill, you can hear the goblins whooping beyond, and the barking and snarling of wolves. You're relieved to see that it's not a killing field of scattered sheep and chickens over the rise, but a mounted chase. The wolfriders are there, and so is Briant on his destrier, racing away from them.

There odds are nine to one, and the pack keeps splitting and trying to flank Briant before the horse peels away from the jaws snapping at its heels and the wolves reform into a block. For the goblins, the chase must be tantalizingly frustrating; they keep almost getting him, and end up chasing him in a wild zig zag down the hilly slope while plinking away with their shortbows. The knight himself barely seems to be watching where he's going at all. He has one foot in a stirrup, the other up on the saddle, to give himself the freest range of motion to bring his shield about to catch the arrows flying his way and Cleménce charges on down the slope. It might be imaginable that Briant is making for the road and flatter ground so he can make a break down the straight.

But that isn't your assessment of the knight's character; and especially given the quality of horse and his skill as a horseman, you think he can probably outrun the wolves even on the hills. If anything he is holding back, even at risk of catching an arrow, to prevent getting far enough away from any of the wolves that they lose interest and go elsewhere. You think of Bertuccio and Gherardino, trading off the attention of the Troll of Bella Collina while leading to towards the town's volunteer militia. And true to your suspicion, you look to the best obscuring hill at the foot of the slope where it would be sensible to be leading a foe for a barrage, and you are quite sure you see the scruffy head of one of the bandits poking up for a moment.

Even if your whole body is screaming and telling you to throw up from the effort of sprinting, you have gotten here just in time for the fight.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: Woo hoo! Battle time! 
It's that time again! Initiatives!

Sir Briant: [ROLL]1d10+4[ROLL]
Goblins and Wolves: [ROLL]1d10+4[ROLL]
Bandits: [ROLL]1d10+3[ROLL]
Ogres: [ROLL]1d10+2[ROLL]
Bella: [ROLL]1d10+4[ROLL]

I'll need your initiative; but basically, you can start as close as 30 yards from the wolfpack and the hiding spot of the bandits, with you as the third point in a sort of triangle. You can start further back, if you wish. Briant is halfway between them.
 
 
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 

This was, without a doubt, the furthest she had run at such a pace.

The shepardess paid particular attention to the road before her, taking care to leap, skip and hop where-ever an intervening branch or bush would otherwise impose itself upon her progress. Thus, by the time she arrived upon the scene, the only burning was within her chest as her lungs threatened to explode out of her ribcage, as the twenty minute trip on horseback turned into a ten minute sprint by human-foot - yes, Taalia was winded.

But she didn't let that stop her. It didn't take the former slave long to assess the situation. She could see and divine what Briant was attempting, something those on light horseback, typically horse archers, would perform against an enemy: a feign retreat. To reinforce this idea, the girl was able to spot the hidden bandits, their bows ready - but where were the ogres?

It didn't matter.

The shepardess, winded and trying her best to disguise her heavy breathing, threw herself at a nearby tree and planted herself behind it. Whipping her body around, using the trunk as cover, she drew a bead upon the trophy-rack displaying goblin she believed to be a leader, her finger drawing close to the trigger of her firearm...
MrAbdiel
  
 Spoiler: Rolls for turns 0 and 1! 
Narrative pending the rolls. Stand by.

Turn 0: Goblins fire at Briant as he rides away. As his horse is 'running', and he has his shield out, they have a total of -30% to hit him. I'll generously give them a +5% because they don't care if they hit horse or rider, which you can also use when firing at mounted enemies. 1=Rider, 2=Mount.

  vs05  - (1d100)[ 99 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 9 ] .  (1d2)[ 2 ] . Miss.
  vs05  - (1d100)[ 92 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 11 ] .  (1d2)[ 1 ] . Miss.
  vs05  - (1d100)[ 59 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 6 ] .  (1d2)[ 1 ] . Miss.
  vs05  - (1d100)[ 8 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 10 ] .  (1d2)[ 2 ] . Miss.
  vs05  - (1d100)[ 26 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 11 ] .  (1d2)[ 1 ] . Miss.
  vs05  - (1d100)[ 56 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 12 ] .  (1d2)[ 2 ] . Miss.
  vs05  - (1d100)[ 68 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 9 ] .  (1d2)[ 2 ] . Miss.
  vs05  - (1d100)[ 14 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 13 ] .  (1d2)[ 1 ] . Miss.
  vs05  - (1d100)[ 32 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 11 ] .  (1d2)[ 1 ] . Miss.

Presuming nothing dramatic happens there, turn 1 begins. Banditos and Bella move up the hill (half) and fire their longbows (and crossbow).

Bandit Leader   vs41  - (1d100)[ 77 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 7 ] . (1d2)[ 1 ] . Miss.
Bandit2   vs36  - (1d100)[ 94 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 7 ] . (1d2)[ 2 ] .  (1d9)[ 5 ] . Miss.
Bandit3   vs36  - (1d100)[ 24 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 10 ] . (1d2)[ 2 ] . (1d9)[ 8 ] . Hits Wolf 5 for  4 Wounds .
Bandit4   vs36  - (1d100)[ 93 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 6 ] . (1d2)[ 2 ] . (1d9)[ 6 ] . Miss.
Bandit5   vs36  - (1d100)[ 3 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 5 ] . (1d2)[ 1 ] . (1d9)[ 2 ] . Hits Goblin 2 for  2 Wounds .
Bandit6   vs36  - (1d100)[ 70 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 6 ] . (1d2)[ 1 ] . (1d9)[ 4 ] . Miss.
Bandit7   vs36  - (1d100)[ 82 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 10 ] . (1d2)[ 2 ] . (1d9)[ 7 ] . Miss.
Bandit8   vs36  - (1d100)[ 86 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 12 ] . (1d2)[ 1 ] . (1d9)[ 1 ] . Miss.
Bandit9   vs36  - (1d100)[ 59 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 12 ] . (1d2)[ 1 ] . (1d9)[ 5 ] . Miss.
Bandit10   vs36  - (1d100)[ 15 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 8 ] . (1d2)[ 1 ] . (1d9)[ 4 ] . Hit Goblin 4 for  4 Wounds .
Bandit11   vs36  - (1d100)[ 14 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 4 ] . (1d2)[ 1 ] . (1d9)[ 1 ] . Hit GoblinNob for  1 Wound .
Bandit12   vs36  - (1d100)[ 24 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 4 ] . (1d2)[ 2 ] . (1d9)[ 3 ] . Hit Wolf 3 for  1 Wound .
Bandit13   vs36  - (1d100)[ 24 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 4 ] . (1d2)[ 1 ] . (1d9)[ 9 ] . Hit Goblin 9 for  1 Wound. 
Bella   vs45  - (1d100)[ 29 ]  for  (1d10+4)[ 10 ] . (1d2)[ 1 ] . Hit Goblin 9 for  6 Wounds . (Had to externally randomize this one)

Once narrative resolves, it'll be Taalia's turn.
 


Briant carries on his admirable flight; two arrows thud into his shield, but none find flesh on he or his faithful steed. He gives out a cry of signal as he drives into the gully between the second to last and last hills, and the hooded bandits step up and loose a volley of arrows - Bella beside them firing off a shot with Cestie's crossbow. The volley is on target, but fortune is not with the arrows as they nick and slash past the goblins and riders; a handful finding purchase in wolf hide or goblin flesh, but no beast nor rider falling from their saddles. The goblin leader releases a cry of his own, and the wolf riders prepare to commit to the charge, rather than engage in a protracted shooting battle with the Bretonnian longbows. Thankfully, you have atleast this moment to take a shot of your own. 
MrAbdiel
  
 Spoiler: Remainder of turn 1, start of turn 2 Rolls! 
Narrative pending outcomes.

Taalia hits GoblinNob in the head location for 12 damage, down to 9. GoblinNob is heavily injured, but not quite crit.

Giorno, Bruk and Tiny take their ready action to move up infront of the archers, now that they have loosed a volley.

Goblins draw hand weapons (letting bows rest in the off hand) as a half action, and prepare an action to attack the enemies their wolves charge.

Wolves charge the ogres. Goblins attack too. Strictly speaking, Ogres should trigger fear right now; but the game falls apart if in group battles 2/3s of all opponents shart and faint whenever confronted with fear. Fear rules are designed to complicate small party play, and big group clashes are a different dynamic entirely, so I will overlook Fear until it seems more directly applicable.

GoblinNob attacks   vs30  - (1d100)[ 38 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 7 ]  (Miss)
Nobswolf charges    vs46  - (1d100)[ 66 ]  for  (1d10+4)[ 14 ]  (Miss)
Both on  (1d3)[ 1 ] 

Goblin2 attacks   vs25  - (1d100)[ 7 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 8 ]  (Parried)
Wolf2 charges    vs46  - (1d100)[ 76 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 4 ]  (Miss)
Both on  (1d3)[ 3 ] 

Goblin3 attacks   vs25  - (1d100)[ 39 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 7 ]  (Miss)
Wolf3 charges    vs46  - (1d100)[ 63 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 6 ]  (Miss)
Both on  (1d3)[ 3 ] 

Goblin4 attacks   vs25  - (1d100)[ 68 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 11 ]  (Miss)
Wolf4 charges    vs46  - (1d100)[ 7 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 9 ]  3 Wounds to Giorno's Leg
Both on  (1d3)[ 1 ] 

Goblin5 attacks   vs25  - (1d100)[ 47 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 9 ]  (Miss)
Wolf5 charges    vs46  - (1d100)[ 62 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 9 ]  (Miss)
Both on  (1d3)[ 1 ] 

Goblin6 attacks   vs25  - (1d100)[ 48 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 7 ]  (Miss)
Wolf6 charges    vs46  - (1d100)[ 75 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 11 ]  (Miss)
Both on  (1d3)[ 2 ] 

Goblin7 attacks   vs25  - (1d100)[ 43 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 5 ]  (Miss)
Wolf7 charges    vs46  - (1d100)[ 99 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 4 ]  (Miss)
Both on  (1d3)[ 1 ] 

Goblin8 attacks   vs25  - (1d100)[ 29 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 5 ]  (Miss)
Wolf8 charges    vs46  - (1d100)[ 59 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 4 ]  (Miss)
Both on  (1d3)[ 1 ] 

Goblin9 attacks   vs25  - (1d100)[ 48 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 8 ]  (Miss)
Wolf9 charges    vs46  - (1d100)[ 53 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 5 ]  (Miss)
Both on  (1d3)[ 3 ] 

Ogre Parries:
1 (Giorno)   vs42  - (1d100)[ 34 ] 
2 (Bruk)   vs36  - (1d100)[ 78 ] 
3 (Tiny)   vs36  - (1d100)[ 44 ] 

Briant and Clemance blow through and loop around to charge in next turn.

Bandits aim and fire into the melee for a total of -5% (+10 Aim, +5 Rider/Mount, -20 Melee shot)

BanditLeader   vs31  - (1d100)[ 40 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 7 ]  on  (1d9)[ 5 ] ,  (1d2)[ 2 ] . (Miss)
Bandit2   vs26  - (1d100)[ 85 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 5 ]  on  (1d9)[ 4 ] ,  (1d2)[ 1 ] . (Miss)
Bandit3   vs26  - (1d100)[ 59 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 11 ]  on  (1d9)[ 7 ] ,  (1d2)[ 1 ] . (Miss)
Bandit4   vs26  - (1d100)[ 39 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 5 ]  on  (1d9)[ 4 ] ,  (1d2)[ 1 ] . (Miss)
Bandit5   vs26  - (1d100)[ 27 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 8 ]  on  (1d9)[ 6 ] ,  (1d2)[ 1 ] . (Miss)
Bandit6   vs26  - (1d100)[ 9 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 10 ]  on  (1d9)[ 6 ] ,  (1d2)[ 2 ] . 7 Wounds, Wolf6.
Bandit7   vs26  - (1d100)[ 11 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 5 ]  on  (1d9)[ 6 ] ,  (1d2)[ 2 ] . 2 Wounds, Wolf6
Bandit8   vs26  - (1d100)[ 45 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 8 ]  on  (1d9)[ 3 ] ,  (1d2)[ 2 ] . (Miss)
Bandit9   vs26  - (1d100)[ 76 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 11 ]  on  (1d9)[ 7 ] ,  (1d2)[ 2 ] . (Miss)

Bella Reloads.

Back to Taalia.
 


You struggle to still your breath, forcing yourself even to hold it as you kneel and squeeze off a shot to add to the volley. You swear you hit the one in the lead - the goblin leader sways in the saddle, but whether it is a skimming strike or the work of damn greenskin stubbornness, he rides on.

The ogres make themselves known, then; a common enough trade off for Tileans used to pike and musket combat, even if it's a little novel for the bandits. They bull forth, even knocking some of the outlaw archers over as Giorno, Bruk and Tiny put themselves at the fore; and the charging wolves and riders crash into the bulwark of fat, muscle and gutplates. The gobbos scramble for their hand weapons as the wolves snap and lunge at the Maneaters; but the kind of charge that would bowl over man sized opponents just bangs into the towering brutes and the whole offensive is blunted, with Giorno left shaking a wolf's jaws from his shin but the Bretonnian-Ogre entente otherwise escaping so far in tact.

Briant blows past through the lines of his allies and circles around to charge again; you note he swings close by Bella as she reloads Cestie's crossbow, gives her a protective glance, and then focuses on the combat again.

The charge is over, and the battle is joined; and it has been catastrophic for the goblins, who continue to receive arrows but draw little blood in return. You imagine they will break soon, if the battle does not suddenly reverse in their favour. 
 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
Taalia's up! I imagine you're about to get to Bussin'. I will permit a flanking shot to hit 1d5+2 wolves and 1d5+2 riders.
 
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 


Taalia drew in her hot breath and let it cage within her chest, the burning air threatening to knife through her own scalp as she quietened her body, aimed down her firearm into the throng of goblins and squeezed the trigger - the great  Crack!  sound billowing a puff of smoke from the weapons muzzle. In that split second she saw the goblin nob, his back adorned with the spikes that displayed his grisly trade, snapped around in his saddle, a red flare splattering from his ugly head, as the shepardess grinned for a moment and let out her breath.

But it was far from over.

The goblins screeched their hideous, shrill cries while the gnashing and barking of canine jaws filled the air as the almost-dozen strong patrol charged forward into the throng of bandits and their living wall of the ogre trio, while letting loose another volley of arrows that struck the greenskins and their mounts.

Spotting her new opportunity, Taalia dropped her firearm into the bushes and darted forward, hugging the cover of the next available tree as  Leornardo  was quickly within her hands, drawn up, aimed down the sights and  Crack! .
MrAbdiel
 
 Spoiler: OOC: Rolls for turns 2-3! 
Narrative pending!

Giorno Swift Attacks:
  vs42  - (1d100)[ 97 ]  for  (1d10+6)[ 9 ]  on  (1d9)[ 7 ]  (1d2)[ 2 ] 
  vs42  - (1d100)[ 15 ]  for  (1d10+6)[ 12 ]  on  (1d9)[ 2 ]  (1d2)[ 1 ] 
  vs42  - (1d100)[ 55 ]  for  (1d10+6)[ 16 ]  on  (1d9)[ 8 ]  (1d2)[ 2 ] 

Bruk Attacks:

  vs36  - (1d100)[ 36 ]  for  (1d10+6)[ 15 ]  on  (1d9)[ 8 ]  (1d2)[ 2 ] 
  vs36  - (1d100)[ 98 ]  for  (1d10+6)[ 12 ]  on  (1d9)[ 1 ]  (1d2)[ 1 ] 
  vs36  - (1d100)[ 9 ]  for  (1d10+6)[ 11 ]  on  (1d9)[ 5 ]  (1d2)[ 2 ] 

Tiny

  vs36  - (1d100)[ 52 ]  for  (1d10+6)[ 10 ]  on  (1d9)[ 7 ]  (1d2)[ 1 ] 
  vs36  - (1d100)[ 85 ]  for  (1d10+6)[ 15 ]  on  (1d9)[ 2 ]  (1d2)[ 2 ] 
  vs36  - (1d100)[ 14 ]  for  (1d10+6)[ 15 ]  on  (1d9)[ 6 ]  (1d2)[ 1 ] 

Goblins will respond, but given how decisive these attacks may be, I will resolve them first. Stand by.
 
MrAbdiel
  
 Spoiler: OOC: Goblin Reply! 
Goblins stick it out for another round. They All Out Attack the Ogres, and order their wolves to do the same.

  Gob3vs45  - (1d100)[ 38 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 8 ]  (1d3)[ 1 ]  (Parried)
  Gob4vs45  - (1d100)[ 8 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 11 ]  (1d3)[ 1 ]  (Hit for 11 down to 6 on the leg)
  Gob5vs45  - (1d100)[ 54 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 4 ]  (1d3)[ 3 ]  (Miss)
  Gob7vs45  - (1d100)[ 44 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 4 ]  (1d3)[ 3 ]  (Parry)
  Gob8vs45  - (1d100)[ 77 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 12 ]  (1d3)[ 3 ]  (Miss)
  Gob9vs45  - (1d100)[ 8 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 10 ]  (1d3)[ 3 ]  (Hit for 10 down to 5 to the leg)

  WolfLeaderVs56  - (1d100)[ 34 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 4 ]  (1d3)[ 1 ]  (Hit for 0)
  Wolf2Vs56  - (1d100)[ 95 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 9 ]  (1d3)[ 1 ]  (Miss)
  Wolf3Vs56  - (1d100)[ 36 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 4 ]  (1d3)[ 2 ]  (Hit for 0)
  Wolf4Vs56  - (1d100)[ 51 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 12 ]  (1d3)[ 2 ]  (Hit for 12 down to 7 to the Head)
  Wolf5Vs56  - (1d100)[ 51 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 6 ]  (1d3)[ 3 ]  (Hit for 6 down to 1 to the Head)
  Wolf6Vs36  - (1d100)[ 62 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 7 ]  (1d3)[ 2 ]  (has to stand) (Miss)
  Wolf7Vs56  - (1d100)[ 91 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 12 ]  (1d3)[ 3 ]  (Miss)
  Wolf9Vs56  - (1d100)[ 78 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 7 ]  (1d3)[ 3 ]  (Miss)

Sir Briant Charges.

  BriantVs68  - (1d100)[ 63 ]  for  (1d10+5)[ 6 ]  (1d9)[ 6 ]  (Hit)
  ClemenceVs45  - (1d100)[ 36 ]  for  (1d10+4)[ 6 ]  (1d9)[ 2 ]  (Hit)

Bandit fire:

  BanditLeaderVs31  - (1d100)[ 26 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 8 ]  (1d9)[ 2 ]  (1d2)[ 2 ] . (Hit for 8 down to 5)
  Bandit2Vs26  - (1d100)[ 44 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 11 ]  (1d9)[ 7 ]  (1d2)[ 2 ] . (Miss)
  Bandit3Vs26  - (1d100)[ 85 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 6 ]  (1d9)[ 3 ]  (1d2)[ 2 ] . (Miss)
  Bandit4Vs26  - (1d100)[ 66 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 12 ]  (1d9)[ 1 ]  (1d2)[ 2 ] . (Miss)
  Bandit5Vs26  - (1d100)[ 42 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 7 ]  (1d9)[ 2 ]  (1d2)[ 1 ] . (Miss)
  Bandit6Vs26  - (1d100)[ 24 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 12 ]  (1d9)[ 1 ]  (1d2)[ 2 ] . (Hit for 12 down to 9)
  Bandit7Vs26  - (1d100)[ 62 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 11 ]  (1d9)[ 6 ]  (1d2)[ 1 ] . (Miss)
  Bandit8Vs26  - (1d100)[ 8 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 11 ]  (1d9)[ 4 ]  (1d2)[ 1 ] . (Hit for 11 down to 8)
  Bandit9Vs26  - (1d100)[ 29 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 9 ]  (1d9)[ 8 ]  (1d2)[ 2 ] . (Miss)
  BellaVs35  - (1d100)[ 33 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 9 ]  (1d9)[ 5 ]  (1d2)[ 1 ] 
 


You heave in a few steading breathes, shoulder  Leonardo , and fire. The report is satisfying, and the shot is good; it rakes down the line of goblins and wolves. Now you're sure you got the leader - with a squawk he topples of his saddle, as his confederates are peppered and pierced. Such a shot would not be advisable into melee most often; but the ogres have held the line like the Bella Collinans did against the pirates, and the effect is devastating.

The bowmen fire, Bella adds a bolt to the careful volley, and Briant thunders in, slashing with his sword to one side while Clemence tramples a goblin toppled from his mount. The greenskins and their wolves fight back, of course; brutally, wildly, in denial of the moment. Giorno, Bruk, and Tiny all suffer maulings and slashes; most to the legs, while one of the wolves leaps high and chomps on to Bruk's head. The ogre shouts in pain, but his skull is in no danger of collapse; and he drops one club to fumble at the creature's jaws as it chews on his scalp. Giorno chops down with his greatswords and splits one goblin clean in the saddle and carves the wolf beneath, bellowing something in his native Grumbarth. All the efforts of the allies warriors combine, and add to yours; three of the goblins have fallen dead, and almost all the others and the lupine mounts are badly wounded. You can see the greenskins, who charged in as light cavalry do hoping to engage and scatter enemy archers, recognize their position and begin to panic. They are certain now to break, and run.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
You're up! They're presently in melee; you could draw your pistols and shoot at them next turn, start reloading, or whatever you think is best. This has gone very well for the defenders, I think. They were outclassed of course, but no wild Fury's or anything to take a toll.
 
 
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 

Taalia's keen eyes watched the shrapnel of her shot rake across the rear ranks of the goblins, careful to keep the line of fire away from the ogres. Her prudence was rewarded as she watched a wave of red mist and torn green flesh launch into the air with a chorus of screams, even the goblin boss disappearing into the pack of his own mob as a bloody, pock-marked mangled mess. The violent whir of the melee continued, however, as the towering ogres started to receive the attention of the wolves that, proving more adept combatants than their wicked riders, swarmed them and gnawed and savaged at their legs; one particularly daring and athletic one leaping up and going straight for the face of Giorno.

Taking stock of the engagement, seeing how the bandits were still relatively unscathed while the goblins had taken significant casualties, including their leader, Taalia knew the cowardly creatures would only need some more pressure to break and rout.

Knowing her pistols would be far less accurate from this range, Taalia dropped her blunderbuss and withdrew  Daybreak  and her shield. Her stamina restore and her vision focused on the nearest goblin, her tall, armored figure burst from the light forestry and charged into the melee, her beautiful blade coming about in a glittering arc...
MrAbdiel
  
 Spoiler: OOC: Rolls! 
The goblins break! Attacks and parting shots from the ogres, and two volleys from the bowmen as they go.

Giorno Swift Attack, plus a parting shot!
  vs42  - (1d100)[ 27 ]  for  (1d10+6)[ 7 ] 
  vs42  - (1d100)[ 35 ]  for  (1d10+6)[ 13 ] 
   vs42  - (1d100)[ 51 ]  for  (1d10+6)[ 7 ] 
  vs42  - (1d100)[ 65 ]  for  (1d10+6)[ 7 ]  

Bruk Swift Attack, plus a parting shot!
   vs36  - (1d100)[ 63 ]  for  (1d10+6)[ 15 ] 
  vs36  - (1d100)[ 81 ]  for  (1d10+6)[ 15 ]  
  vs36  - (1d100)[ 19 ]  for  (1d10+6)[ 13 ] 
   vs36  - (1d100)[ 56 ]  for  (1d10+6)[ 14 ]  

Tiny Swift Attack, plus a parting shot!
  vs36  - (1d100)[ 11 ]  for  (1d10+6)[ 11 ] 
   vs36  - (1d100)[ 50 ]  for  (1d10+6)[ 13 ] 
  vs36  - (1d100)[ 57 ]  for  (1d10+6)[ 14 ] 
  vs36  - (1d100)[ 96 ]  for  (1d10+6)[ 7 ]  

Briant and Clemance Parting Shot, and Charge!
  vs58  - (1d100)[ 35 ]  for  (1d10+5)[ 15 ] 
  vs68  - (1d100)[ 67 ]  for  (1d10+5)[ 12 ] 
  vs35  - (1d100)[ 21 ]  for  (1d10+4)[ 13 ] 
   vs45  - (1d100)[ 60 ]  for  (1d10+4)[ 9 ]  

Volley and then a long range volley from bella and the boys
 BanditLeader  vs51  - (1d100)[ 98 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 13 ]  
Bandit2  vs46  - (1d100)[ 17 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 8 ] 
Bandit3  vs46  - (1d100)[ 3 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 12 ] 
 Bandit4  vs46  - (1d100)[ 50 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 10 ] 
Bandit5  vs46  - (1d100)[ 67 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 7 ] 
Bandit6  vs46  - (1d100)[ 54 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 12 ] 
Bandit7  vs46  - (1d100)[ 93 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 4 ] 
Bandit8  vs46  - (1d100)[ 59 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 4 ] 
Bandit9  vs46  - (1d100)[ 53 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 4 ] 
Bandit10  vs46  - (1d100)[ 64 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 4 ] 
Bandit11  vs46  - (1d100)[ 79 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 9 ]  
Bandit12  vs46  - (1d100)[ 14 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 5 ] 
 Bandit13  vs46  - (1d100)[ 51 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 11 ]  
 Bella  vs45  - (1d100)[ 80 ]  for  (1d10+4)[ 12 ]  
 BanditLeader  vs31  - (1d100)[ 70 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 7 ]  
Bandit2  vs26  - (1d100)[ 19 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 10 ] 
 Bandit3  vs26  - (1d100)[ 34 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 7 ]  
Bandit4  vs26  - (1d100)[ 15 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 7 ] 
Bandit5  vs26  - (1d100)[ 17 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 10 ] 
Bandit6  vs26  - (1d100)[ 1 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 12 ] 
 Bandit7  vs26  - (1d100)[ 96 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 9 ] 
Bandit8  vs26  - (1d100)[ 68 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 12 ] 
Bandit9  vs26  - (1d100)[ 63 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 6 ] 
Bandit10  vs26  - (1d100)[ 91 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 5 ] 
Bandit11  vs26  - (1d100)[ 35 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 9 ]  
Bandit12  vs26  - (1d100)[ 24 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 5 ] 
Bandit13  vs26  - (1d100)[ 14 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 7 ] 

If any escape, Taalia will get a pistol shot in the back of one.

Narrative pending.
 

You feel your breakfast burning in the back of your throat as you push your aching body into a charge. The nearest greenskin is desperately fending off Bruk, and you prepare to hack it from the saddle - but a furred lupine form the side of a pony thumps into you and knocks you back, its jaws snapping before your face. It's the biggest of the wolves - the mount of the leader you shot out of the saddle, its haunches peppered with flechette from your blunderbus. It has the power to rip your throat out, and the speed as well; but its efforts are impaired less by the fleshwounds from your blast, and more by the partial caving of its chest from one of the ogres. You recover before it can follow through with another lunge, and a straight thrust with  Daybreak  spikes into its open mouth and punches out the back of its head, severing its spine. It sags before you, in the churned grass and blood.

The goblins break. There is no room for an orderly withdrawal. One at the fringe of the combat looks around and sees his fellows are losing comprehensively, and bolts clean. The one beside him makes the same decision. Then they're all going, with the ogres vengefully bullying and bashing the wolves and greenskins as they flee and the archers whooping in glee as the put a close volley into the fleeing band, and another arcing, hopeful shot at the extreme of their range. Briant gives chase too, Clemence raming a wounded wolf and trampling it as Briant swings himself down from the saddle to exchange two clanging blows with the scrambling rider before killing him.

After all this carnage, only two wolves are breaking away with their battered and bleeding riders screaming with bitter hate as they go.

You have just enough time for a single shot, at the closest one, at the extreme of your range with your pistol as it breaks away.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
Two wolves and riders escape. You can make one parting melee attack, and I'll give you one long range (-20%, but aimed for +10%) shot as they go!
 
 
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 


The tall shepardess grimaces and half-sneers at the hideous, big, fanged head of the goblin wolf gargled and spasmed upon her blade, its bloodshot eyes glazing over in their death-throes as the dribbling mixture of saliva, blood and brain matter seeped from between its yellow teeth. Wrenching her weapon free, Taalia managed to swing her crimson weapon at the nearest goblin rider that was attempting a retreat, her steel cutting flesh before she dropped her shield and withdrew her pistol to fire off a final shot, a puff of smoke announce, sadly, no last second impact.

 "We have to track them back to their camp!"  Taalia wasted no time, yelling out to Briant.

 "Those were scouts - their camp will be nearby, the village could be in danget!" 

Naturally, her inability to speak Breton might not have crossed her mind at the moment - but thankfully Giorno might have been within ear-shot.
MrAbdiel
 You are gratified to see the goblin you slashed in your last effort sag and topple from his dashing wolf as they vanish over the hills north west of you, leaving just two wolves and one badly injured goblin to escape. Not a warhost; but a hazard still to an individual they might come across. Briant hears the urgency in your voice if not the word's meaning, and you catch the track of his eyes to the vanishing wolves and to Clemence beneath him. The great warhorse has been pushed to its limits in the delaying effort while the ogres and outlaws got in position; it is matted with sweat, drooling foam, but clearly wracked by the effort. The knight is reluctant to demand more of the beast, perhaps especially so given the other mount he left behind in the mountains. Giorno, who does understand you, offers a little comfort with his own assessment.

 "Well, let's see here..."  He hoists a limp goblin, its skull mashed in forcing its rubbery features into a comically flattened smile, and twists it about as he looks over its talismans and trinkets.  "Bonespike tribe, I think. You see the splinter of bone there, through the nose? Bit squashed, but it's there. One of the little satelite tribes under the Broken Nose banner. Gobbos don't fare well outside of a mob; he'll circle back around and try to get back into the mountains to the rest of his lot. Shouldn't have made it this far at all; usually there's young knights with yeomen circling in the hills, and the shepherds give alarm to them when they see greenskins coming down." 

Three of the outlaws confer quickly with their leader and break off to hustle overland after the wolves, preparing to track and hunt them despite all these assurances. Perhaps they are men of the village under threat, however slight; but either way, the forgo the celebration that follows to get about the task. But as you Bella arrives at your side and you quickly confirm with each other that you have both survived unscathed, you don't miss the cloud over Briant's demeanor. No doubt these patrols of yeomen were Donallo's responsibility as well; evidence of the lord's negligence escalating by the day, and increasing the likelihood of a difficult confrontation.

Medically, all of the humans (and the lone horse) have come through without more than small flesh sounds and bruises that need a little cleaning at most. The ogres have taken the not just the brunt, but the meaningful whole of the greenskin's damage.

All of them have spear and bite wounds around the legs that might have been near to fatal in the flesh of men; these have carved into walls of fat and muscle and drawn plenty of blood, but they have plenty to spare. Bruk, the smallest of the three, has some tearing wolf tooth marks on the top and side of his head, as well. Giorno, at the middle of the formation, has suffered the most; but none of them would feature to you as heavily wounded.

Bella looks to you, for a cue.  "We should... help them, right? Though I don't know if we have enough bandages to get around their thighs." 
 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
You can offer to make a healing roll on each of the ogres, if you want. Modifiers to the roll will be:

No hurry: +20
Not-Quite-Human physiology: -20
Nurse Bella: +10

In fact, let's make a minigame of it. Keep a running tally of the number of successful healing checks you've performed on creatures that aren't humans. Since you're trained to do so on humans (and domestic animals), there's no penalty for them; but for Dwarves, Elves, Ogres, Halflings, and anything more exotic that comes up will incur a -20 penalty reduced at a 1 for 1 basis with the experience you have working on those creatures. You can also erode this penalty with appropriate learning (direct learning from a dwarven physician, or reading an elven treatise on their own physiology).  Maybe you could keep these tallies in your character sheet post? If you 'complete' these catagories, you can expect some manner of narrative reward.
 
 
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 

And just like that, Taalia had survived another battle.

How many had she been in now, since emerging onto the surface? How many times had she taken to the field, however small compared to a grand battle, and emerged the other side, weapon bloody and foes hacked down? It seemed like violence would always be a part of her life, a constant companion that would follow her from where-ever she came from to where-ever she was going. Only when she was long in the ground would she see the end of it.

And if there are any necromancers around, maybe not even then...

Flicking bloody flotsam from her weapon, Taalia used available cloth to clean the elven crafted sword before sheathing it and heeding Giorno's words. Nodding at what the ogre was saying, trusting that if anyone among them would know it would be him, the shepardess followed up with questions of her own.

 "So there shouldn't be any threatening encampment near the village?" 

That seemed her main priority. Call it deja vu, but the girl didn't want to see the elders, women and children threatened with the type of marauders that had carried her off to her present state.

After ensuring that most everyone was fine, particularly Bella, Taalia retreived her weapons and reloaded them. Some of the bandits might look on in with wonder or fascination at the gunpowder weapons the tall southern girl had used, and if any came particularly close, she would notice and present the part of the weapon they found most interesting. She'd even go so far as to 'fire' the firearm, though without a shot present, its hammer  Click! ing down and connecting with where it would usually ignite the spark that would spell the end of another enemy of man.  Then  she would reload; powder, bag, musket, stuffed down and in, carried and ready to be fired again.

It was only then that she came upon the ones who were in need of some attention: the three ogres.

 "Well...we can have a look?"  she offered with little confidence, her eyes peering up at the wounds gashed across the thick bodies of the towering beasts.

  "We can make some more later, we'll get some linen from the town if they have some spare to sell,"   she would return quietly to Bella, her hand on her friends shoulder and giving a re-assuring squeeze.

 "Now, let's take a look at you..." 

Giorno, unfortunately, came  ever  so close to receiving some treatment. Taalia would peer here, prod there, inspect here. But every time thinking she had come close to figuring something out she had to withdraw at the last second with an annoyed flick of her lips. When she moved onto Tiny, however, everything seemed to fit into place. Less wounded and having lost less blood, his clearer wounds allowed the shepardess to view the inner workings of the ogre's anatomy. To the others looking on and non-fluent in the Tilean language, the tall southern girl would draw Nurse Bella over, pointing at the exposed wounds of Tiny  "Ahh, Bella, guarda qui, guarda la striatura della connessione muscolare e tissutale..." 

Tiny was seen to and bandaged. Next was Thruk, with similarly enlightening results.

Retaining everything she had learned, Taalia's methodical mind seemed to temporarily forget about the issues around her as she gathered her book from her baggage train, along with her writing kit, and began committing it all to paper.
MrAbdiel
 Treating the ogres is certainly a learning experience. Their hygiene is poor, but frankly, you've been in battlefields where people have been ripped apart by cannonballs now; and before that, you had been in the skavenpits. Their muscles and bloodvessels seem to be mostly in the same place you'd expect them to be, just scaled up and out; but everything is  denser.  Most memorably is the blood, which oozes thick and slow instead of running fast. The comparison to gravy leaps unbidden into your mind.

 They bleed red wine jus. 

You take a look even at the arrow embedded in Tiny's head, while you're there. It's in deep - probably in brain - but the penetration through the skull suggests the arrow was a bodkin and not barbed. You remember a conversation you had with Antonuccia the physician, talking about war wounds like this after a cup or two of wine.


 
 Originally Posted by Slightly Tipsy Antonuccia 
 "Medical learning is a gift, and I cringe every time I see a village where the midwives wash their hands in a shared bowl instead of pumped water. How many lives are lost because people do not know things? But then you will see a situation, particularly with the brain or some other organ, where a knife or a bolt is imbedded. The wisdom given to soldiers is not to move such things because moving them may do more damage, or let blood out. But the end truth is, in most such cases, at some point you just have to pull the bloody thing out and try to deal with what's left." 
 

Fortunately, pulling the arrow free does not take anything with it. It makes Tiny's foot kick up and send his loose boot spiraling through the air, kicking an outlaw in the chest and sending him wheezing and sprawling; but no lasting harm from that misadventure. You patch and bandage, and take note. Giorno's wounds are not severe, but they are in that unfortunate lacuna of medical capacity where they are not deep enough to require surgery but not superficial enough to ignore. You use some of the herbs you bought form town to make two huge dressings of poultice and wrap his mighty shins, and instruct him, as much as possible, not to overstress them.

 "You heard her, boys! I'm a patient in recovery, I am. I'll lie here and you manlings can toss the food into my mouth, har har! To be Greasus for a day!" 

With the excitement of the fight, the feast had almost been forgotten. And just when you'd gotten the blood off your hands...

Several the outlaws are experienced enough with butchering animals that they are helpful slaughtering and gutting and draining; one even very insistent about rincing the offal and stuffing it inside of itself to create what seems like a profane pocket of animal guts. Unappetizing, but efficient. And Bruk even spends time skinning the wolves, and leaving them to drain from a tree.  "Not good for mans,"  he explains, tapping the lean and scarred muscle of one carcass with a huge but very sharp knife.  "Orc beasts got worms. Little tummy not good."  He gives you a wink, like he's doing you a favor by setting these aside for ogre consumption at a later time. He does offer you something, however - the jawbone of the alpha wolf you killed, stripped and red.

 "Cook him up, but not for eat. Here; this."  He demonstrates something, holding the jawbone with two fat fingers around the 'chin' with the hinged ends pointed out in a fork, his arm straight ahead, listing his grip loosely left and right.  "Godspeak" , he explains, and turns back to his work.

Giorno explains a little, when you ask him later on.  "Bruk did some apprenticeship under the butchers. They're, err... Well. Like a priest, maybe. He put you on to the jawbone, did he? A Telling-Bone don't normally work in less than a man's jaw. Must be a good wolf." 
 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
I would like some Cooking rolls. These are poor, easilly impressed people and also ravenous, never unhungry monsters so whatever you roll will get eaten. But all the same, give me three Trade: Cook rolls at +20 each, to see how the feast turns out.
 

 
"
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 


And so as the daw went on, swords were turned into plowshares.

The animals were quietly and gently slaughtered, each one taken away from the other so that the scent of blood did not distress them. (and thus spoil the meat to come from within) Though confused about her new wolfen gift, Taalia took the jaw in the way it was intended, as an affectionate gesture. Or as close to such as ogres could summon. She'd keep the trinket, but make sure to stow it somewhere out of civilised sight, for she was self-aware enough now to know that such grisly baubles would be looked down upon in polite society.

Nevertheless, Taalia and Bella set about cooking, an activity they both seemed to thoroughly enjoy, particularly Taalia. Having grown up in the Skavenpits for most of her life, and as a scrap-fed slave before that, the girl had come to  greatly  appreciate the beautiful art of cooking. The aroma of roasting garlic, the scent of cooking potatoes, the delicious miasma of charred beef and steaming pasta laced with oregano, basil, paprika, salt and peppers...so when the time came to set out the pots and begin preparation of their feast, Taalia seemed re-energised and set about her task with as great a skill as she could muster.

Not everything turned out the way she desired, unfortunately. But, as it was just Bella and herself preparing a feast for sixteen humans and three ogres and doing so in a single afternoon, one might be rather forgiving, for what they  did  produce was cauldrons of mutton ragu with gnocci and tagliatelle pasta, chicken risotto and Abbacchio alla romana with mashed and buttered potatoes. And for those who wanted something simpler, a pot of spaghetti aglio e olio was prepared and served alongside.
MrAbdiel
 You are exhausted from sprinting and battle when you begin, and the culinary work with the primitive workspace is more exhausting still. You and Bella blur back and forth preparing an immense amount of food, but your choices have given preference to foods that can be made in large batches, and the tools you purchased in the village are sufficient. Giorno rests on doctor's orders, occasionally pitching in as the group's translator for your sake; cheerfully haranguing outlaws to hold lanterns high so you and Bella can cut vegetables without cutting your fingers and so forth. Bruk builds out the fire into a great long pit, and cooks one of the goblin's wolves on a spit he rotates by hand with an almost monastic patience. This is good; the time permitted for the preparations has been squeezed by the battle, and there simply aren't enough hours to kill and prepare all the animals. With wolf-flesh supplementing the ogre's glutinous meal plan, it all works out; and about a some of the animals live to see another day, perhaps to become meals at some other point in your journey. The goat, two sheep, and four chickens are yours to give away or keep as you prefer (though strictly you might consider them Briant's).

By the time you're able to stop to eat, you and Bella are too drained to sing when Briant saws away on his violin. It might be a little raucous for your feminine harmonies anyway; mostly an earthy, choral burr of Breton voices that form an unprofessional, but not wholly unpleasant sound. Tiny, recovering from brain surgery, has a ball of a time teaching the humans to say 'molto bene', to salute the cooks. But their accents seem to soften it into 'monto bene', which you, Bella, and the Tilean speaking ogres know is less of a compliment to the chef and more of a clumsy carnal advertisement. The outlaws don't seem to be able to hear the difference in the words, and it leaves Tiny particularly falling over, wheezing and laughing like a giant, gross, fat toddler. The simplicity of the dumber ogres is childlike in some ways, which makes their monstrous habits and behaviours worse at times; but in this context at least, they are agreeable enough.

Late at night, as the humans are curling up to sleep off their full stomachs, the three who took off after the escaped goblin and wolves return just in time to snag the dregs at the bottom of the pots. They give a short report to Briant, who offers you and Bella an affirmative raise of the thumb - the remnant of the pack is no longer a problem. Battle and feasting has turned an ugly confrontation into at least a temporary alliance; would that all enemies could be so easily mollified. When you curl up in your bedroll, sleep takes you like a boot to the head; and you sleep a good hard eight hours. You stir only once and crack your eyes to see Sir Briant and Bella on watch. Your friend sitting flush to his side, leaning against his shoulder even, as they murmur back and forth. They seem comfortable; and so is your bedroll as you sink back into slumber.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
You may gain 100 XP! Progress payment on your Carcassonne adventure, and untangling the web of Lord Donallo.
 


In the morning, the outlaws prepare to return to their homes, with the understanding that Briant will attempt to solve the greater problem with Lord Donallo and that the ogres are no longer a problem that requires aggressive maintenance. All this time and even now, they have kept their hoods on and tried to avoid showing their features to anyone. The same is true now, but their demeanor is less closed and more accepting. Their ringleader bids you and Bella farewell, before he goes.

 "Bon voyage, mesdames Tilean. Taal vous permet de rester sur votre chemin." 

Then it's time to head toward Lord Donallo's home. Bruk and Tiny carry two swinging wolf corpses each on boughs on their shoulders - trail rations, you suppose. Giorno, walking wounded, takes the liberty to carry nothing at all.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
That's a bunch of stuff so I'll give you a chance to respond before we move the scene! But also, give me a Perception (insight, non-sensory) roll at +20 and an outdoor survival roll for the overland travel. +0 on that one.
 
 
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 

What a day.

Taalia had greeted the morning from the vestiges of a church ruin, bartering with a passing little shepardess for some eggs. Then, she had been accosted on the road into town, the peace being bought with an uncut malachite that lulled the thievery appetites of the local brigands. Then she had mad acquaintances with three ogres, the leader of whom had not only recognized her, but informed her of how her name and image had spread beyond the boundaries of Verezzo and into the wider world, creating almost a bit of a little legend for herself and her prior deeds involving the slaying of trolls and demolition of previously imposing monuments to authority and apprehension. Then, she had moved into town where she had bartered with the locals despite barely being able to talk to them, before she then had to return to a camp of brigands only to evade a squadron of goblin wolf riders whom she then later battled alongside said brigands and ogres. Then, she played physician, tending to the wounded and putting pen to paper of perhaps the first human collection of ogorian anatomy.  And then  she and Bella had prepared a feast for sixteen people and three ogres.

What a day indeed. Needless to say, she fell asleep almost at the instant she lay down to rest. Though when she awoke and spotted Bella's 'leaning', Taalia smirked and pretended to remain asleep.

The next morning and the girls disposition towards the bandits had softened considerably. Back in Tilea, such roaming groups were doubtless a menace, as the road wardens possessed greater integrity and the roads were kept  relatively  safe, all things considered. Concepts such as Lords ruling over an area and all within entrusting him with protection (and their money...) was foreign to the Tilean way of life where republics were ingrained into the culture. This arrangement, however, of powerful nobles ruling the lands and those under their purview entrusting so much security and labor towards them? That sounded more like what the Skaven did with their clan system. Still, if Briant was anything to go by it was a hierarchy that could be more benign than the cutthroat world of the rat-men, if no less restrictive. As such, the brigands weren't "brigands" per say, that was just the best way to estimate them. Instead they were more like a militia, formed to secure the physical well-being of the local community in place of the local lords active efforts. This meant they were not just petty thieves out to exploit those who actually worked for a living, they were more like protective vigilantes.

And so, when the leader parted ways with  "Bon voyage, mesdames Tilean. Taal vous permet de rester sur votre chemin!"  Taalia returned a response that was warmer than what it would have been the day prior.

 "Saluto. Vegliate sulle vostre case e sulle vostre famiglie." 

With the morning affairs concluded, and considering the remaining animals to be Briant's property, Taalia packed things up and walked alongside the destrier as, doubtless, Bella rode sidesaddle upon it.

Next stop - Lord Donallo.
MrAbdiel
 Briant lets the bandits - who will hopefully transmogrify back into ordinary peasants once out of sight -  take the two sheep and chickens. But he has decided to take pity on the goat, and it trots along after Cleménce with a minimal of complaining bleats. Not so much pity as to name the creature yet, but enough not to send it back to a village so eager to get rid of it that they offered it as a deal-sweetener. If it runs off, then off it shall run, and that will be that.

The next couple of days of travel go smoothly, and you keep your legs moving so the cold doesn't get to you. Your cloak is enough for now; but how cold will it get in the Bretonnian winter? Not as cold as Norsca, surely? You recall knocking on the door of your master and mistress, your fingers and feet blue from the rebuke of the wilderness in your first escape effort.

Briant points out some of the plants as you go. Some of the time, Bella is able to translate the lost elements of speech - a capable student of the gallic teacher. Here are some wild strawberries, few but fair to taste and ripe by tomorrow if picked now. There is flatweed, which looks to you like a less impressive dandelion, which is perfectly edible if not particularly flavoursome and grows all the way from here to Couronne. These discoveries do not impress the ogres, who regard the direct consumption of vegetables with manifest disgust. You can smuggle them in with a hearty stew, like a mother hiding medicine in honey for a child, but they do not register plants as food, no matter how good the arguement.

 "It's not food what you have there, Signorina Trollslayer,"  Giorno expounds,  "but rather what food  eats ." 

Travelling with these bulky goons for a long time would be very trying, however genial they are as an example of their people. They do, at least, have interesting stories to tell.

 "Oh, si, signorina. Me and these boys, and a couple others gone now, made the  Maneater  turn eight years ago. Escorted a great big caravan of all sorts of goods from the Mountains of Mourn all the way to Karaz-A-Karak. Hah hah! You should've 'eard them haggling, funniest filth I've 'eard. '你和我父亲做交易，而不是我！', 'Не, әкең үшін тым жақсысың ба?' Hah Hah!" 

Bruk, Tiny, and Giorno are apparently a sort of ogre pilgrim called 'Maneaters'; the name of which is misleading, since all ogres are maneaters given the chance. But the tradition is named after an ogre  called  Golgfag Maneater (who did infact eat his paymaster in a dispute over rations, in the end.) Ogres are burdened with a terrible appetite, but some find that, quite irrationally, their appetite will one day start to grade towards the more abstract. Such ogres are as hungry to experience cultures as they are to have full bellies, and frequently adopt the dress and fighting style of their host nation in as much as their bulk can accommodate it. The galoots with you now have settled for those years in Verezzo as you know, but before that, they have experienced combat against ogres, orcs, beastmen, skaven, trolls, giants, and humans of several nations of which you have barely ever heard such as Grand Cathay and The Kingdoms of Ind. You begin to understand that all of those battles and journeys were driven by hunger - it stalks them like a monstrous predator, and it is impossible for them to know more than short bouts of satiety.

 "What an awful way to live,"  Bella whispers.  "I can't imagine being so hungry to do such things over and over, and to eat... well. Things I wouldn't call food." 

Bella is naive, of course. Ogres have a unique lot, but humans will do and eat  all kinds  of things they never imagined they would when they're desperate enough.

 * * * * * 
Lord Donallo's castle is a finely constructed; a stand-alone fort for the lord and his knights and their families on a high hill from which one could see, on a clear day, for miles to the many thorps and villages under his taxable domain.

 "Mind head,"  Tiny warns, covering the top of his head with his hand and fixing his eyes on the crenelated gatehouse from which he was previously shot.

A group of six men at arms in leathers and flat topped helms observe your band's approach, and call out.

 "Tenez bon, sire chevalier ! Vous pouvez annoncer votre fête de là où vous vous trouvez, si cela vous plaît!" 

Sir Briant takes a few steps ahead of where you and the others halt.

 "Je m'appelle Sir Briant DuBois ! Mon père, c'est Lucard DuBois, châtelain du château de Parravon ! Il faut que je parle immédiatement à Lord Donallo!" 

The men on the gate seem to not enjoy this demand, but don't have much of a way to respond, and so confer with each other for a long time. Briant waits impatiently. Eventually, they respond.

 "Je suis désolé, lord DuBois, mais je ne peux pas vous ouvrir la porte. Lord Donallo n'accepte pas d'invités avant la fin de l'hiver."
 
Giorno gives you the brief.  "They say the Lord is taking no guests." 

Briant responds, angrier than you have ever seen him.  "Je ne suis pas en visite en tant qu'invité, je suis ici pour vous faire part de graves doutes ! Ouvrez la porte ou je l'enfonce !" 
 "'E says he's not havin' it and he'll kick the door down." 

The guards: "Monsieur, notre seigneur et notre dame sont malades et vous ne devez pas le troubler pendant qu'il guérit!"

The knight: "Ces femmes sont des guérisseuses ; Ouvrez la porte!"

 "They say the lord and lady are sick; 'e says you signorinas are healers so to open up." 

They go back and forth for a while, Briant growing more frustrated and the men on the wall more frightened. They don't, at least, draw sights on you with their bows; the presence of a knight seems to be enough to ward against that indignity. Finally, Briant has had enough. He turns to the ogres, and after gathering himself from the brink of fury, directs them minimally.

 "Décomposez-le." 

Giorno is delighed, and barks a laugh.  "Ah! Well, this is a pleasant surprise - a little siege never 'urt anyone. On you go, boys." 

Bruk and Tiny hurry up to the gate, and put their shoulders do it. Soon they settle into a rhythm of backing up a few paces and ramming it together near to meeting of the doors. It doesn't give; but time is on the side of the attackers. The men on the gate start shouting and swearing, but they neither seem prepared to attack a lord and his entourage, not willing to open the gate. As the attack proceeds, Briant comes back to you and Bella.

 "You with me, si? Something, uh..."  He shakes his head a little. Barely articulating much, you and Bella both understand: something is wrong inside this place, and he doesn't know what to expect. Bella ties up the animals to a post, and readies her crossbow.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
Now is the time to decide what is in your hands, as you prepare to enter Donallo's fort. Briant doesn't seem ready to draw blood on these men who haven't drawn on him, but that peace might not hold.
 
 
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 


Taalia moved along with the impromtu caravan with a surprising relaxed demeanor, at least for one who had been in a battle the day prior. In actuality, Taalia had become almost desensitised to battles and mass combat by now. The sight of violence no longer frightened her, given her upbringing and her activities since emerging onto the surface. Whether that was a sad indictment or a toughening up would be left to an individuals discretion. But the shepardess listened to the stories the ogres offered and was genuinely interested in their travels, even if the tales of such were filtered through the minds of towering brutes that would ultimately devour you if they needed to.

And Taalia shared some stories of her own.

 "A burning roof fell on me when I was just a child,"  she offered, pointing to the scar across her face.

 "I don't know where I'm from originally, but one day I hope to find out,"  Taalia smiled bittersweetly.

 "I was taken by Norscans, held in their freezing hell for a few years before I was sold to the rat-men. I survived them for seven years, see these?"  she would pull back a sleeve, or open a collar-cloth, all to reveal one of the multitude of scars across her figure.

 "I even learned the language! As far as I know, I am only one of two free humans to be fully fluent,"  that smile returned, but this time carrying almost a boastful edge. But there was the reminder: her thoughts were still in Queekish, and probably always would be.

Taalia would look over at Bella every now and then, granting her a small, friendly smile should her friend notice and return the glance.

 "What an awful way to live," Bella whispers. "I can't imagine being so hungry to do such things over and over, and to eat... well. Things I wouldn't call food." 

The shepardess would smirk and snort lightly in amusement. While still walking at a gentle place, she leaned up so that Bella could move her ear a little closer so her friend could speak softer.

 "I starved for eleven years,"  Taalia said quietly without the presence of judgement or correction,  "five days over-worked on an empty stomach, and even carrion starts to look appetising..."  her little grin containing a hint of morbid humor.

But then came Lord Donallo's fort.

Immediately Taalia's guard was up, not because she sensed any great danger, but because she couldn't understand what was going on. She followed the bewildered but cautious demeanour of the six guards and the seemingly entitled and sweeping gestures of Briant, raising an eyebrow at the mans sudden assertive outburst, until Giorno explained what was going on.

 "You with me, si? Something, uh..."  

Taalia immediately nodded, unslinging her firearm from her shoulder and getting ready to pursue. But then she saw Bella arm herself with equal gusto, clearly ready to storm the castle if need be. Looking over her shoulder at her unarmored friend, her smaller stature dwarfed behind Taalia's tall, statuesque and mail-clad figure, Taalia shook her head.

 "Bella no..."  she uttered,  "no weapon; you'll be seen as a threat. They won't strike out at a foreign lady and healer!" 

She hoped her attempt to persuade her not to put herself in harms way would be welcomed as the tactical advice used to mask Taalia's protective concern.
MrAbdiel
 Bella's eyes flash. She looks ready to defend her right to stay by your side again - but when you don't ask her to give that up, her look softens and she hears your reasoning, setting the crossbow down outside and carrying instead her staff, which surely no one would begrudge.

As the gate starts to crack and splinter, and the porticullis behind it warps and pops, Tiny and Bruk are able to pull back the twisted metal just enough for you, Briant, and Bella to squeeze through - and Briant does not seem inclined to wait for a full demolition to bring the ogres.

At the end of a short stone tunnel, the six men from the gatehouse have come down and arrayed themselves pointing spears forward.

 "Dégagez!" , Briant commands, drawing his sword and gesturing to the side in a sweeping motion to the men. They hold their line, spears trembling, suspended between loyalty to their lord and generalized submission to the caste of knights.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
These boys are on the edge of indecision, and Taalia has a chance to move them off. You can make a charm or intimidate roll to try to move them; charm at a -20% for the language barrier. Intimidate is somewhat more universal as a concept!
 
 
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 


By the time the wooden barrier had been pried open in a hail of splinters, Taalia had swapped out her firearm for  Leonardo . It was less accurate, by far, and packed less of a punch...but she didn't want to hurt these guys. She was swiftly gaining the sense from Briant that he was here to march over them, rather than  through  them. She found it hard to believe that a man who had been so generous with his coin and valor to the brigands would willingly slay half a dozen men under the employ of a local Lord. Though the social hierarchy here was foreign to Tilean culture, Taalia could recognize the underlying rigid caste system from her time among the rat-men, and Briant was well above these six poor bastards who stood between them and the lord of the manor.

Aligning herself next to Briant and ensuring that Bella was hidden safely behind herself, Taalia brought up the intimidating looking blunderbuss and aimed it at the pack of peasant footmen and the sheildwall they had formed, spears oscilating gently as the hands that gripped them quivered beneath the socially ingrained pressure to never defy a social better like Briant.

 "Mettilo giù! Mettilo giù!"  Taalia's sonorous voice barked down the corridor, her taller frame, bedecked in armor clearly superior to theirs, the uncertainty of her foreign language and the large-calibre muzzle of her blunderbuss pointing right at them that gestured down to the ground with each phrase yelled...
MrAbdiel
 Between your foreign demands and Bir Briant's domestic dominion, the resolve of one of the men-at-arms cracks, and he moves back from the line; and the rest, given permission by this first fracture, settle back also. Some put their spears down; others sit on the ground and lay their spears over their laps, clearly shaken and exhausted by this conflict of their obligations. They are better armed and attired than the villagers, but not much less pitiable; they look frightened and uncertain to you, and not entirely healthy.

Briant has no time for them; he is going straight to the source, and storms on through the courtyard of the keep to the inner door, not reinforced for seiges but... which, from where you stand, appears to be barred from the outside. He throws the bar aside, wrestles with the lock, and gives the door a harsh pull that breaks something and flings it open, for him to stalk inside.

 "Donallo!  Donallo!" 

Bella has peeled off to the dazed and defeated men-at-arms, looking them over, asking in her now semi-confident Breton about the state of the fief. They are uncertain of her, but not hostile; and when she produces  some of the salted scraps of the mutton leftover from the feast the night before, they are hungry and agreeable enough to treat politely. She gives you a nod, of permission - she is alright here, not far away, if you want to follow Donallo directly; and the ogres will finish pulling open the portcullis in a few more minutes.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
Stay with Bella and the men at arms to ask some questions, or follow Sir Briant directly into the castle?
 
 
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 

(God damn server busy ate my post)


Taalia breathed a sigh of relief as the weary and malnourished looking men-at-arms laid down their weapons or seated themselves upon the ground in surrender. The shepardess had no qualms shooting brigands, as they were thieving bastards. But men such as these? Under clear duress, hungry and all bark with little bite? Looking over at Bella now imparting tender mercies through food and medical inspection, Taalia was glad it had not turned violent. The idea of hurting such men was unsettling to her, and so she gave a small thanks to Myrmidia that such had not come to pass.

She returned Bella's nod, before turning and heading in Briants direction. She watched him wretch the door open, tearing away the barricades and barking the mans name as he gained access and marched inside. Her eyes alert, the shepardess followed him, still cradling her weapon in her hands. This Lord Donallo had a great many things to explain.
MrAbdiel
 Briant gives a glance back, slowing his pace only enough to allow you to catch up. He's not as chatty when he's 'at work', but you detect muted gratitude for your assistance in his expression before you both head inside.

Your footsteps bang off hardwood floors, echoing in stone halls that hold no sounds of life and living to create the diffuse undercurrent of a populated hold. It reminds you a little of the lonely villa in the Trantio hills, with its mournful emptiness; but the walls are large quarried stones with tall ceilings, rafters with hanging candlestick holders instead of plastered walls and lamp sconces. You spot pits and chips in the stone walls as you prowl through the dark; signs that tell vague stories of battles previously fought that got at least this far into the keep... or started inside. It's dark in here; there are no windows on the lowest floor, so light only creeps in from the open door reflecting in fractions down the halls; but that's enough for you, and Briant seems to know where he is going, leading to a flight of stone stairs to the second floor where arrow slit windows are slightly more generous with illumination and finally you begin to hear the muted mumbles of conversation. You track it down to a locked door, and Briant bangs on it with his fist.

 "Donallo ! Donallo, sors maintenant!" 

Two voices cry out at once.

 "Partez!"  - masculine, mature, exhausted, fragile, desperate.

 "Aidez moi! Aidez-moi s'il vous plaît!"  - feminine, hysterical, tentatively hopeful, full of tears.

Either might have been enough. Briant looks at you, toes at the door, and then coordinates a countdown from three to one, after which you both slam it with a standing front kick that mashes free the tenon of the lock and bangs the door open. At once you are assaulted with that awful, familiar smell of human incarceration; sweat, and puke, and misery, and filth. The master bedroom within might have been sumptuous and princely, but almost all the masterwork furniture is toppled or scarred. The walls are scratched, spattered in places with blood. The naked flame of an oil lamp with a smashed glass chimney lights the room from one corner. Fragments of it rest on the ground beneath it, in a scatter of dried and crusted blood; the wall behind it scorched and blacked from where oil must have once been scattered. A great four post bed dominates the room, a man standing by its side, a woman tied with one wrist and ankle to each post like a prisoner on a rack. From Briant's stunned hesitation, you gather this dishevelled and harrowed looking man is Lord Donallo. The woman on the bed, you gather at an educated guess based on the matching silver rings on her and the man's hands, is his wife (or someone elses). Like so many other humans you have seen in subjection, she has the remnant of natural beauty hiding under the dirt and deprivation; a lingering shipwreck of a woman, whose big blue eyes may once have held more than abject misery. Her tattered and stained shift is in worse condition his dirty tunic. Based on the wild bruising and abrasion sores on her arms and ankles, she has been held in this way for weeks. In the heartbeat of silence, she lets out a sob.

Briant is paralyzed with the sight of the tableaux. Donallo looks between the two of you, shakes his head with mournful understanding of the scene, and raises one hand, palm up, begging patience.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
Briant is stunned by the scene; Taalia is much more familiar with similar things, so she is not, and might choose to act, or not, immediately.
 
 
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 


The smell of caged, denied human hygiene was one that Taalia would never forget, but which she hoped she would never have to encounter ever again. It was a pungent, musky smell, similar to the natural state of Skaven odours, its melange of sweat and skin-kissed dirt lingering in the air as a miasma that one slowly just got used to. The sores as well, as grotesque as they were to see, wore across the skin with constant friction and abrasion, an all too common occurrence for slaves that had little to wear and nothing to replace them. And so when that door was battered down it was the  smell  more than anything that Taalia first noticed, and remembered, but that did not make the scene any easier to ascertain and understand.

Eyes widening for a moment, her blunderbuss in hand, Taalia's mouth opened briefly at the sight before her. Donallo...his  wife ? The unwashed pungency lingering in the air only further hooked into Taalia's nostrils and slid up into her brain like smoky fingers, filling her mind with a nauseous haze that shortened her temper.

But.

Taalia couldn't speak Bretonnian.

Whatever scene or demands she thought she could create would be for naught. To Donallo she would be nothing but some foreign madwoman brandishing a firearm and barking in her alien tongue.

Striding forward, moving off to the side so as to flank Donallo, Taalia brought  Leonardo  up and braced it against her shoulder, aiming right down the barrel at the man. It was a scatter weapon, but he didn't know what.
MrAbdiel
 The dishevelled man's eyes look down the oubliette of Leonardo's barrel, and he swallows; but given that you have elected not to blow him away immediately, he is able to plead his case.

 Il faut que tu m'aides, Briant! Margot, elle n'est pas elle-même! Elle... Il y a un daémon qui s'est emparé d'elle! 

Some of that slides by you; but  daémon  does not.

The woman - Margot - wails in protest, new tears moving down her reddened and miserable face.

 Ne lui faites pas de mal! Il ment, mais il n'est pas lui-même, c'est lui qui a le daémon! 

An explosive shouting argument follows, with both Donallo and Margot vociferously pleasing their cases over each other, and Briant shouting back at them, trying to rightly direct his outrage even as it diminishes in his chest. You catch enough of it to put the predicament together.

Donallo claims that Margot is under the sway of a daemon. Fearing what would happen to her if this information got out, he sent away most of his house knights on a fabricated errand to bid the visitation of an enchantress who lives in the capital to give her blessing to the repairs of the run-down grail chapel on the road through his fief. His most trusted trio of knights received the truth, and a desperate mission to seek out a damsel in the surrounding Duchies who could attend with discretion. All but his most loyal men at arms have been sent to stay with their 'for the winter', while his handful of most loyal were told only to board up the keep from the outside, lock the gates, and allow only the returning house knights to enter.

Margot's claim is similar in the regards to the dispatch of the keep's knights and men to keep them in the dark, but she claims Donallo was overcome by a dark spirit weeks ago, after which he has kept her prisoner and ensured no one could disrupt his tormenting her. Despite this, and her terrible physical state, she begs that no harm should come to him - she knows the man she married would not do these terrible things.

By the time you have put this all together through the torrent of gallic bickering, Bella is back at your side and learns of the debacle from your rundown.

 "A nightmare..."  she whispers,  "how do we know which is telling the truth?"  
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 

Taalia's breathing was under control as she considered the scene before her, lips pursed and mind scrambling to dredge up what she had learned from her brief, but informative education in the mystical. To a degree, her memory also extended back to the villa within the Trantio hills and the mournful spectre that had long resided there, a spirit driven to the point of madness until insanity's grip was broken by the revelation of the fate that befell his family.

But what about here? Which of these two were telling the truth?

Was the wife possessed of a devil? A lingering spirit from a parallel world of bleak mysticism that had clawed its way through the barrier that separated two realities, only to find this womans body a dwelling to its liking, from which it seized control of her faculties before she was restrained by her husband?

Or was it Donallo? A former knight and 'good man' who had had become possessed by a dark spectre that had driven him to acts of imprisonment and apprehension on his own wife, to the detriment of his peoples security?

In a snap decision, Taalia decided: it was Donallo.

She held ajar the possibility that she was wrong, of course, but the signs pointed towards it. What prior 'good man', as Margot claimed, possessed the willpower to do and treat his wife in such a way, even under the belief that her consciousness was suppressed beneath that of a devil? Surely imprisonment within a well furnished room and three square meals a day rather than this...indignity, while awaiting the arrival of an enchantress would be what a 'good man' would do? Furthermore, would the man that Margot married neglect his lands to this degree? Had Donallo believed his wife possessed, why would he ignore the plight of his realm for weeks and months on end? The orcs and goblins were in the mountains, bandits threatened the highways, he surely knew all this yet did nothing. Indeed, he sent his most able security  away  from the castle and their stations of responsibility, leaving the peasantfolk open to the threats that would have once been deterred by organised defensive measures. Was multitasking so difficult? Place Margot within a well supplied room until the Enchantress could discern the truth, and busy himself with the operations of his lands with a heavy heart.

Or better yet, why not take Margot to the enchantress? Confine her to a carriage and escort her to the one who could determine the validity of her possession and expunge the daemon within were it so?

Instead he had done none of those things. He tied Margot up like some beast, allowing her to foul and defile herself before his very eyes while ignoring the plight of his realm.

And finally, there was Margot's insistence that, after all that she had suffered, Donallo not be harmed because she believed he was not himself.

Taalia could conceive of a scenario in which it was indeed the lady of the manor that had within her the dark spectre that utilized her like some type of marionette puppet - but it did not look like this.

Or maybe...they were both possessed? Like a disease, it started with Margot but spread rapidly to Donallo and remained confined within him due to his self-isolation from the rest of his entourage.

  "I think it is Donallo..."   Taalia whispered back, her gun still aimed towards the man.

  "What noble lord would tether his wife like a beast in such an undignified station and allow her to foul and soil herself for weeks on end while neglecting his lands?"  
MrAbdiel
 Bella gives you a little nod - though not of a concurring conclusion, as much as a willingness to back yours. It's hard to overlook the visual awfulness of the scenario, in which Margot is definitely the one suffering most. Donallo, at least, is free to move about his home. But whichever of them it is that is so afflicted, they act the part of the innocent very well; both man and wife look comprehensively miserable: Donallo, like a man who has been reduced from a local Lord to a wretched steward over a his afflicted wife to preserve her from public exposure and destruction, and Margot like a woman whose beloved had one day become a monster and kept her a prisoner in the chambers in which she once felt safe and treasured for the satisfaction of what daemonic cruelty required her confinement.

Briant looks anguished - these are his father's friends; his own friends, by inheritance. As a good example of the knightly ideal, Briant paces and fumes as he is now confronted with an evil and injustice which is not presenting a clean and clear solution. If only this were, instead, another hundred goblins with necks that could be cut, or wrung.

  "You are probably right. But how to proceed..? I have never - ... I have only ever heard whispers of daemons. I do not know what to expect of them, and their powers. But... Remember Bertuccio, and his imposter..? When we didn't know which was true. What did the Matrona, and Simonuccio="  

She pauses to spit on the floor.

  "What did they do, seeking the truth...? We should... separate them. Ask them questions; see perhaps if one knows something another does not, or... something that can't be corroborated."  

Briant, whose grasp of Tilean is improving by increments, gets enough of this through the filter of your gun pointed at Donallo. He grimaces, almost literally struggling to swallow the next action, before pointing his sword at Donallo.

 "Rends-toi, Donallo. Je vais vous lier, dans une autre pièce. Prions que  la Dame  nous donne la sagesse de voir à travers cela de l'autre côté." 

Donallo objects, naturally - he needs help, not incarceration, and you see his eyes track to the door behind as if considering running, or how far away his few men-at-arms might be. But after an arguement with Donallo, and through Margot's repeated plea to do him no harm, the man lets Briant bind his wrists, and leads him away to guest room to secure him.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
It's a fun puzzle! Put on your sleuthing hat, detective; there's a mystery at foot. Which of these nobles is a victim of extradimensional possession, and which is merely the suffering recipient of a tremendously cruel twist of fate to be married to such? And is the cure fire in large amounts? Jinkies!

You can ask whichever one you like whatever questions you like, or subject then to whatever deceptions you can muster. You may also explore the keep, if you're looking for something specific or corroborating, or speak to the ogres or the men-at-arms. Feel free to make any roll you think is appropriate.
 
 
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 

Taalia's mind scrambled for ways to deal with the situation, to try and acquire some type of confession or a disrupted chain of events that would trip the spectre up in a deception. Right now her belief was that Donallo was the one possessed, for no man of sane mind who was once deemed a 'good man' would tether his wife up in such a way for weeks on end while also neglecting his realm.

However, she was not closed on the idea that Margot was the one carrying the wicked spirit within her. Or perhaps even both!

Or maybe...neither. Taalia remembered the man in the pits when she was very young, driven mad by the mind-breaking labour the Skaven forced upon them, his mind fragmenting beneath the stress until he believed he was destined to transform into one of them. Maybe this wasn't the work of some devil or daemon, but the fruits of a twisted mind.

...but that seemed too far off. Donallo had acted 'reasonably', and she used that term loosely. He did not gibber or shout, nor throw things and defy them. He acquiesced peaceably and did so with little to no resistance. Madness was many things, but quiet and compliant? No, she had never witnessed it as such.

But, first things first.

  "We will untie her and allow her to undergo cleanliness. But then we must confine her in this room until we can be certain..."   Taalia spoke quietly to Bella, her sonorous voice barely above a whisper so that only her companion could hear her.
MrAbdiel
 And so, with few good options, you execute the best plan you can conceive of. You unbind Margot from the bed and she collapses into a sobbing embrace of you for a minute before Bella is able to peel her off and steer her towards a private chamber to affect her cleanliness. Bella keeps an eye on her, while Briant keeps an eye on Donallo, and that leaves you and Milo to snoop about the castle and ask questions.

The castle is in good condition, but obviously neglected for lack of staff after they were sent away. Dust has settled on things, and the windows are shuttered and bolted. Items are scattered and toppled in some of the rooms suggesting struggle or misbehaviour, though it is not clear from any of them who the instigating party would be. The kitchen is a particular mess, as an inexpert hand has been taking efforts to prepare slipshod meals. The quarters for knights and staff bear out Donallo’s story - they have been vacated with haste with a minimum of packing. But whether that order was given by a desperate Lord or a lying demoniac, it remains unclear.

There are no horses in the stable. One of the men-at-arms fills you in (through Giorno’s translation), when you question him.  “The knights - they took all the spare horses when they went. Even Lord Donallo’s own; to ride like hell, I suppose, and change saddle to saddle.” 

Questioning the families of the knights and townsfolk proves difficult - this stand alone keep is a central defensive location of command for villages around, but does not feature much accommodation except for a series of spare rooms in which the knight’s families might dwell in heavy winters. Elsewise, they must be scattered in personal plots of land or in the villages themselves, and seeking them out would take you away from the immediate crisis - not, in the tension of the moment, easy to countenance.

At the very least, their account of events comports with Donallo’s telling. Sirs Almade, Lebon, and Matis emerged from conference with Lord Donallo and rousted the castle’s occupants out almost completely; the other ten knights were saddled up and sent out to Castle Carcassonne, to bid the visitation of the Enchantress. But Carcassonne is very far away; two thirds of the way west to the coast from where you passed into Bretonnia through the Irrana mountains. They are not expected back soon. Most of the men at arms were dispatched home for the winter with their families (those remaining are comfortably agreeing that they were kept on hand because they are most senior and trustworthy), while the last three knights took their horses and two more each, and took off; one north, one northeast, and one dead east.

 “Two to Quenelles, I expect; though Matis struck east, and that way … well, you mustn’t go much further east on account of the elves. They’ll eat a man alive, they will.” 

Donallo’s account confirms this - two are heading to Castle Quenelles across the River Brienne to seek a Damsel there, much closer than Castle Carcassone; Matis is undertaking a more desperate and dangerous mission, seeking aid from the Elves of Athel Loren.

When you come to question Margot, she looks considerably better; fresher, garbed in a clean and simple house dress. In her telling, Donallo’s behaviour changed in the weeks before her captivity, and he grew irrational and cruel; before one day he fell upon her with fury, beat and tied her to the bed, and she heard him dispatching his knights and men from the castle on errands - she assumes - so he might torment her in peace, though she is quick to remind you that this is the action of the spirit, not her husband, and she desperately wants him safe.

It seems as though your investigations yield nothing to tell the stories apart, and you may have to rely on your instincts. Almost entirely.

There is one small matter - in your search of the castle through Margot’s effects, you find that she, like most Bretonnian women of station, is in possession of a fine collection of wimples. Many are simple, some are fine and set aside with engraved brass bands to be work, tiara-like to hold them in place. You notice, having taken time to clean and redress herself, she has not selected any of these; she has merely brushed her hair to a state of acceptable order, and let it fall around her shoulders. With the fussing that Bretonnian women seem to make about showing their hair around men, you might expect this of a woman in quiet conversation with just you and Bella - not one expecting Sir Briant, a man who is not her husband, to come back into the room at any time. Perhaps an opportunistic spirit is less cognizant of such petty traditions, and with only Tilean women in the room to mimic, it hasn’t occurred to it to do so. Or perhaps she’s just traumatized, and not thinking clearly… 
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 


Though her mind was drawn into the possibilities and explanations that hung in the air over the investigation, Taalia could not help but take in her new environment from the lofty vantage point this mystery had furnished her with. If society were a pyramid, she stood adjacent to the very tip, from which she was able to assess the breadth of how the social order unfolded in these lands. And so far her estimation was very, very different from that of Tilea.

Where Tilea was a sun-kissed land where a man would largely write his own destiny, misfortune or the deprivations of the powerful aside, Bretonnia had a caste system. For them the class-consciousness wasn't just a feature of the order, it  was  the order. As noble spirited as Briant may be, he, deep down, considered himself at least somewhat above the 'peasants' that were populated the land, even if his elevation was one of believed benign stewardship over a people who didn't know any better. To the former slave, this hierarchy mirrored the society of the Skaven to a disturbing degree. Even among the rat-men, there was a sense of 'class', with those born most mighty and dark-furred making up the bulk of warriors and warlords while those of grey hue were destined to be the famed Grey Seers, leaders of the Under Empire. Though social mobility was not unheard of, to traverse from slave to the highest echelons was almost unheard of.

This thought echoed in Taalia's mind as she peered across the beautiful, verdant fields of the lands of Bretonnia.

Would the lands of the Empire be this way? What about her own homeland?

When Taalia had pulled her mind from social meditations, she applied it to her situation. Writing down and taking notes what she found and observed, the sheperdess showed decorum where she could, such as gentle smiles to the men-at-arms who had initially impaired their entry into the castle. When able, she had called upon Giorno's translation, to confer a message of gratitude and relief that she had not needed to use her firearm in the process.

However, pleasantries aside, Taalia could not yet determine a lie or inconsistency. Donalo's words seemed true, the men and knights had been sent forthwith as described, in directions appropriate for their missions.

But it was her first interaction with Lady Margot that Taalia felt the first pang of curiosity. Often she had noticed Briant's attempt to avert his eyes from looking Taalia directly in the face, eye-to-eye, because to do so would bring her own white-blonde hair into the periphery of his attention, even if it was just her fringe beneath her steel helmet. Bella, meanwhile, received similar caution on the knights behalf, with Briant only ceasing his apprehension once one of the village women had provided her with the necessary cloth to wrap around her pretty face, her wavy, dark hair extending away from her head at a 225 degree angle.

But Lady Margot showed no such concern.

Were she solely in the presence of Taalia and Bella, this could be excused, for this custom of decency was not employed in the company of only other women. But, Briant was a presence, as was the other male attendants of the castle.

This...troubled Taalia. Trauma did not explain such a lapse of judgement. Being a noblewoman, Margot would have had such foundational decorum groomed into her muscle reflexes from a very young age to the point that it would feel odd  not  to be wearing such an important element of ladyship. Taalia remembered her own behaviour after escaping the Skaven. It took her weeks to eat food at a pace that wasn't hurriedly stuffing whatever she could into her mouth, even though plenty was available and no competitors existed. Habits that were so deeply ingrained were not so easily thrown off.

But as Taalia sat there and watched Margot speak with Bella, other questions floated up in the shepardesses mind, like if the Daemon  had  possessed her, it clearly did not have access to all of her memories.

 "Singora Margot,"  Taalia would speak up, her steel helmet off and resting somewhere else as her white-blonde hair framed her angular, northern features.

 "Earlier in our travels with Ser Briant, Bella and I prepared a feast for the men guarding the roads after fighting off some goblin wolf riders. There are still several sheep and chickens left, as well as ingredients. After these grim tidings, I think it would be a wonderful event if we cooked another feast for the guards and village folk! A little festival to show that all is well again! Bella and I can prepare Tilean dishes, do you think you could do the same for Bretonnian cuisine?" 

Perhaps Bella, with her new found mastery of Bretonnian, or Giorno, could translate.
MrAbdiel
 The Lady Margot leads against the smoothed stone walls of the chamber as you ask your question. She rubs at the abrasions caused by her long binding and sighs; not comfortable, but definately preferring to be uncomfortable and upright to laying in that bed. She has to blink through a little daze as you summon the idea of such a festivity.

 "Oh.. Ah... I fear my skills, mademoiselle, are in courtly manners and wifery; but once we find some restoration for my poor Donalo, I would be glad to task Olivia to assist you. She is our house  cuisinière ; though I fear I... Do not know what has become of her, or the other staff."  She blanches a little as she considers what may have been going on outside this dark, windowless bedroom for her internment.

 
 Spoiler: Perception Check +20 
...But what she doesn't do is what you might reasonably expect; lick her lips, or consider her own hunger, or look about forlornly at the scraps of food hither and yon in the mess of the bedroom. A noblewoman denied  good  food for a long period of time seems likely to you to be sensitive to its absense and responsive in instinctive ways to its promise; one denied little but their (theoretically possessed) husband's clumsy kitchen fumblings for weeks ought to be very sensitive to the suggestion of quality food indeed. There is none of this, in her countenance; despite how undernourished she seems.
 
 
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 
 "Bellissima!"  Taalia smiled brightly, her right at her side coming up to press two fingers to her lips before 'exploding' it out in a chefs kiss hand gesture.

Looking past Margot and to Bella, the shepardess retained her warm smile and gestured with a nod towards the door.

 "Bella, dovremmo andare a fare i preparativi; una festa per tutto il paese è un grande lavoro!"  she spoke happily in Tilean, trusting that Margot did not know how to follow her at her normal pace or at all, without Bella's assistance in translation.

 "Singora Margot, thank you for your time,"  Taalia would curtsey for the noblewoman, before withdrawing from the room, her friend in tow.

Once outside, Taalia's disposition changed so fast one might think she were a shapeshifter.

 "It's her!"  she whispered hurriedly to her friend once they had moved a dozen meters or so away from the room.

 "She doesn't cover up her hair in the company of men; she barely seems hungry; and she takes no offence that a woman of her station would be asked to prepare food for peasants. Bella, I think it's her!" 
MrAbdiel
  "Do you say so?"  Bella whispers back, alarmed but trusting. She looks back at the door.  "What shall we do, then? We've let her loose - shall I fetch Briant? And... do you think really, a daemon? Not some... moon-born madness, like -... Like the man who looked like Bertuccio?"  
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 
 "I don't know..."  Taalia replied earnestly, shrugging gently as she too cast another glance back at the door, her thoughts lingering on the woman within.

 "We should tell Briant. But my thoughts are now more concerned that Donallo was right. But we need not keep her in such a state. Whatever spirit has entered her, it still wears the body of the Lady of the Castle. We should keep her well-fed and contained within this room. Retrieve Briant and tell him what we have observed, I will wait here." 
MrAbdiel
 Briant returns at Bella's summons, and you confer quietly outside the room while Lady Margot, ostensibly, relishes her incremental freedom within the room behind you. Bella's catching up on Breton fast, though without Giorno up here to translate immediately, communication is slow again. Still, the message is simple, and Briant seems to get it. Donallo is here, though he stands at a remove from your conference, exhausted and desperate.

The possibility that you will need to help him overpower his wife and tie her to the bed again seems almost inevitable. Briant has a weak suggestion as an alternative, atleast.

 "Nous l'emmenons à la chapelle du Graal. Peut-être l'esprit ne demeurera-t-il pas sur la terre sainte." 

Bella parses as best she can.  "He thinks we might do best to take her to the grail chapel we camped at on the road. The holy ground, yes..? But if it does not work...I am not sure what else to do. We know his knights have gone seeking help from other places - perhaps it is best to... restore the lowly order here and leave it as is, however little good that does for neglected souls in the fief..."  
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 

Taalia furrowed her brow at the suggestion of once again apprehending Margot, the shepardess raising a hand and shaking her head slightly.

 "No, no, we don't need to do that. Mannacle her wrists if need be, but she doesn't have to be tethered and immobilized again, surely?" 

How much of her woulds could penetrate the language barrier would remain to be seen, but it was clear she was uncomfortable with further poor treatment of Margot's mortal vessel, even if the current spiritual occupant was not of this world, and had malign intentions. However, Briant's solution seemed pleasing, as Taalia straightened her back with an  "Ahh!"  when reminded of the derelict church, the one in whose graces she and Bella had spent their first night beneath the Bretonnian sky.

It would seem fitting that it were a place to expunge a hostile specter that had seized the faculties of the lady of the land.

Her lips pursed, Taalia nodded in agreement. She recalled the Shrine that she herself had been uncovered and helped to restore, its modern usage as a trolls lair completely unfitting to the splendor of which it was capable and the symbol of past unities it once edified. Though the sanctuary possessed no eldritch qualities - as far as Taalia's limited, mortal senses could detect anyway - it had, in turn, acted as a holy talisman whose providence moved through the hearts of the people, wealthy and poor alike, and whose rehabilitation had been Taalia's saving grace when menaced with the burning pyre to feed the appetites of the overzealous. Perhaps the Bretonnian church would function in much the same way? Was the power of faith still formidable within its deteriorated physical form?

Outside of simply bunkering down and waiting, hoping, for the return of a Knight and the successful completion of his deed, it was the best, most pro-active thing that Taalia could think of to remedy their grim situation.

Nodding once again,  "Si, Si, I think that is the best idea we have!" 
MrAbdiel
 The gambit is selected. Donallo fears travelling with Margot in this state, but he also fears doing nothing, and he does not take much prompting. He takes the time to speak to his handful of faithful militiamen, and the ogres mercenaries whose service he had betrayed by failing to pay them. Margot takes the suggestion well - she is both desperate for some fresh air, and expects the journey will vindicate her by prompting the retreat of the spirit she claims torments her husband. But she has been tied to this bed for weeks - her body is weak, and pained, and such a journey overland is not one she can easily take even unbound. But she is noblewoman, and there is one horse between all of you; she consents to her wrists being bound in front of her, and her ankles bound to prevent her from running (which she denies will be a problem anyway). You're able to apply some bandages around her raw-rubbed ankles and wrists to make it less difficult before Briant carries her out to Clemance's saddle, where she sits with her legs off the left side. To all appearances from a distance, she is just a lady taking a ride with her escort.

Tiny, Bruk, and Giorno are at the gates to say farewell to your group, as you prepare to go. It's just as well - with their unsustainable appetites, they are difficult companions for parties over long periods without wagons of supply.

 "Well, it's a little anticlimactic, I reckon; but we've settled with the Lord here, and we're heading back south to see if we can't burn the village those Bonespike goblins rode down from. Good thing, too; if there's no reprisal they'll try again right soon, and given that we just bashed down the door to the castle it's a poor time for such, har har!"  He guffaws and then winces, giving his bandaged, meaty legs a bit of a flex. The ogres did take the brunt of the goblin charge, but you've done your best to dress those wounds and expect they'll recover on the road. The three of them take turns offering extravagant, gargantuan parodies of Verezzan bows appropriate for older soldiers greeting younger maidens, for whom it might be overly intimate to try to kiss even platonically. Just as well.  " Transire Benefaciendo , Taalia Troll-Slayer and Signorina Bella. Perhaps Giorno's Mighty Three shall have recourse to return south, and we'll see if you raise hogs as well as you fight! Har har!" 

* * * * *

Thus, it's you, Bella, Donallo, and Briant walking while Margot sits in the saddle. Donallo is decked in his mail and leathers, which sit loosely upon him as if he has lost weight through this ordeal. He is as quiet and sombre as Margot is chatty, asking questions of all of you through the imperfect double filter of Briant and Bella. A day of travel in fortuitous weather gets you most of the way there. You trade off watch on the  troubled couple, but neither makes suspicious moves or disrupts the camp in the evening. Margot does, however, make a request.

 "She asks if we'll sing,"  Bella establishes after some cross-talk. The noblewoman has caught sight of Briant's violin case upon Clemance, and it stands to reason that she might be ready to hear music again. The Norscans had music, though the Skaven did not; its absence is the kind one notices deeply when it is made incidentally clear.

Briant looks uncertain - he is wary of entertaining any requests of a demoniac, though admittedly the woman hasn't presented any signs of being under an influence to make protest to this pilgrimmage, at least. As so many have before, he looks to you for your instinct on the situation. 
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 


Taalia didn't mind walking along to the 4 o'clock of the only horse in their little troupe, though it did remind the shepardess that she really had to buy a horse of her own one day. All it took was a visual sweep of the verdant, rolling green fields around them, the cool late winter days, to see that this was a fine land for steeds. Spring would be upon them soon, that much was clear by the gradually coalescing vibrancy of the colors within the fields, the trees and the numerous sheep she could spot that were growing heavy with offspring. To think they were north of beautiful Tilea, with its dryer but lush landscape, where the winter still afforded warm days, was a momentous idea indeed. At one point Taalia even paused to scoop up a handful of frail snow within one palm, crunching the material about in her gloved fist as the easily dissipated away and returned to its granular state.

Exhaling, smiling, the shepardess took an odd comfort in this alteration of the weather. She knew she came from a land further north, but not so far that it was touching the Norsca coastline. No, her homeland resided within this Empire, or an adjacent civilization, one where apples were grown and trade with the elves was possible and...yes, she could remember that far back. The snow touched the land of her birth too.

Looking over at Bella, Taalia smiled as she held up another fistful of crumbling snow and crunched it into a powder with her fist, letting it disappear. That her friend had never witnessed frozen water such as this, and in such quantities as it fell during the night, was still fascinating to the shepardess, as was the Tilean's adorable reaction to the cool substance.

When the group had settled in to camp for the night, Taalia had volunteered for the first watch. Her firearm in hand, shield on her back, the armored girl had sat by the fire while the others chatted among themselves. Listening to the flow of the new, musical language whose words she could often pick out, as if she were viewing something from a distance, she just smiled to herself and enjoyed the company beneath the sheet of beautiful stars above. That was, until "Margot" wanted to hear them sing.

Taalia hesitated.

No, was her instinctual reaction. Certainly not. Do not do the spectre's bidding.

Pursing her lips, Taalia looked around their surroundings, her keen eyes able to pierce the veil of night better than the others. She turned to look back at the coterie around the fire and offered a friendly smile and shook her head.

 "Never know what it will attract. Best to remain quiet while near the forests." 
MrAbdiel
 Margot looks disappointed at this refusal. Not hurt; but disappointed. Without any leverage, she can offer no argument; and dwells in silence for most of the evening. You keep an eye on her with extra vigilance over the evening and find no misbehaviour. With the next day, you proceed toward the grail chapel.

The shape of the little stone shrine becomes visible as you cut across the hills, and hoof-beaten road running north-south crawls towards you from the horizon. Briant is speaking amiably with Donallo (the latter starved for conversation, surely) and Bella is listening hard to improve her comprehension of their gallic tongue. You are the first to become aware that Margot, rocking gently in Clemence's saddle with the horse's gait, is whistling. Not loudly, not obnoxiously, but musically nonetheless...

 
 Spoiler: Animal Care (+0%) 
Something about the whistling is drawing the attention of the animals. ClemÃ©nce's ears keep flicking back and forth trying to track the sound behind; Milo is poked out of your shirt, silent, but with his ears flat against his head in mute suspicion; and the nameless goat tethered behind the horse keeps tilting its head in agitation.
 

 
 Spoiler: Perform (Sing)(+0%) 
You don't know the song she is whistling. It may be regional. But you can sense at some instinctive level that it is building towards something, the way a song about a battle or a shipwreck may ramp up to a key verse, or bridge.
 

 
 Spoiler: Perception (Smell)(+0%) 
There is magic being worked, right now. You smell it, very near. It is primal, animal, and low. You can describe it, even if you can't describe  how  you can describe it. Andreotto told you that some people come to perceive the winds of magic not as a visual sensation but an aural one; but to  smell  magic seems... highly original.
 
 
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 

Taalia noticed Margot's face, illuminated by the flames as it was, as the shepardess watched her reaction from the other side of the little camp. Her suspicions had been growing, particularly towards a woman who had endured such bondage and depredation of liberty and happiness. Taalia could only remember back merely a few years ago when she had been in the clutches of the ratman, forced to wade through slavery and arrest, and how sweet the free world had been once she had made her escape.

But Margot?

Nothing. You'd think she had just woken up from a particularly long nap. No appreciation of the fresh air, the rolling fields of snow-capped green, no reaction to simply being in the presence of others that were not her supposed tormentor.

These meditations had been brewing within the shepardess' mind well into the next day when they made their way towards the shrine, whose holy edifices Bella, Briant and herself had taken shelter in for their first night beneath a Bretonnian sky. Comfort had not been the priority, but there was an enjoyable sense of reception that Taalia had felt, as if the land itself had extended a welcome of humility and piety, one which she had readily received and appreciated.

The soft whistling pulled Taalia out of her daydream.

The Shepardess looked about, then up towards the source of the gentle, barely audible melody: Margot.

Remembering how the woman had wanted her to sing for her last night, Taalia narrowed her eyes and quickly shifted her vision between Donallo, Briant and Bella - none of them noticed it. Bella was distracted. Donalo and Briant engrossed in lively conversation. Only she observed the serruptitious tune being whistled.

Then Milo poked his head out from his place within her backpack; his small mouth uttering a gentle  Meow! .

The horses ears flicked back and forth, as if in search of a siren song sound - it noticed too! The goat they had brought with them, should the need for supper or a distraction arise, raised its horned head and  bleated  once, primitive annoyance on its face.

Taalia's face snapped back up towards Margot. She was casting some sort of spell!

Holding her quarterstaff, and positioned at 4 o'clock to the horse, Taalia covertly lowered her staff behind the horse and used it to poke Bella to draw her attention.

 Prod! Prod! 

When her friend turned to face her, possibly with curiosity or with annoyance, Taalia, still looking up at Margot, would gesture towards the woman with her eyebrows raised, then towards the clear annoyance of the animals.
MrAbdiel
 You give Bella a warning prod and she puzzles at you, and then at Margot in the saddle. She is powerless to guess what the suspicious tune might produce - but being warned, and then suspicious, turns out to be enough to matter in the moment. As Margot's whistling kicks into a bridge in the song you might describe as  jaunty , a couple of things happen.

First, Margot slips neatly from the saddle. Your eyes track her movement as she makes the short drop and, perhaps to your alarm, she flexes her limbs as she falls and the robe that had handily bound her wrists snaps. She lands in an almost feline crouch, her thin and bruised body suddenly flush with stringy, vascular musculature.

The other thing that happens draws the attention of everyone else in the party - the animals arc up as if struck with terror, or rage. ClemÃ©nce whickers in eye rolling alarm and instinctively kicks back with one of her massive hooves. In another world, it might have caught Bella square in the chest with bone cracking force. As it is, she is alert enough to elect to topple backwards so the steelshod hoof whips through the air where she once had been. The mare rears, kicks and flails wildly. Donallo, cowed from his weeks of despair and fear, cringes off to one side clear while his friend strains to calm the sable steed before someone gets hurt. And the goat tethered behind the horse is bleating and kicking about too - but mostly, he's getting tossed about by the tether as ClemÃ©nce reels and spins.

The ultimate betrayal comes from Milo, overcome by the maddening song, who lunges up out of your vest and latches on with little teeth and claws to your collarbone. He has no power to really wound you (more than emotionally, perhaps); but the shock of it is enough that you are off balance when Margot bursts into a dead sprint across the field toward the treeline, booking at a pace that would be suspicious for a noblewoman even if you didn't know anything about her subverted nature. Everyone else is toppled, distracted, or occupied. If you don't stop her, she'll get away - at least for now.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: Decisions! 
Margot is making a break for it. She's broken the ropes binding her so you know she has some surprising strength; but she didn't just attack you or anyone else herself, so you can speculate she's not grotesquely powerful. If you chase her and fail to catch her, she'll escape into the woods for the moment. If you catch her, you'll have to try to restrain her - long enough for Braint, Donallo and Bella to get things under control with the animals and rush to help you. But if you catch her and things go poorly for you, Taalia might end up second best in that head-to-head encounter.

But if you want to run her down, give me three Agility rolls, which I'll oppose, and we'll see how things shake out. 'Flee' Does not apply here.  Alternatively, if you have something else you'd like to try, I am as always open to ideas.
 
 
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 

Taalia's eyes widened as utter bedlam ensued. Perhaps she would've been better off simply using her staff to jab Margot in her belly to disrupt whatever spell the spectre was casting...but that wouldn't have looked too good if she was merely whistling a tune, would it? Besides. If Taalia and her companions needed any further proof that the lady of the lands was indeed possessed by some malign spirit, her swift dismounting from the steed followed by her semi-spider crawling away through a field would hopefully warrant a conclusion.

Wincing her teeth and hissing her own signal of pain as Milo's little claws bit into her collarbone, and her love, the shepardess dropped her staff immediately. Reacting quicker than the others, though thanking her stars for warning Bella, Taalia, as gently as was possible with swiftness and haste, reached up with her gloved hand, wrapped it around Milo's tender figure and drew it out from her mail shirt and placed him upon the ground.

And then she was off.

Dropping her blunderbuss, her shield smacking her lower back, Taalia took into a sprint as the calamity of the situation granted her wings. With her prodigal height and strengthening years upon her farm, the girl had a strong and long pair of legs that pushed her swiftly through the field, battering away the reeds of vegetation that slapped off her body as she drew herself into a full run in pursuit of Margot. The troubles of the convoy quickly diminished behind her in gravity and size, as the shepardess tunnel visioned on the possessed lady's back, her heterochromia eyes leaving room for nothing else as the figure swelled in portion the closer she drew until, with hot air ripping in and out of her lungs, Taalia could reach out with a mailed fist. Fingers drew forward to snatch and grab at the nobles attire - the moment provided for Taalia to make the final  leap!  forward as her size and weight wrapped around Margot from behind and crashed the pair down onto the ground.
MrAbdiel
 You have longer legs, and riding pants, and farm-fed strength and grace; the Lady Margot has dainty legs, a flowing pale gown, and the lagging aftereffects of an incarceration diet on the heels of a life of stately idleness. If there was ever any doubt in your mind about her altered spiritual state, it blows away as you thunder after her and find with burning lungs and and heroic leap that you can  just barely  catch her. Slamming into her feels less like tackling a flimsy noblewoman and more like grappling with some writhing lean animal. For a bewildering moment, Corvo comes to mind - flickering memories of wrasslin' with the warhound-cross darting into the substrate of your brain for their value informing your present scramble. Corvo, however, was always playing with you. Margot is not playing. This is much more like the fights your grew up on, in the dark cracks of the world, against jealous slaves rat and man alike.

You catch her from behind, but as you bounce to a stop she has writhed about in your grip and then it's all elbows and knees and open hands with fingers locked up like raking, frozen claws. And behind it is a tittering, feminine laugh from her throat; ironic and mocking and mingling with the shouts of your companions catching up to the site of your struggle.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: You're under attack! 
Margot is swinging on you while you restrain her! She's taking a penalty to hit this turn because of some disorientation from the tackling.

  Vs40  - (1d100)[ 12 ]  for [ROLL]1d10+4[ROLL]
  Vs40  - (1d100)[ 13 ]  for [ROLL]1d10+4[ROLL]

You can 'dodge' one of these, naturally; no parries with natural weapons.

You can, with your action, attack back if you want; or else full defence to penalize her attacks; or if you want to challenge her on an opposed strength check and you win, you'll have her in a bind long enough for your allies to get to you and help restrain her.
 
 
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 

Taalia hissed loudly as those claws raked across her arm. The screech of talons against the steel of her mail armor filled the shepardess' ears, while the hot pain shot through her body and elicited a pained, teeth-gritted grimace from the girl.

It hurt. It bloody, damn well hurt. Already she could feel her blood seeping into her shirt and armor, the scent of iron in the air. But, the ex-slave was made of sterner stuff. The sharp pain of claws in her flesh harkened back to the lash of the ratmen, as Taalia clenched her jaw and swiftly drew her shield off of her back and shoved it right against Margot to pin her to the ground, using both her strength, leverage and her weight.
MrAbdiel
 Wicked strength fills the Lady Margot as she struggles to break from your grapple, but with a titanic effort and some quick thinking you bring your shield to bear and press her to the ground beneath it. In that position, she's unable to claw or swing at you with enough force to do you meaningful harm. She sputters, and begins making a sound that you mistake first for choking. But there is a rhythm of language to it, and after a moment your mind resolves to try to understand it as language.

It is the worst language you have ever heard. Queekish, carved into the interior of your skull by your punishing indenture, is musical by comparison. Hearing this incomprehensible argot makes your neck sweat. It makes the insides of your eyelids dry, and sticky. A steady ringing starts building in your ears, like the whine that lingers and fades after a gunshot in an encloses space except starting faint and ramping up and up until finally Bella, Briant and Donallo are at your side to restrain and gag the flailing, thrashing woman.

  "Vf ktjhjbqt ktjtrsujfmn! Vf brstr brstn ib bmbqdfn, kf hnmitr - sqbmu kfm tj vft ctjrt iffmn-htobjn, in! Vfiu hfn nhtztr! Vfiu hfn nhtztr! Tsbrsu hfn nhtztr!"  
 
 Spoiler: OOC: He Who Has Ears Let Him Hear 
Gain one insanity point. Make a Willpower roll, or gain a second one. This roll is at +20; it might not have been, if you hadn't managed to get on top of the situation so well.
 


With the full effort of your team, Margot cannot oppose you; she picks her moments of spasmodic thrashing for the best times so that she can force Briant and Donallo to drop her, or to clip a chin or eyesocket with her forehead or bound heels. The men carry her the rest of the way to the chapel, letting you and Bella bring the animals. Cleménce has settled down now though she is foamy with excitement and nerves. Bella has placed Milo, thrown clear in the chaos, into the saddlebag where the kitten hides from the activity. The old billy goat is gone - cut loose in the effort rather than left tethered to the destrier and flung about like a flail's head. Spooked deeply, it must have made for the hills.

When your party crosses the threshold of the grail chapel, and the daylight cutting through coloured glass window depicting a knight receiving the grail from a veiled maiden in the woods, Margot noticeably slackens and falls to lethargy. Her eyes roll in their sockets, but whatever profane vigour was with her before is gone now. Only a low, resentful growl gurgles in her throat.

 "I guess... You were right, Taalia."  Bella highlights the somewhat obvious, drawing alongside you to look at your arm, but directing your gaze to Donallo - who has shown no discomfort with the chapel grounds, though perhaps a small modicum of shame.  "I don't know any prayers to the Lady. I suppose this part is in the men's hands. Are you alright..?"  
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 

The shepardess gritted her teeth and shifted her weight and shoulder strength about to retain the pin on the possessed noblewoman. It helped considerable not to think of her as such, of course, not as Margot with a specter hijacking her body, but instead as one of the animals on Taalia's farm. Pigs, afterall, were not just adorable, plump, pink squealers: they were tough and bloody strong. Getting knocked over in a sty was an invitation for a gruesome death, and Taalia had, more than once, needed to put her back into it to wrestle away or fight off an over-excited swine that no longer saw her as a provider of food, but as the main course itself.

What the pigs could not do, however, was speak some demonic-like tongue that lashed the inside of Taalia's skull. As if she were standing next to an enormous, brass bell at the moment of its chiming, the sounds reverberated through her body and rattled her brain before seeping into her spine with hot, red claws. Wincing her eyes, almost trying to tuck her face away into her collar as if it could help, the shepardess whine-sighed and shook her head as if trying to throw the suffocating towel from her scalp in a bid for freedom.

She did not know how long it took, but by the time the others arrived and helped wench Margot to her feet, bound and apprehended, Taalia needed a breather. Standing, panting heavily, swallowing, her arm bleeding and her eyes half glazed as if peering off into something only she could see, the girl looked a little worse for wear. Such was so that she remained relatively quiet for the rest of the journey, not taking any moment to gloat or boast - indeed, she had thought it was Donallo, originally - but instead just walked in a silent stupor. Attempts to communicate her were only half-successful, as she would peer at the speaker, seemingly only half-gaze at them, smile, nod,  "Si..."  then go back to half-flaccid lolling of her neck as she stumbled towards the church. Though half-ruined and claimed by the elements and nature, the eccelsiastical spirit that resided within the place of worships till remained, its embrace having a semi-cleansing effect on Taalia as the girl slowly came out of whatever mental lethargy had seized her since arresting Margot's flight.

 "I guess... You were right, Taalia. I don't know any prayers to the Lady. I suppose this part is in the men's hands. Are you alright..?" 
 "Hmmm?"  Taalia seemed to be coming out of it.

 "Oh...this?"  she looked down at her right arm, the dark red having seeped across her clothing from her injury within.

 "I don't know, I haven't checked yet..." 

This was followed by an inspection. While Briant and Donallo were busying themselves with Margot, Taalia and Bella would pull into an alcove for some privacy, where the shepardess could remove her helmet, then her mail shirt, then draw her right-sleeve up to reveal her well-muscled arm, and the claw marks that had added themselves to the girls collection of scars.
MrAbdiel
 Bella checks your wound - the scratches are painful, but not particularly deep where they have worked through the chain to your skin. The bruises will come up a rich mottle of purple and yellow, testifying to the strength of the Lady Margot's grip. Your loyal friend cleans and bandages the room while you recover from your indescribable brush with  something . Briant and Donallo have immobilized the sluggish Margot on a bedroll, and kneel in prayer over her. At some point in the next hour of waiting for something to happen, Bella must have finished tending your wound and shifted to simply embrace you sidelong, one arm around your shoulders, like she feared you were prone to drift up and away if she did not hold you down. It must be noon when finally the matter seems to resolve.

Margot jerks and arches, stunning the prayers of the men to halt. With a final mournful sigh into her gag, she settles back to the bedroll and a plume of something rushes from her mouth and nose. It's fine and grey like smoke, but it moves buzzes and blurs like a cloud of flies too plentiful and tiny to be made out; and at once it spirals up and out the door of the chapel with the lilting grace of a cloud of starlings. You, Bella, and Briant rush out the door to see what becomes of it, all hoping that the light of the sun might destroy it like a chill fog, but it's nowhere to be seen when you look for it. Bella and Briant might be forgiven for thinking it has indeed gone for ever, or slipped into the earth and down into the dark places where nightmares like that belong. But your excellent eyes spot a familiar shape far, far across the hills at the treeline where Margot had sought to flee. At the extreme of your vision, you see the old billy goat as barely a little white shape against the trees. You can't see its eyes from here, but you can't help but feel it is looking back at you.

It stands up on its back legs, and walks like a man into the darkness between the trees. Then it is gone.

 * * * * * 
Margot sleeps all the way back to the castle, and for another day and a half beyond that. In the interim, the resolution of the Lady's condition seems to bring with it an ineffable sense of renewal to the small castle, and its handful of occupants. Donallo reserves his joy for when Margot wakes, but his gratitude is immense. You understand the thrust of  mercí  in its repetitions, but a more complex addendum baffles you and Bella for a moment at the gates of the castle.

 "He say, ah..."  Briant tries to translate the lord's rapidspoken Breton to you.  "He can send yeomen to, ah... Monsieur Cestié, where he lie. Rest him behind walls, where Morr's man find him...Yes?" 
 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
You have unravelled and resolved the Mystery of Lord Donallo! The last time you gained exprience was like.. three months ago. Have 250XP!
 
 
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 

Taalia hissed through her teeth as the fabric was drawn away from her skin, having become enmeshed against it from the blood that had seeped from her claw wounds. Though grisly in appearance, it was clear to the shepardess that they were not particularly deep, just multitudinous, and a tightly wound bandage would see off the worst of the ailment so that the natural healing process could advance towards rehabilitation unimpeded.

 "What do you think they're saying?"  Taalia asked, Bella's arm around her shoulder, as the taller girl sat and peered across at the two knights prostrated on either side of the unconscious Margot, their hands clasped in the prayers uttered softly from their lips.

 "A very long time ago, someone once told me that men have their own gods too,"  she continued, her voice quiet so as not to disturb the procession.

 "I don't know what became of him; but it is sometimes hard to say." 

Taalia turned her head to look at her friend and offered her a smile, before leaning over to kiss Bella on the forehead.

Soon their quiet observance was broken as Margot's mortal form was released by the specter, its grip upon her body finally broken by the sustained prayer and force of will displayed by the two knights - and here in this ruin! Taalia watched with open eyes as the barely corporeal mist etched its way from the noblewomans body, expelled like some foul vapor that coagulated in the air that drew in upon itself any immediate happiness and returned the sensation as palpable menace, before it took flight to the outside environment. Startling up, careful not to knock Bella away from her suddenly, Taalia hurried forthwith, her hand coming to the hilt of  Daybreak  when she, Briant and Bella came to a halt outside the church to peer fruitless into the green, verdant expanse. To think such beautiful lands could harness such a  thing  from beyond, better it sink back into the dirt and remain trapped beneath sanctified land!

But that's not what Taalia saw.

Her eyes were better than the others. There, in the distance, nestled between a cluster of towering forest saplings, stood the small, white shape of the goat that had previously fled for its own safety. Its white markings made it difficult to distinguish on a summer day, but its movements did not - its body drawing up onto its hind quarters and turning about to move as if it were a man.

Taalia could only watch in opened eyed astonishment, her mouth half gaping.

Whatever that  thing  was - it knew her. It would never forget her.

 oOo 
The image of the goat-man's awakening troubled the shepardess all the way back to the castle. However, there were times when she pushed it from her thoughts. Taalia was genuinely pleased to see Donallo and the  actual  Margot reunited once more, him in flesh and spirit and her likewise, this time the noblewoman free and in possession of her own faculties. The shepardess smiled and gently waved off the Lords gratitude, but she did so with humility and a sincere happiness that the two were together once again. At the mention of bringing Cestié to a proper burial and resting place, Taalia's had to bring her gloved hand over her mouth, such was her gaping smile and beloved gratitude.

 "Ohh, grazie mille! Sarebbe un gesto così bello dargli la sepoltura che merita!" 

Bella could translate, but it was clear Taalia was very touched and happy with the suggestion.

And, the shepardess had two of her own:

She offered some money to help hire workers to restore the shrine, given the importance its sancticty played in restoring decency to these lands.

Second, she told Briant and Bella what she had seen in the goatman, and wanted to warn Donallo, and the local villages, of the future threat.
MrAbdiel
 Donallo dispatches his half-dozen men-at-arms to locate Maso Cestié's resting place and bring him back to the castle. This leaves the castle without protection, but between you, Briant, Bella and the now somewhat more free-to-act Donallo, the small castle is a safe enough place to recover for a couple of days. Your wounds scab over nicely, while the bruises liven up. There are still no staff on hand to man the kitchens, but that would never slow you or Bella down; and when Margot finally awakens, groggy and exhausted, she is fed largely by the labors of you and your dear friend. The larder is well stocked with dry foods, even if the perishables have all turned and the kitchen itself is an unattended mess from Donallo's efforts, but nothing catastrophic. Lentil soups and fresh baked bread is the order of the day, and Margot (and everyone else) are happy for it. Your offer to help restore the grail shrine is taken in a positive spirit, but declined - there are shrines like it all over the country, but Donallo has extra reason to see this one cared for now. As for the goat-man, there seems no solution except for him to spread the word to watch for it, and wait for it to reemerge. Most likely it would find its way to another mob of beastmen deep in a woodland, to menace the world of men and die by their swords in time.

 "I owe you very much, Taalia. More than I can say."  Your Breton is coming along now; some illuminating gesturing from Margot - touching her lips and flaring her fingers and shrugging for  more than I can say , for example - help bridge the remaining gaps.  "You have spared me a... much longer imprisonment within myself that would have cost my mind, if not my life. I do not know how to properly thank you, Taalia. I hope I may one day find a way." 
 
 Spoiler: OOC: Lingua Franca 
You may consider yourself proficient in  Breton  for most normal, no-pressure conversation. Rapid chatter, speech under duress, professional nuances and specific vocabulary elude you still, but you know enough to communicate.
 


Donallo does his best. In addition to his men returning and interring Signore Cestié's body in his family graveyard within the walls, where the visitations of Morr's acolytes are certain, he offers to give you the best gift he has to supply: a lesson.

"Your  Daybreak  is a very excellent weapon, mademoiselle. I can detect no flaw in its craftsmanship; all it lacks is exposure to trial, and that will come with time. And it was made for you, specifically. That is also good." He says these things as he limbers up in the sparring ring behind the castle. Now that his wife is not imperilled in the most frightful way, and he is not cloistered in his home impotent against the threat and mad with inability, the lanky, middle-aged knight moves with some elements of that predator grace you've seen in many very fine killers in your time. He unsheathes his own longsword; pretty, though not a work of art like yours. But its edge has been dinged and pitted and sharpened again and again, and holds even now. It has what might generously be called  character. 
 "We have a tradition here in Carcassonne. When our sons are born, we present them with a sword made for them in anticipation; it hangs over their bed until they are old enough to train with it. It is a sacred thing, you see..? Higher than the man himself. He must reach up to it, to grasp it. Here - I will show you a thing my father showed me, when I first faced him with this sword in my hand.  En garde. " 
 
 Spoiler: OOC: Carcassonne 'til the Break of Dawn 
Gain the custom Talent:  Donallo's Lesson. 
  Donallo's Lesson:  When wielding a sword, you gain +3% WS, and WP. 
 


Finally, after the few days of recuperation, the time comes to be on your way. Donallo assures you that you can pick up a couple of riding horses from the pastures by the town of Uvonne, at the extreme north of his small domain as you head towards the River Brienne. Margot, looking much more alive and on her way to well now, stands with Donallo and the men-at-arms at the warped porticullus the ogres bashed in to see you off.
 
"North to Uvonne, then,"  Briant confirms to your trio,  "and then over the river, to Quenelles. We will be far enough from the forest to avoid elves, and from  Massif Orcal  to avoid orcs... Or so we must hope." 
 
 Spoiler: OOC: Travel! 
Give me two open d100 rolls for the overland travel. These are just to help me generate things. But also, give me an Outdoor Survival roll! :D
 
 
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 

Taalia was not a priestess, nor did she know any of the restful words of Morr to help consign a body and spirit to the world that came beyond the material plane upon which they lived. Nevertheless, she stood by silently and solmenly as Maso Cestie's remains were inturred into teh earth, forever to rest and never to rise, his soul departed to whatever afterlife awaited them all. Only about a week had past since Cestie's passing, and so the sting had not yet been lost, but Taalia did find it easier to stand by in solemn silence as he was finally laid to rest. The girl had seen many people come and many people go, but it had only been the past few years where she had actually cared about another beyond the surface level special loyalty. Cestie had been the sagacious, wizened looking elder who had entered her life with his skill to unlock that footlocker in what seemed like a lifetime ago. Even now, Taalia smiled softly as she remembered how she had kissed him upon the cheek in the town centre, performing what she thought was the standard greeting among surface humans, but only later learning that such displays of affection from a younger woman to an older man were far from established orthodoxy. Applying herself in his workshop where she learned the basics of gunsmithing. Camping with the elder and witnessing the young engineers hurling themselves off the cliff-face with utmost faith in their personal flying machines. Seeking his advice when the pirates menaced her new home. Taking to the skies in his flying machine, drawn in by his

Taalia drew in a breath as it was all laid to rest on foreign soil before her. Kneeling, drawing up a gloved-fist full of soil and placing it upon the coffin as it laid to rest within the earth, the white-haired girl moved her other gloved hand to her mouth and blew a gentle kiss.

 "I'll get you to Nuln, one way or another, Singore Cestie,"  she remarked gently, wiping a tear from her eye,  "and then, I'll see you again in the next life." 
 oOo 
 "I owe you very much, Taalia. More than I can say." Your Breton is coming alone now; some illuminating gesturing from Margot - touching her lips and flaring her fingers and shrugging for more than I can say, for example - help bridge the remaining gaps. "You have spared me a... much longer imprisonment within myself that would have cost my mind, if not my life. I do not know how to properly thank you, Taalia. I hope I may one day find a way." 


It felt odd hearing such words come from the noblewomans lips. Though her Breton was coming along well, thanks mostly to the similarity between Tilean and Breton - the girl dreaded having to learn Reikspiel, though she knew that mountain lay before her - the shepardess felt an unusual pang to hear a lady of high station praising her as such.

The girl gently and humbly waved away any such talk, although...she remembered just how useful it had been to have the elf ride to the rescue and speak on her  behalf at her trial in Verezzo. Though Taalia was not a political animal, she had slave-borne instincts to recognize and acknowledge a potential ally, especially when entering a strange new land such as Bretonnia.

And so, Taalia exhibited her humility, which was sincere, but in the back of her mind she filed away the gratitude of a noblewoman and her husband. Though hardly worth a fief, their words could one day make all the difference.

 oOo 

The gentle wind of the practice arena picked up Taalia's blonde-white hair and tussled it gently behind her head, the girl smiling as she stood with her body at an angle to diminish her target-zone. She wore no armor, just pants and a shirt. Even her hair was out, drawn behind her head in a loose ponytail that Donallo accepted due to her foreign station: culturally from Tilea and physically...well, clearly from somewhere north.

Receiving lessons in swordplay from the established Knight and Lord was a rich, but humbling experience. She wore no protection of steel or iron, as Taalia wanted to work purely on her skill to deflect and reflexes to avoid, and so, she went through hours of re-learning footwork and acquiring new understandings in the art of using a blade. The girl herself was surprisingly skilled in its use, all things considered. However, her ability was an eclectic mix that made her unpredictable, rather than a trained and refined swordswoman with an expertise clearly borne in a regional method of fighting.

However, once all was said and done, the girl was grateful and gracious, curtseying in etiquette and thanking Lord Donallo for his lessons.

 oOo 
When it was time to depart, Taalia wished Lord, Lady and household servants all the best. She was not a Bretonnian, and so this afforded her a degree of forgiveness for any lapse in decorum, as the towering shepardess offered curtsey's and physical affection where possible.

With everything packed up and ready, Taalia visited Cestie's resting place one more time. Upon it she placed a flower she had picked from the fields in which they had come down, her eyes viewing her adoptive grandfathers resting place for one final moment before blowing him a parting kiss with one gloved hand.

 "Until next we meet, Singore..." 

And they were gone.
MrAbdiel
   * * * * *  
 "Hey! Help! My lord, please!" 

Your are distracted from your grumbling stomach by a cry from up the road, and a dark figure flapping his arms for attention. For a moment, you and your companions are baffled - the man appears to have mottled, black skin which upon your approach proves merely to be a blackening of soot. He has five fellows, all who look upon your trio - especially Briant - with deference and desperation. They are charcoal burners, clearly; scattered around them are the laden yokes and sacks full of lightweight charcoal they must have been hauling into the nearest village before their misadventure took them off the roadside to a gully where, as the one who flagged your group over explains, their sixth has fallen.

 "Please, my lord - my nephew, Jean-Paul, he fall into ground here. See? See? The ground, she yawns; we hear him but no rope, please..." 

You've got a lot of the simple vocabulary of Breton down, though the syntax janks a bit; but you're able to keep up. The ground has given way, and swallowed up one of the charcoal burners. You can see where the earth gives way into a hollow where the turf folds inward at the nadir of the small gully, and the other blackened men are wisely keeping high on the slopes of the raised ground around it rather than daring more of the slope below to give way. Periodically, the echoing and plaintive voice of a boy comes singing out of the hole. But at the distance they must stay to avoid testing the ground, the others can barely make out words. They do their best to call back assurances. And his companions call back assurances.

 "We are here, Jean-Paul! We are not leaving! We will bring you up!" 

Strictly speaking these peasants 'belong' to the land their local lord owns, and this isn't Briant's problem, let alone that of travelling strangers from further lands. But they are blessed to have been stumbled upon by goodly people, instead of heartless ones. Your trio confers.

 "A climb into the dark will be dangerous,"  Briant warns,  "and I have no great length of rope, myself." 
 "We have rope,"  Bella offers quickly; the spool you used to spelunk around in Miragliano's condemned quarter and to lash all the chicken cages to the horse previously has the length to atleast speculate about a rescue operation.  "We can hold it and feed it to lower someone down to get Jean-Paul." 
 "Nay; better to tie it to Cleménce and then I'll walk her forward, so there is no chance of anyone slipping or losing grip, and a great disaster following. It will be quite dark, but we can hardly leave the boy." 

Bella looks at you, then. This is the part, she knows, where you volunteer to do the daring deed, and she reluctantly accepts to remain behind with every intention of following you into darkness if she has reason to doubt your safety. But you are stronger, and your senses are sharper especially in the dark. That said, she also knows that great cavities in the ground could be any number of things. They could be natural caves, or the lairs of burrowing creatures.

Or they could be a collapse caused by the undermining of that sprawling network of verminous parasites that dwell beneath the feet of mankind, and the chance is low, but not zero, that you would be descending into a tunnel like the one you and Rashabang and his other slaves walked in your great subterranean journey; and there is no telling that there might not be a slave taker letting the injured boy cry for help just to cut the cord of a rescuer and bundle an unhobbled human off into the pits.

Bella looks at you, knowing in part what you know in full - about what awful things can befall those who go unwary into the deep places of the world...

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
To descend, or not descend? This is the kind of thing, incidentally, that might be penalized if you are wearing your mail for the duration.
 
 
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 


Taalia rushed to where she could in order to acquire the best view possible - her boots at the edge and her torso partially leaning forward so she could try and peer down into the darkness. Unfortunately, she wasn't able to see the boy from here, but she could hear him.

The shepardess returned Bella's concerned look while the possibilities rolled around in her head. These type of tunnels...Taalia didn't believe they were natural. A sinkhole just so happens to open up into a large, cavernous tunnel? Maybe it was a coincidence, maybe it was just some improbable situations all aligning and coming to fruition at once. After all, people got struck by lightning, however improbable that was.

But Taalia didn't want to roll the dice on that statistic.

Swallowing, biting her lip, Taalia decided to try a deception.

Then she spoke in the language that she thought in:  &lt;"We caught the other manthings! Come up quick-quick!"&gt; 
MrAbdiel
 Bella ties off a hope about your waist and Briant secures it to Cleménce's saddle; as secure an anchor as you could hope for. Tethered, you shuffle sideways down the slope toward the hole in the turf. You stop where you feel the ground become springy and drop off; like the hard earth beneath it has fallen away, and the soil is held firm only by a vigorous unity of the grass's roots and the leverage against the adjacent ground. But you are close enough to call out...

...And you wait for a response...

And as the seconds tick away one at a time, there seems to be no response.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
No response to your call! Your next move?
 
 
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 


Taalia peered as best she could into the dim cavern below, as if it were an enormous portrait framed by jagged, broken earth, sheets of grass and crooked earth-roots. She could feel the springboard like compression of the ground beneath her, long-buried experience wretched up to remind her of what unstable ground was like - something that was all too familiar from her time as a slave.

Pursing her lips as she heard no response, her excellent hearing not even detecting the shuffling movement of clawed feet upon freshly dug earth to reposition that might suggest a waiting ambush. The boy himself was quiet, but that was probably because he just heard someone speaking the language of the rat-men and had shut his mouth out of fear.

Making a calculated estimation that there was no Skaven present and the boy had just fallen foul of a collapsing tunnel, Taalia looked over her shoulder and back at Bella and the others. Holding the rope with one gloved hand, she signaled that she was going over and down, before looking back at that hole, stepping forward, cautiously, taking her time and using tension within the rope to 'walk' over the edge and down.


OOC:

Down we go.
MrAbdiel
 Down, down, down into the dark. Ten feet, and your boots scrabble gently at the wall as it concaves away from you, and you are dangling from the rope into the darkness.

A flicker of intrusive thought reminds you of the desperate con-man, Blasio, trying to solicit your coverage to escape the law at Caesa di Silo; hanged and left for the birds to peck, dangling in death.

The ground has slipped in an uneven manner, when it has given way; a chunk of earth sloughing at a diagonal that then folds back the other way. Perhaps the boy, when he fell, bounced off one wall and then the other, saving him from full-force plunging the fifty feet you end up descending. But the uneven passage above means almost no light at all is diffused into the hollow below. You squint into the dark, your eyes adapting better than most. The dark spreads out all around you with velvety thickness, swallowing up the sound of your feet scuffing and finding purchase on soft, broken ground - the tumble of earth that has given way from above and made a pile here.

You squint in the dark.

No glint of steel, or glow of warpstone.

You listen carefully.

No skittering claws. No feral, rodentic utterances.

You smell the air.

Earth. Stone. The faintest wisp of blood on the air. But no musk; no rat-scent, and no breeze to hide it. The rats are not here. They could not have been in this place for years, if ever. The cavern is huge, empty and untainted. You are forced to step out of the loop of rope - you give it a single tug to let Briant above know you are removing it, and not to draw it back up until you give three tugs. It's all hands-and-feet to descend the mound of earth carefully, judging your movements by feel and sound. Finally, your feet touch something hard, and flat. And  paved . Your fingertip traces the edge of one great rectangular tile before another, set into the earth here. And finally, you hear the boy.

You can hear the shiver in his breath; the desperation with which he has tried not to make any sound. He fell down this hole, then tumbled down the side of this mound of displaced earth, and then must have crawled as far as he could before trying to hide, and be silent.

And why not, you realise? He had been calling back and forth with his fellows in muddied reassurances; then they had gone silent, and the next call down the hole, yours, had been in the screeching inhuman language of the ratmen. Even now, as your eyes resolve the shape of Jean-Paul, a boy of maybe thirteen curled to himself in the darkness trying to be perfectly still, he must detect you approaching by the quiet shift and shuffle of your feet; but his eyes must see nothing at all.

What is he imagining stalks him, in this deep and forgotten place? 
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 


Down, down, down into the dark depths of the Under-Empire, the haven of the ratmen and source of so much evil inflicted upon the world. The tunnel was busted, its contents hidden behind walls of shadow and darkness, but Taalia felt an odd comfort in sliding back down into those fissures, one that she had not expected. The girl had, afterall, grown up in the Skavens bleak dominion. She had only been six years old when she had disappeared beneath the earth in Norsca, only to re-emerge into the light of Tilea when she was seventeen. Taalia had been adopted into the darkness, and had not seen the light of day until she was already a woman.

But back here, descending once more into the underside of the world, Taalia oddly little real fear. A dark and peverse part of her soul even clamoured in relief at returning home.

When the shepardess touched down and could not spot the boy around her, she first tugged appropriately on the rope. Then, she pushed it down from her waist and drew the noose together so that it would fit around her foot if she needed a swift escape - one that would see her standing rather than dangling on the end of a tether like bait for a fish.

Sinking into the dim atmosphere, the light of the surface melting away into sheets of blackness, Taalia instinctively drew her shoulders together and hunched down, drawing herself closer to the ground with her arms slightly out at her side for stability and balance. Quietly, Taalia sifted through the darkness, relying on both her fantastically developed night-attuned eyes and excellent hearing - and both soon led her to the boy.

She spotted his small, huddled figure soon enough, drawn in to appear small, hiding as best he could. He had, after all, just heard the ugly language of the Skaven spoken down to him from no visible human source - so naturally he would seek to draw himself into an enclosed space where he could hide and wait out the danger.

Assuming, of course, that that  was  what he was trying to obsfucate himself from...and not something else.

Still crouch-walking low to the ground, Taalia would draw herself close to him and bring a hand up to her face, where she would make the  'Shh...'  gesture with a gloved finger over her lips.
MrAbdiel
 You can hear his breath hitching with terror as you approach; but the very human hush from your lips, and perhaps his eyes finally able to resolve the silver corona of your hair like the cusp of a lunar eclipse, calms him as he makes the critical determination that you are not one of  them. 
  "My leg..."   he whispers quietly, desperately, and you see what he means; the fall has battered and scratched him all over but he came down on one leg harder than the other.. He's dislocated his leg at the hip, which will not kill him but leave him with a menacing ache in later life once you get him out of here and have a chance to enlist Bella's help in repositioning it.

One more thing catches your eye; grooving in the curved face of the wall behind the boy, around a large piece of stone set into the surface like a mounted gem. It doesn't gleam like a gem with the trickle of light you can access - perhaps some kind of quartz or marble, though? But it is raised from the surface of the stone, around waist height to you standing, conspicuous and inviting touch. 
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 

Taalia smiled gently when she knelt down before the lad, her tall silhouette slowly taking on her more feminine and comely appearance as she drew closer.


   "My leg..."   he whispers quietly, desperately, and you see what he means; the fall has battered and scratched him all over but he came down on one leg harder than the other.. He's dislocated his leg at the hip, which will not kill him but leave him with a menacing ache in later life once you get him out of here and have a chance to enlist Bella's help in repositioning it. 


The shepardess nodded gently, her own smoky voice taken down to barely above a whisper and close to the boys ear so that he could hear her even through her unusual accent.  "I will get you out of here, lad." 

Making good on her promise, Taalia put her arms forward in a gesture, looking to him him to his feet and semi-carry him back towards the rope. Having heaved and carted about wriggling lambs, squealing pigs and uncooperative sheep, the boy, though weighty, proved a much easier burden to shift, as the shepardess half carried him over one shoulder as she quietly stepped back towards the rope. This was not the first lost lamb she had returned to the flock.

Upon returning to it, Taalia gently set the boy down on one foot and opened the noose to set it down over his shoulders and under his arms, thus taking all the weight off his injured limb. Seeing that he was fastened, she gave a smile and peck on the cheek.

 "Almost home little piccolo,"  she stated, the word 'piccolo' being one of endearment for a boy his age. Reaching up, she gripped the rope and gave the appropriate tugs to signal the return of the rope and its cargo.

Seeing the boy steadily rise, Taalia turned about, her attention on that marble-like object. What on earth was it? Was it some kind of switch? Or device? Was it the remnant of a support beam whose time-induced erosion had caused the collapse in the first place? Uncertain, but curious, and knowing she had a few minutes until the rope returned back down for her, the shepardess would once again stick close the ground and carefully, quietly, approach the piece of set marble with an eye for curiosity and inspection.
MrAbdiel
 The lad is drawn gently into the shaft of light in the ceiling, and soon you hear the fluttering blur of adulation from his his companions. Another soul the gods put in your path for you to save, and with your heart beating in your chest for fear of what the place might have held, you did the good thing, and now he is saved.

You think of Vittorio, hiding under Gaulfredo's cart with Rocco standing vigil, while Gaulfredo stalked off into the woods to find vengeance on the goblins that stole his horse... only to return with you, instead.


 
 Originally Posted by Memory 
 When they arrived at that cart, Nameless oddly deferred to the mans judgement. This was, after all, his realm. If he appeared scared then she would be. But when that - dog!! - arrived and he showed nought but affection, so did Nameless. But then a boy emerged - a healthy boy! Not some wasted looking, pallid little miserable wretch, but an actual boy, with a vigilant father...this is what human children were supposed to look like. 
 

But now you're here, and with no sign of your own tormenters, you indulge your curiousity and return to that wall and seek the truth of this place in the dark. When your fingertips touch the setting of rosy stone, all is made clear, even if for a moment.

Your nostrils fill with an scent you could barely describe - something like the ozone in the air after a lightning strike, but not so acrid and stinging. And then the chamber, the whole cavern, is bathed in warm rose-gold light emanating from the polished hub of rose quarts and many like it on the walls around you. Not rough stone walls, nor crudely scupted by the hands of slaves, but lovingly cut and smoothed by tool and skill of artisans long gone.

You are standing in a tremendous tunnel the act of whose manufacture beggars belief. From the tightly interlocked pavers on the floor to the smoothed stone ceiling above there is fifty feet of clear air. Above that, you know there is another thirty feet or so of earth, which heaped up in a pile beneath the breach enough that the boy, in his fall, landed with relative gentleness on churned soil instead of plunging to a death on hard stone. The rose quartz hubs are some kind of lighting you are forced to imagine is magical in nature, and touching this one has activated it and those up and down huge underground road, wide enough to march an army down, for two hundred feet in each direction north and south before the light tapers into dark again. But no sooner do the lights come on but they begin to fade. You have triggered some kind of illumination system that must have been predicated on care and maintenance, and remaining idle and hidden here it has drawn on the last dregs of its power to show you, for about three or four seconds, the grandeur that existed once beneath the earth.

Only dwarves could have made this. Nogrom did not speak overly much of his people's past, but you have picked it up in pieces; like the elves upon whose ruins so many cities in Tilea and Bretonnia are built, the Dwarves once had a great empire that sprawled through the mountains throughout the whole continent. This road must have run south from here into into the Irrana mountains, and north toward the cluster of mountains your map of the Duchies calls 'Massif Orcal'. But more than that, you are standing at what seems to be some kind of intersection. Off the side of the main tunnel is a smaller one, only thirty feet high, that would have run west if it were not collapsed in on itself. Large bolstering columns of stone have been left either side of this passage, but the one on the left is cracked and tumbled; and in the light you can see the spidering crack that has lead from there all the way to the middle of the main tunnel's ceiling where the earth finally gave way. The side passage's interior is collapsed in and blocked up with debris manually, comprehensively obstructed in what seems more likely to have been a controlled demolition than a precise accident. And above that passage, engraved on the twenty feet of stone between the archway and the ceiling, is a grand stone image of two figures. One is a dwarf certainly by stature, with a great winged helm that seems imperious and regal. The other is humanoid, though the outlandish height and plume on his helm and the graven scales on his male suggest to you this is some kind of elven lord. Both elf and dwarf have weapon in hand, but the spear and axe respectively are held in the hand furthest from the meeting. The hand closest on each side is extended in what seems to be a friendly clasp, and any who might have proceeded in this tunnel in its heyday would have passed beneath this icon of camaraderie.

There are no mountains west of Carcassone. Where did this tunnel go, or even intend to go if it was never completed? Did it veer away further west? Did it terminate in some underground dwarven hold closer to the coast? Did it, as the imagery seems to suggest, dare to strike out west and west, and further west, beneath the coast and beneath the great ocean and far into the fabled homeland of the elves that is supposed to lie beyond the waves? Would it even be  possible ? You have known your share of tunnels, and the rats keep well clear of the coast for fear of breaching the sea. The idea of a tunnel that delves so far beneath the ground it goes under the ocean is mindbending. No one can say what lies at the bottom of the sea, let alone beneath that.

Whatever success or failure this tunnel ever had, it has been sealed, and this greater thoroughfare has been abandoned. Likely, it is sealed off far enough north and south too, for it seems to have seen no use at all for... many, many years. For a few seconds, this tunnel under the earth, the product of labor and care of those dwarven artisans and engineers long gone, is showcased in the warm light of the stones, before that remnant magic bleeds away and darkness swallows it all up again. 
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 

The Shepardess could only marvel at the remnants of a deceased civilization stretching for before her into the depths of the earth. Vast, expansive and enameled in the labour of master craftsman and celebrating the friendship between two peoples Taalia's young race felt as ancient elders, the girl beheld a time capsule from another era, a bygone time whose world-shifting currents no longer ran through the land, but whose wake had shaped it all the same.

She smiled. She laughed.

 "Haha!"  

Though no particularly funny joke had been spoken, the idea that she'd end up underground  again , only this time in a forgotten tunnel of the two prior dominant races of the world, having restored a prior elven shrine, was so improbable it had to be some joke from the gods above, a joke to which the shepardess chuckled in the dark.

Without a torch, the girl relied on the pillar of light poking through the hole in the earth some forty yards above and behind her, the residue of its illumination granting her sharp eyes the base motes of sun required to penetrate the darkness and pick out the details of the dwarven highway ruins. Even then, knowing that her perception of the totality of the beautifully crafted corridors was limited as it was, only made the Taalia feel smaller as she stood at the optimum of safety and curiosity. The girl had not even been on this earth for twenty years, having come into being only eighteen or nineteen years ago. Though her trials had been a sinkhole of misery from which she had only miraculously clawed her way up from, to stand here, now, in the edifices of prior civilisations that had stood proud and strong thousands of years ago...it gave one perspective. For all the hurdles she had overcome, her eighteen years seemed paltry and insignificant next to the generations linked together through thousands of years of labour and craftsmanship. The skill that had gone into crafting this highway during its construction had been a studious expertise and commitment, but also one of love, Taalia surmised. For only workers who truly loved their creations could foster such timeless beauty that could remain here, thousands of years without maintenance, yet still carry the undimmed glory of their original visages for this girl-human to see.

Swallowing as she beheld it all, Taalia wondered quietly to herself whether she would contribute to anything that would be happened upon millennia from now, as the workmen who fashioned these statues and roadways had. Would she ply some trade or assist with some production that generations in the future would look upon with awe?

She hoped so.

Inhaling a lungful of stale air, Taalia swallowed and ran her hand over the crafted edifices and bas-reliefs of the forgotten highway. She took the time to notice any pattern that she could, and acquire and proof that was available of the subterranean path. A worked bit of stone that had gone loose, a piece of the highway or statue - anything that she could use to present to a dwarf or, Verena willing, an elf, whom would recognise the craftsmanship of their people and believe the tall tale she now had to tell.

By the time Taalia returned to that column of light from above, the shepardess had a storm of thoughts rolling around in her head. Looking up at the others who were doubtless concerned about the laughter before her disappearance, the girl waved up to her fellows and drew the noose of the rope around her foot and held it with her spare hand so that she could be elevated back up to the surface.

She took careful note of this tunnels location, its position, so that it could be found by those armed with such coordinates.
MrAbdiel
 By touch and by gloom, you explore the ruined intersection. The fact that it is starting to buckle here and now is testimony to dwarven engineering - that spidering crack from the demolished tunnel west suggests that unmaking is the cause of the weakness, and even that has taken a great age to manifest. You find a shard of pale stone in the rubble that suits your purpose: it seems to be from high up on the archway, shaken loose with the jolt of the ancient collapse. A smoothly fractured isosceletic wedge of stone that is almost a blade in shape, and its edge would abrade flesh instead of drawing blood. A corner of some intricate border mural of the greater carving is here; most of a dwarf and the shins of an elf back to back in the midst of some deed of glory. The detail on them is remarkable for the medium, and the very corner which corresponded to the corner of the block it once belonged to features an irregular shape you think is a dwarven numeral or character. You remember the dwarven banker and his apprentice, marking out their complex deals with hammered runic punches. A maker's mark? A signature? A graffito? Perhaps you will know, some day.

Back on the surface, you collaborate with Bella to pop the boy's hip back into place before the swelling can get any worse. He lets out a monstrous howl at the pain of it, but it's better now than later and he's fortunate to have a band of friends and family here to help him home. Poor though they are, with the boy thought lost returned to their number battered but not maimed or dead, they are in rich spirits indeed.

 "Oh, Taalia!"  Bella exclaims in alarm out of the blue, having noticed just now what you notice a moment after looking down at yourself. Your front is smeared and marred with charcoal black from handling the boy. Charcoal stains are treacherous, and you aren't afforded a chance to do much about them on the road. Where it's rubbed on your armor, you'll get most of it out with effort when you stop to camp. Where it has rubbed to your collar and the places where your gambeson and cloth are exposed... Well, you won't soon forget your journey through northern Carcassonne.

Jean-Paul's uncle, Jean-Michel, is profuse with his thanks to you directly while Briant confers with another of the burners and writes a letter for them to give to their lord about the location of the sinkhole, and suggestion to fence it off. Jean-Michel's praise comes in such a rapid fire Breton patter, curled with his local dialect, that it strains your fledgling grasp of the language.

 "Que les dieux vous bénissent, madame, que les dieux vous bénissent, vous et votre belle amie, le seigneur et son cheval, bénédictions à vous tous. Taal embrasse tes têtes, Taal embrasse tes mains ! Comme nous pleurerions de perdre Jean-Paul - il est si intelligent, si intelligent - et comme sa mère me tuerait sûrement s'il mourait sous mes soins!" 

He has little wealth to offer in reward even if you would take it, and charcoal is no particular use to you on the road. But he wants to give you something precious to him, all the same - a little wooden carving of a man, bearded and crowned with antlers, holding a bow close to himself. Most depictions of Karnos you saw back in Tilea had him with bow and spear, and this idol has only a bow held to his chest, but there is no doubt that this is a talisman devoted to that god, known in the lands north of the mountains as Taal. The idol was once pale ash wood, but is now well blackened by the grip of its owner. The face and hands on the idol are brighter, and more smoothed by the attention of the nervous thumb in nervous times. 
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 

The Shepardess showed little concern for the blackened smudge of charcoal across her collar, the rims of the white blouse beneath her armor poking out and framing her jaw and neck rather nicely. The accumulation of dirt and grim was not uncommon, and with Taalia's history being dominated by filth and deprivation up until only a couple of years ago, she looked at Bella's concern with a grateful but amused little smile and a shrug.

 "It just adds character!"  she insisted, pecking her friend on the cheek before producing the crumbled pieces of stone that she had acquired from the tunnel, eager to share with her companion the significance of her find and the reason she had been down there for seemingly so long.

When she was approached by Jean-Michel, his excited gratitude instantly grabbing her attention, Taalia humbly waved off the mans insistances and praises. Though he was speaking too quickly for her to fully understand, she caught enough words and observed his behavior to tell that he was lathering on her a praise she did not feel worthy enough to receive.

 
 "Que les dieux vous bénissent, madame, que les dieux vous bénissent, vous et votre belle amie, le seigneur et son cheval, bénédictions à vous tous. Taal embrasse tes têtes, Taal embrasse tes mains ! Comme nous pleurerions de perdre Jean-Paul - il est si intelligent, si intelligent - et comme sa mère me tuerait sûrement s'il mourait sous mes soins!" 

 
 "Non, non, vraiment, aucun éloge n'est nécessaire. J'ai fait ce que toute personne capable de le faire aurait fait. S'il vous plaît, veillez à ce que le garçon se repose et enlève le poids de sa jambe pendant un moment. Il est très jeune et devrait récupérez, mais remettez-vous à marcher, n'essayez pas d'un seul coup, sinon il pourrait prolonger sa blessure." 

Her words came with the oh-you-shouldn't-have-thank-you-so-much-you're-wonderful-too humility and praise dance she had imbibed from the Tileans, her hands drawn up almost as if she were to pray, sometimes pressing one gloved palm on the mans shoulder, other times drawing herself inwards and bowing her gently bowing her head. The effect was the same: she had been more than happy to help, and she was relieved and thankful to Taal and the gods that little Jean-Paul was preserved against the evil that lurked deep in the ground.

When he hands over the little trinket however, Taalia's eyes widen a bit and her mouth archs in a thankful smile.

 "Oh, you shouldn't have! No, I cannot, please, no reward is necessary!"  she said in her coming-along-Bretonnian, her words now carrying an accent that was different than Bella's, whose native language was Tilean...because that wasn't the first complete language with which Taalia had become proficient. However, she was beginning to see the venn diagram of overlap between Bretonnian and Tilean culture and customs. Though the internal players of both regions would insist on a vast demarcation, to an outsider like Taalia she was slowly observing the intersections, particularly in the expression of emotion. Perhaps an installed mechanism from the slave pits within the girl had instructed her, with deathly sincerity, to  never  show emotions to fellow slaves, and especially not to the hated ratmen. Emotions were keys to the mind that one gave to others, that was how Taalia saw it. But such an atmosphere of anxious paranoia did not exist within the surface human lands. Well, perhaps it did in certain circles, but it was not the natural state of nation. She recalled fondly the way Gaulfredo would wear his heart on his sleeve, as demonstrated by the argument he engaged in with Adolpho during her first week in their company. Taalia had thought the two would come to blows! But no, that was just how their social rivers flowed. The more she explored of Bretonnia, she saw the cultural familiarity.

Was where she came from like that?

 "Merci Monsieur! Merci pour votre gentillesse!"  Taalia would finally accept the trinket after the little insistence/refusal game.

When Briant began writing a letter and crafting a small map that denoted the tunnels entrance, so that it could be fenced off, Taalia retrieved her own writing kit and parchment and copied his example. She only knew two dwarves in her life: Nogram and Eustace Goldbrick of Karag-Dar. She thought sending them a sample each and description of what she had found would be appreciated. At least the human pup is making herself useful! she smirked in imagination at one of them uttering after reading such a letter and observing the proof contained alongside it.

Another piece she would keep. The final piece would be packaged with her next letter home to Vittorio, Ariana and Gaulfreddo.
MrAbdiel
 The charcoal burners gather their humble burdens, perform their last thanks, and make their way back to the road at a pace that poor limping Jean-Paul can manage with assistance. As their party goes, you notice another detail about them - all of the men carry smallswords on their backs in scabbards. Such armament is a little less improvised than you might expect of peasants, though Sir Briant provides some explanation as you continue toward on the road toward the river.  "For orcs. From the mountains, as you've seen. It is not deeply uncommon for them to break through in numbers that require the peasants to fend for themselves, and all the mountain duchies tend to take their militia drills seriously. Carcassonne from the Iranna mountains, overwhich you flew; over the river, Quenelles too, from Massif Orcal, in the middle of the nation."  Spears strike you as difficult to carry if you are already hauling charcoal; and while clubs and hammers might be fine weapons for battering men, the orcs you saw as you blitzed by on the flying machine seemed as thick and brawny a foe as one could want. Better to stab and pierce than batter and break, when forced to fight.

Later, as a lonely fort on a hill looms as evening draws in, you and your companions are encouraged by the cooling wind to camp.

 "Can we not impress upon those in the fort for shelter, Sir Briant? Which lord dwells there? Do you know him, also?",  Bella asks. You begin imagining the answer before Briant can give it - your keen eyes can see even from this distance that the fort is a ruin. Its outer walls appear to be in tact from this side, but they must be breached or open on another face. The citadel in the centre is thick and jagged at the middle, suggesting a history in which it had a tower or towers which have now collapsed.

 "Alas,  Bella dame , we cannot. But we may camp here, in the sight of it, and feel safe enough. Here; let us see what we might make of the food given by Margot and Donallo, and I will tell you a tale of these lands - for this is called Carcassonne now, but was was not always so. In the old days, the dark days, this was the duchy of  Glanborielle ..." 

As you dine on soup, bread and cheese and the clouds begins dusting the landscape with snow, Sir Briant tells you and Bella about the old days, the dark days. You have a sense of Tilean history - the ancient Reman Empire, the first kingdom of men in the world, which stood for a thousand years before collapsing into its bickering princedoms that, over time, became the city states like your adoptive Verezzo. Briant's account of Bretonnia's 'old days' does not seem to stretch back that far. Indeed, as he tells it, the ancient  Bretonni  were once twenty tribes of horsemen who travelled from the west, over the grey mountains, and over centuries of gruelling warfare drove the orcs into the mountains and wild places. They fought one another for land, but bound together when the greenskins created peril. They learned of the fay-haunted forest of Loren, and not to trouble that woodland realm for their own sake. But it was the orcs that proved the true enemy of man. Four of the original twenty tribes were battered into remnants and myth, absorbed by the others, and the sixteen settled and built mighty forts and castles in the duchies as they are broadly known today. But there are fourteen duchies, not sixteen, now.

 "Much of the eastern part of Carcassonne was once the duchy of Glanborielle, and across the river Brienne where we shall go soon is now all Quenelles when much of it was Cuileux. The decades before Gilles the Uniter delivered the land were a dark age, where our knights were merely horsemen, and we knew not the Grail. And in those days, orcs pouring from Massif Orcal massacred the people of Cuileux, and those rampaging up from the Irannas wiped away the folk of Glanborielle. Eventually, Gilles and his companions would unite the land and punish the greenskins so completely that most of the land could flourish in peace; but the spirits of those who once reigned in these places are sometimes restless, and we give their fallen places... respectful distance." 

Given the turmoil you went through the last time you went to a haunted place, respectful distance strikes Bella as just fine - even if the ruined fort in the distant seems more melancholy than unsettling.

 * * * * * 
That night, you are expecting Bella to wake you to take watch, but you wake around the right time by your own instinct. Just as well - peeking into the open flap of Briant's tent, you find the brunette curled up and dozing in Briant's arms; both clothed and seemingly unrumpled by unchaste pursuits, but resting close and comfortable all the same. It seems your friend snuck in to spend the latter minutes of her watch in the knight's embrace, but found the arrangement so peaceful and to her liking that she drifted off entirely. But no ill has come of it; the embers of the fire just need an extra stir to bring them back to life, only briefly unattended. The snow has come down and covered the ground in a few inches of white powder all around, and it crunches pleasantly under your booted heels. But just as you are settling into your watch, you find you are lacking your watchmate - Milo has slipped away from you. This is deeply uncharacteristic of the kitten, who is now old enough to be springy and playful and swift but is deeply possessive of you and something of a  fraidy cat . Bella speculates he was traumatized by the crash of the flying machine, but he seems to have found his courage as you can see his very obvious trail in the snow as he has bounced and plopped his way through the powder away from the camp in the direction of the fort. He can't have gotten that far - he was with you not long ago, after all - and he's likely to return to you swiftly on his own, but the thought that he might get snagged or buried in hidden dip in the snow and freeze, well... Perhaps it's best to seek him out right away.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
A couple of decisions here. Tracking Milo is easy enough, but:

1 - Does Taalia want to go looking for the cat right away, or trust him to make his way back in due moments?

2 - If she does go following his tracks to find him, does she disturb Bella and Briant, or let them have their lovebird snooze? To all of Taalia's senses, the campsite seems safe; the land is clear, and her night eyes and keen nose detect nothing troubling.
 
 
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 

Taalia had listened to the tale of past tragedy and heroics, a moment of self-reflection understanding that one day, in the distant future, her life would be a similar little tale. It was easy to lose oneself to self-pity and to think that all the world's bad fortune was arrayed against them, but when one considered the historical ebb and flow of calamity and windfall, they could gain strength knowing that out there, somewhere past or present, were those who had it worse and yet endured and perservered.

It also presented a new threat to her attention: orcs.

Taalia had never really had many dealings with the greenskins, though she was not unfamiliar with them. There had been a fair share of the brutes toiling beneath the whips of the Skaven, where their fortitude and simplemindedness made them good workers, but their irresistible thirst for a fight often saw them leading short-lived, but brutally violent revolts. Likewise, in Tilea, they had not been a particularly noticeable threat, at least in her region of the land where pirates, mutants and brigands were the main culprits of menace and destitution. However, she had heard tales from those regions closer and more adjacent to the mountains, beautiful little vestiges that had to be tough and hardy against the occassional orcish raid spearing out from the jagged tops of the snow-capped crags where the greenskins built their ramshackle homes. The shepardess didn't want to think of the anxiety such a constant menace would pose to her mental well-being, for after escaping slavery she had found enough to worry about in the rearing of her sheep and pigs and shielding that which she held dear from trolls and pirates. But orcs too?

Hmmm. She recalled the passing moment when they sailed over the mountains that separated Tilea from Bretonnia, where they had first seen Sir Briant in his desperate moments, and Taalia had put a lead shot right through the forehead of a particularly sizeable orc that had been threatening the knight. That is how one confronted such beasts; with heart, faith, steel and gunpowder. She had demonstrated as such once again during the skirmish with the goblin wolfriders, the image of the blunderbuss raking their ranks still fresh in her mind.

And so, with the founding tales of the land still fresh in her mind, Taalia took first watch among the lightly wooded forest that surrounded the bleak and empty castle ruins perched above them like some silent icon of a bygone age. She still remembered the  last  derelict home besides which she had camped, or at least one that had  seemed  empty at the time. The weapon the spirit had dropped was still in her possession, and as a precaution to their current proximity to another potential hotspot of spirits the shepardess had seen fit to add its scabbard to her belt in the unlikely event that its use was necessary. Better to have and not need, than need and not have, after all.

Speaking of necessities...

Taalia smirked to herself when she caught a glimpse of Briant and Bella through a brief moment of visibility through the entrance to the tent. The shepardess had received the secret words from her friend, uttered in hushed and excited whispers one might expect from a giggly school-girl, as her Tilean companion ad spoken so highly of their knightly escort. He was so handsome. He was so brave. He had a beating, warm hearth beneath the muscle of his body and the steel of his armor. His gallantry and skill must be exceptional, for he had fought off the two remaining orcs, slain them and scaled down the mountain, after all. Taalia pondered briefly on the twists and turns life took, and it made her smile thinking that perhaps Bella's rotten luck with her parents, only to meet her and travel through Bretonnia, could possibly lead to her hand in hand with a famed knight of the realm.

But she still didn't care for that thin moustache. Grow a neat beard or go clean-shaven, Taalia thought.

Turing back to peer at the soft fall of snow curtaining through the sparse woods in which they camped, Taalia exhaled a plume of vapor in the chilly night air, but nevertheless found herself warm and content. Until, that is, she noticed Milo's absence.

Wishing to draw her cat up onto her lap and absentmindedly pet him, the shepardess pivoted her head about, worry soon gnawing at her nerves as the feline's vacancy grew more apparent. Standing up, peering about, it didn't take Taalia long to find the little catpaw tracks leading...towards the derelict ruins.

  "Damnit Milo!"   Taalia hissed under her breath.

Looking back at the end, a pang of guilt knotting up in her about needing to briefly lead or disrupt the budding affection, Taalia knew that she had to do the latter, even minimally. She was on post as lookout - she couldn't abandon it without warning. What if something came wandering through the woods at such an opportune time, however unlikely?

Exhaling, leaning forward a little as if her physical movements would soften her intrusion, Taalia spoke gently towards the tend, her tone clearly sculpted as if to believe only Briant would be awake and that Bella would be asleep.

 "Sir Briant - Milo had just gotten lost, but I see his tracks; I will return in a few minutes once I retrieve him!" 

There. That was enough. She'd done her part.

Turning back and looking at the trail before her, Taalia inhaled and trudged forward, her boots pressing into the snow as she went after her cat.
MrAbdiel
 Briant murmurs awake and absorbs your warning with blinking confusion, but you are satisfied that he has heard you sufficiently that over the following two minutes he will shake out your meaning in his short term memory and keep aware of his surrounds. And then you're off, chasing the scuffy kitten craters in the snow that lance out toward the ruin, then veer and curl and meander like he's found something to chase, zagging and swooping toward the ruin. After a few minutes of pursuit, you come across the little orange puff springing about, changing directions as he pursues some unseen quarry giving you just the right moment to snatch him up mid pounce. He yowls with ingratitude and bites your hand, only to lick it a second after once he has re-examined his position.

At that time, the snowclouds cluttering the sky choose a moment to split in such a way a slice of the night sky is visible. A jagged black star-studded slash spills tainted moonlight over the snow, with half of the the face of a sickly moon verging past the grey cover, bathes the snow around you in strange radiance. You saw well enough  even with the moonlight barely penetrating the clouds and the flicker of the distant campfire poked back into life, but now you see more. Because there  is  more. Notably, the ruin ahead of you remains ruined, but the tower that has crumbled into its centre is erect again in pale, translucent green; a glassy spectre of ancient glory haunting the place it once stood. Atop that tower shines something - some kind of torch or beacon - glowing with mysterious witchlight that cannot possibly be natural given its location. And glancing back the way you came, you see something more - something in the path carved in the snow, in the gouges where Milo landed and leapt and the shadows cast now by the tower's glow, a message:

P A R L E

A word, or most of one, terminating where you snatched the rogue kitten up from his play. Has he been used to write this? Is he... compromised, like he was with the spirit in lady Margot? But even with the strange light of the wicked moon, you do not detect, with that sense you can best describe as  second scent , anything like those daemon magics. Whatever is in the air is... purer. Not twisted. The scent of running water, from a river that does not flow anymore.

Milo makes a bid to leap from your arms to keep going toward the tower. He seems to want to investigate, at least. But your record with spirits, and this blasted moon, is less than positive. 
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 


Taalia could do little but stare at the scene before her, as even her instinctual fear towards the supernatural was serenely demoted by the placid nature of what she saw. It was easy to be frightened, terrified even, as recollections of her time within that isolated country manor and its ghoulish interior rushed back into her mind to warn the girl against messing around with spirits again, lest she not be so lucky this time to find a way out.

And yet, no fear resonated within her, no bleak apprehension sought to squash her curiosity and turn her around to walk back to the camp with her little cat in arms.

Swallowing, biting her bottom lip, Taalia looked down at the message written across the snow by Milo's unwitting movements. In her basic Bretonnian, she knew it was 'speak', because it was the same word in Tilean.

Looking back up at that lonely ruin, then back at the words, Taalia knelt down to gently let Milo from her hands so that he could resume his guided work...
MrAbdiel
 P A R L E R

The remaining R appears to be the extent of the message, and Milo is happy enough to frollick in the snow to complete it. He peers up at you from the new graven character in the snow, offers a compelling and playful little   mrew   before bounding off toward the ruin again. Cautiously, you follow to the foot of the old fort and through the long doorless archway within. The heaping ruin of stone of the collapsed tower occupies most of the floor, but Milo navigates over it with aplomb to the back of the room, to a wall whose old masonry ceases along a jagged line to be stone and begins anew as a spectral echo of its former glory. Along that wall is the glassy, ghostly shape of a wooden interior staircase - some of its lower steps protruding into the rubble below. On to the next step above the rubble, Milo leaps - but instead of slipping through the ghostly stuff as he has every reason to do, he settles on it, pivots to look at you, and   mrew  s a second time.

It seems this tower's former glory is made real - or real enough - in the light of the witching moon to be climbed to its top. The gap in the snow clouds remains open and the wind runs along the seam, so it should last a little longer - but you speculate, with your fledgling understanding of magic, that standing at the top of a ghost tower that fell hundreds of years prior is only possible in that moonlight. Through the transparent layers of the tower, you see the foggy form of a man - a soldier, a watchman, perhaps a knight - standing by the ghostfire beacon and gazing out over the river beyond. If there is anyone here to whom you are expected to  parler , it must be this figure - if you dare trust the unwholesome structure's invitation at all. 
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 

Taalia proceeded cautiously into the moonlit ruins of that crested the hill with its dilapidated, lonely image. Though singular atop its heap, the small fort was oddly serene, the silvery light of Luna almost blanketing it the way a mother would an only child. Milo's formations in the snow had calmed the shepardess, who had originally considered little more than more wicked specter's and spirits at play, but as she entered through the decaying archways she looked upon the transparent stairs with wide-eyed astonishment.

Nothing felt wrong. That was the weirdest thing. Having grown up as a slave to the Skaven, Taalia had a particularly well-developed and attuned antennae for danger and the sinister, yet it seemed inactive in this place. There was no instinctual caution, no shivering warning or deep-seated concern that she was moving into the embrace of something wicked and malicious. Instead, she felt oddly at peace, a sincere and genuine tranquility.

Reaching down to pick up her cat, Taalia looked up the circular stairwell, as she was able to spot the adjacent battlements through the semi-see through moonlight construct that filled in the stairway and made it passable. Swallowing, biting her bottom lip, but once again feeling no fear or apprehension, the shepardess took her first step onto the silvery step before her, marveling at how it held up her weight as if it were a permanent fixture. Then another step. And another. Gaining confidence, the girl ascended the stairway, one hand holding her pet close and her other ready to grab at any outcropping should the spectre's trap be exposed and the ground give away beneath her...
MrAbdiel
 Milo returns to his agreeable, pliable self when you scoop him up again; happy to ride in your arms or cling to your shoulder as you go up the spectral stairs. To him, at least, this seems unalarming; perhaps that is a small comfort.

The stairs do not give way, and their phantom ascend leads to a phantom turret at the top of the tower, where a phantom signal fire casts its eerie glow over the snows below, the river beyond... and you see now, toward a matching light upon a similarly destroyed and mystically reimagined tower on the other side of the river, in Quenelles.

You share this vista with a single sentinel; a ghost of a mountain of a man who must be seven feet tall. Cool, stoic stillness fills his features as he gazes out over the river and beyond. The ancient Bretonnian, or perhaps Bretonni, seems to take no notice of you for a minute or so before finally his ghostly gaze sweeps your person. He strikes you as sad; a little tired, even. Without explaining himself, he unlimbers a scabbarded blade with its shoulderstrap from his person, and offers it to you. Or... the ghost of it, anyway; the scabbard and simple hilt of the longblade shimmering like hazy turquoise glass. 
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 


Taalia ascended the ghostly stairs with a cat in one arm and a hand on the pommel of her sword. Milo's relaxed mood does much to set the former slave at ease for she believed the animals had a way about them, a perception, a sense that detected the harms in the world before humans could discern them. Flighty and timid creatures who were only roused to fight when it was against a rival for territory, the feline mind avoided conflict and danger as much as it could, so that fact that her white-and-orange furball rested peacefully in her arm went far to draw Taalia into a sense of trust.

Not that she could really trust those stairscases, however. Her engineering-based mind boggled at the lack of visible substance, the mathematics at the back of her head, pondered over in Queekish, refused to accept the impossibility within the natural world that was clearly being invaded by the supernatural. Nevertheless, Taalia ascended, the rampart coming to surround her as she could peer through the decayed crenelles into the snow-blanketed Bretonnian countryside below. She was even able to spot the white-brown sheets of their tent through the branches, the small light within burning with a gentle warmth that the girl could picture Briant and Belle huddled about. It made her smile.

But, she was not alone up here.


 You share this vista with a single sentinel; a ghost of a mountain of a man who must be seven feet tall. Cool, stoic stillness fills his features as he gazes out over the river and beyond. The ancient Bretonnian, or perhaps Bretonni, seems to take no notice of you for a minute or so before finally his ghostly gaze sweeps your person. He strikes you as sad; a little tired, even. Without explaining himself, he unlimbers a scabbarded blade with its shoulder strap from his person, and offers it to you. Or... the ghost of it, anyway; the scabbard and simple hilt of the longblade shimmering like hazy turquoise glass. 


It took a lot to scare Taalia these days, and this was no exception. After her upbringing in the pits where she bore witness to mortal horrors of flesh and bone, to the lonely manor on the mountain pass between Tilea and Bretonnian and the forlorn spirit that used to reside there, ghosts and specters no longer frightened her. But in this case, she believed it didn't want to. There was something to the figure's gait, his resigned mien that offered no hostility or danger to the girl, his presence only a reminder that there was something more than the physical world around them, a spirit, a soul that lived on once the bodily functions had ceased.

Is that what this apparition wanted? When the specter in the lonely estate had born witness to the fate of his family, his grip upon the material world had slipped and it had passed on to whatever fate awaited them all in the next life. There had been an anchor, a physical deposit that tethered them to this world and kept them locked within like some type of prison from which they went mad trying to escape. Was that the intent of this spirit? Was that the purpose of its offering?

Remembering the manners imparted upon her by the nobles of Bretonnia, Taalia put Milo down and then curtsied in respect, before slightly bowing her hand and holding both hands aloft, palms facing upwards, to receive what was offered.
MrAbdiel
 The ghostblade is cold to the touch when its scabbaded weight settles in your hands, as if it had just been dug out of a snowdrift. Ethereal smoke with that clean otherworldly non-smell wisps up from where your skin presses against the echo of ancient leather wrapped about wood. The spectre offers no communication to you as regards his expectation with this. He merely gazes ambigiously at you, then through you, then turns to gaze back idly across the river as if you weren't there at all anymore.

Then come the orcs.

  "WaaAAAAaaghhh!"  

You hear the growling, whooping chorus of them; echoing hollow through the air as they charge. Gazing from the balcony down, you see them coming - not from the river where the sentinent mutely gazes, but from the south; from behind, from the southern mountains, from the way you came. And not orcs, either; but  shades  thereof in the same smoky, glassy guise as the spectral tower and the knight and the sword. Orcs that rampaged once across this land rampaging in recursion now, folding together out of fog rising from the snow and barreling north toward the tower, and the river.. and before either of those, toward your camp. You can see Briant and Bella scrambling from rest for the saddle and a chance to flee. Even from here, you can see Bella struggling in her waking confusion to find you and make sure  you  are safe. Briant, wakeful since your warning, throws her over his shoulder rather than negotiate with her in that condition. It may be just as well that he does, with the spectral orcs rapidly closing on the camp.

The ghost-knight gives no indication that he notices this, or intends to help, or could possibly do so. His interaction with you seems to be all the deviation from his vigil that he can muster. 
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 


It fascinated the former slave to stand this close to an apparently non-hostile specter, a ghostly apparition that allowed her to inspect its image without casting any judgement, scorn or violence. For Taalia's number-loving mind, having grown her own business and learned the precise art of forging firearms, what stood before her  should not be . It was an outgrowth of the supernatural, an entity with no physical manifestation in the real world yet capable of interacting with every bit of it should it desire when the conditions were conducive enough. Thus, the blade came gently into Taalia's waiting palms, the cool, ethereal steel kissing her skin with little wisps of turquoise vapor that disappeared into the atmosphere almost as quickly as they were generated.

Then there was that noise.

Turning her head about to discern the source of that ungodly racket, Taalia stepped towards the ramparts and stood between the crenels, hands to either side as she peered out across the light snow draped about the wood, scanning the interior. It did not take long for her excellent eyesight to detect the anomalous movement. The same otherworldly light emanating from the specter at her side was seemingly carried within a gaggle of lumbering, ape-like beasts shoving their way through the forest. Taalia's eyes widened in recognition: orcs!

Those hideous, green beasts she had the misfortune of witnessing during their passage through the mountains!

She shot a look back at the ghost beside her, but his impassive disinterest told her immediately that he would be of little use in this situation.

What if the orcs weren't real, what if they were ju -

The sword.

The specter had offered her the sword to fight off the ghostly orcs. Had she triggered their arrival by accepting its weapon? She had thought perhaps the specter desired her to lay it to rest in some nearby location, one it could not reach but desperately wanted to deposit its final connection to the physical realm so that it could pass into welcome eternal rest. But not so apparently - it was all a trap!

Then her heart froze - Belle and Briant! Thankfully she had warned Briant before this... foolish  distraction, but she felt guilt tug through her body anyway as she beckoned towards their tent.

 "Briant! Bella! Up here!"  she waved her arms about desperately in their direction.

She already had a sword on her hip from the haunted villa. That  should  prove capable of damaging any ghostly entity. The one in her hand was also of a similar breed, albeit more spirit-y in appearance. If Briant and her could hold the orcs at bay at a bottleneck, they should be able to withstand whatever examinator trap she had unwittingly sprung...
MrAbdiel
 Your voice is competing with the howl of the phantom greenskins, but you are a dark and distinct shape at the top of the glassy tower of baleful moonlight. You hear Bella cry out in recognition and point your way. She becomes more cooperative with Briant immediately and they scramble into Cleménce's saddle and get to hoof toward the tower. It's an oblique approach against the angle of the orcs' charge; and as you race down the smoking stairs and out into the snow. But they're too far, and you're too slow, and the orcs seem not only not impeded by the snow but somehow supernaturally accelerated sufficient to threaten the horse finding its stride. A smoking, ethereal axe of stone scythes overhead and cracks into Briant's shield just shy of finding Bella's back, and you grope for the ghostblade as spears thrust out toward the horse's flanks, and darkness engulfs the battlefield.

Your night eyes kick in a moment later in the dreadful silence that follows. The clouds have swallowed up the wicked moon and its profane light, and just like that the orcs are gone leaving only their smashed path of their footprints in the snow. Behind you, the the tower is just a ruin now; bereft of that strange echo. And on your hip, the given blade is gone entirely as if it had never been there.

 "Taalia!"  Bella almost launches herself from the horse to lay hands on you and be assured of your safety, and only then is she able to begin to settle down. Briant stands up in the saddle and scans about for some source of the trick.

 "...Tricks of Morr's moon,"  he speculates with a sigh.  "...Though deadly enough. Are you alright, Taalia? What did you see, up there?"  
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 

Words caught in Taalia's throat, her eyes wide as she had withdrawn the ghostly weapon in preparation to sell her life as best she could to allow Bella and Briant the chance to escape. She knew that deep down, the Bretonnian Knight would not allow a woman, a  foreign  woman of all things, to make the sacrifice for him. No no, his codes of chivalry demanded that  he  lay himself across the bed of nails so that the two ladies may escape. In a biological estimation, it made sense. Taalia and Bella could go on to sire 5-8 children each, while should the former slavish perish, that potential number of future people was cut in half.

But Taalia was not obeying current arithmetic. She drew the ghostly weapon, brought up her free hand to smack the horse sternly on the rump to expediate its flight only for....the orcs to vanish into the ether, from whence they came.

Left open eyed, poised to strike and ready to sell herself, the white-haired shepardess darted a look to and fro as her surroundings had been filled with spectral menace, to the gentle blanket of a peaceful nights snow. The breath in her lungs was cold while her skin was warm from sudden exhilaration, but as the shepardess lowered her weapon, she turned see that she actually held nothing in that appendage: the spirits were gone. She looked back up at the battlements of the fort, blinking and hoping to spot that lone figure, whether in his full, teal glory and as little more than a shadow whose presence was pale imitation of its former self, but nothing. No evidence was present of her interaction or tale to tell, if such a thing had even existed at all.

Turning back to Briant and hearing his question, his mixture of astonishment and curiosity almost equalling hers, Taalia looked back one more time to those ramparts to ensure that the apparition truly had moved on, before returning her gaze to him.

Swallowing, confused,  "let's go back..."  she gestured towards their tent.

 "I'll tell you all about it." 

And that's exactly what she did, with no detail spared.


OOC:
Btw, your PM box is full.
MrAbdiel
 Bella and Briant are appropriately spooked by the events you describe. Bella holds your hand, and Briant holds his shield in his lap, tracing the scar made by the ghost-weapon that glanced off it. Now the ghosts, hostile and idle, are gone; and so is any proof of their coming. The moon - the skaven name  Morskrit  keeps answering first when you think of it - peeks through the clouds again a few times that night, but it brings no strange happenings with it, but none of you sleep until the sun comes up to glow behind the thinned out cloud cover.

 "I think that is quite enough ghosts for one journey,"  Bella decides unilaterally as she bundles up a tent the day after, hunkering under a cloak that Briant has given her.  "I've decided we should have no more; atleast for a few days."
 

If only she was right.

 * * * * * 
There are fishing villages all up and down the river Brienne, but the jetty Brienne leads you to is a charming little thorp that makes Bella Collina seem like Altdorf. Six small cottages serve the families that live here on the Carcassonne side and a similar arrangement awaits on the Quenelles side. Several barges operate the crossing with small teams of big old drafthorses; a small group of knights might board one side and travel to the other, though the current will naturally pull them downriver as they do. The knights would ride off, and the team of drafts on that side would dutifully haul the barge back upriver. When you arrive, the barges are in service on the other side of the river, so your trio is forced to sit and wait for a little while. It's still cold, though the snow is melting, but the sky is clearing and gleaming on the river's fair surface. You soared over the rivers Rema and Tarano in Tilea, but this is probably wider; and different from a perspective like this.

Your mind wanders back to the steam near Bella Collina that you followed, first to the troll cave and then down to the goblin camp...


 
 Originally Posted by Years Ago 
 As you proceed, your paranoia peaks and drops. You have never been in a place less dangerous than this seems to be. Not so much as a large animal crosses your path; and the dark feathered songbirds in the trees seem to have little fear of you. They perch, and watch you, and whistle their opinions to each other. Perhaps they, like almost everyone else you have met in your life, have conspiracies of their own.

The stream winds, and widens a little, then narrows and continues narrowing; still definitely wide enough that it seems a bad idea to wade into the water as it runs. Fish with shining silver scales and slim rose-hued fins zip downstream past you, in threes and fours. You walk, keeping your wits about you; resting when you want to, keeping your own schedule. But soon the sun in the sky has made its move, progressing across the sky away from the length of the stream; and the sky begins to change colors. You have not seen a sunset in a long time; and you are reminded that one of the small virtues of the underempire is the all pervading warmth of the deep places of the earth. It will be night, soon; and with night, you know, comes cold; and likely a need for shelter. 
 

That was before Taalia; when you only had names given to you by slave masters, and a blurry memory of one given to you by people who loved you. You fished that stream with Gaulfredo and Vittorio several times, with Rocco snoozing amiably amidst you and in later occasions enduring the hyperactivity of Corvo.

The locals on this side of the water have a dog, too; a little black and grey 'Mirror Spaniel' called Hans by the Imperial pilgrim who left him with the locals on his way to Estalia to visit a holy site to Myrmidia. That was a year ago now, and though the locals haven't given up hope the owner will return, Hans has adapted happily to life on the banks of the Brienne. He is friendly and excitable, though he has a habit of spotting fish in the shallows and launching himself into the water under the forlorn supposition that he can catch them.

 
 Spoiler: Hans 
 
 


You are afforded a little time to do some fishing yourself, if only to repay the villagers for the simple fare they adoringly lavish upon Sir Briant and his fair companions.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
Bella can lend you her spare reel; so just for kicks, give me an Outdoor Survival roll at +20 to try to catch some fish. If you fail, Hans scares your fish away. If you nail it, maybe you get something special.
 


When the barge comes, Briant and the bargehands secure Cleménce in a stall for just such creatures while you pause to allow Milo a moment mew and bop at Hans's nose, before you turn to board...

It's been a while since you were on the water. The little dinghy in the canals of Miragliano didn't seem so bad; the safety of the buildings and the walls all around made it barely seem like a boat at all. But here, standing on the dock, preparing to submit yourself willingly to a bobbing deck of timbers and the current of the winter-cold waters... And for a sharp, disorienting second, you are back in a memory of the last time you made a similar crossing...


 
 Originally Posted by Many Years Ago, Made Worse By Nightmare 
  Hundrbrýtæ  was the word your captor used to describe you, in his foul language you never mastered; but you did not hear it used again, and so never understood it. Not a name for you, certainly. Meyla was what they called you; but they used the same name for all the young girl slaves. There was another like you, in the longship gliding back across the sea to the land of the savages. But when the cold set in on the way, and you and the handful of survivors from your village were shivering in silent desperation on the deck, she fell asleep, and never woke; her lips blue as the water out here. The sailors threw her body overboard, and that was the last you saw of her. 
 

That was crossing a sea, not a river; but your blood chills in your veins as your feet seem to rebel, rooting themselves to the dock.

Bella, attuned to you acutely, notices quickly.

 "Taalia? Taalia, what's wrong?" 
 
 Spoiler: OOC - Naviphobia 
Give me a WP test at -10%, or gain 2 IP and a panic attack. If successful, you experience anxious symptoms, but no mechanical obstruction and are able to remain rational.
 
 
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 

Though for most in the larger cities of Bretonnia the prospect of dwelling within the Brienne-side fishing village was the uncouth profession of rubes, Taalia found it quite relaxing. There was something about the rural air that she enjoyed, the peace and presence of the slower life that was marked by hard but honest labour. Sitting upon the grassy shores and watching the current move by, the shepardess found her mind wandering back to Tilea, and her adopted family within Bella Collina and its idealic tranquility. She had started off with so little and had acquired so much, yet in ways it wasn't the having that was the excitement and thrill - it was the getting. The gentle sway of the trees around her, the slow pace of the river, the grass between her fingers as she leaned back upon the gentle bank. Still carrying some of the hall-mark injuries from their fight with the possessed Lady Donallo, Taalia knew they were healing up just fine, but she could feel each crease against her body when she took on certain positions that caused her muscles to clench in retention.

It was a familiar pain, and not too unwelcome. After all, she had to be reminded of her limits some times.

It was when Bella suggested that they try fishing for themselves had Taalia jumped at the idea. The last time she had witnessed the practice had been Gaulfredo's demonstration on their first ever trip to the little Bella Collina market. What few words of Tilean she understood at the time had mostly been for the purpose of receiving her adopted fathers assurances that the men of Estalia were bastards and not to be trust - a memory that brought a smile to Taalia's lips when remembered. However, Gaulfredo had used a little trap that had been strategically placed at the mouth of a river chokepoint, its cunning position snaring several fish that were channeled right into its embrace by the current of the river. This? This reel and bait and hooks, it was all new to her. And it showed.

Bella was a patient teacher, but try as she might, it never could quite stick with her taller friend. Perhaps it was true, everyone had innate talents, and fishing was not one of hers.

 "If I do come from a fishing village up north, they'd all starve if they relied on me..."  Taalia snickered to her shorter friend, the two girls standing on the river bank, Bella's eventual frustration giving way to resigned amusement as she watched her companion cast the hook out with bait wriggling upon its talons, only to soon draw back in naught but an empty line.

However, fate seemed to have nothing but a sense of humor for the girl. Finally gathering a modicum of temporary ability for the practice, Taalia cast her line out into the river and held it in her gloved hands, the gentle movement of the stream in her ears and the birds sharing their songs amidst the trees.

 Tug! 

Taalia yanked. The line struggled, something fighting against it.

 "Bella - I got something!"  the much taller girl exclaimed, excited, her hands wrapping around the line and eagerly drawing it in. Through the mirror currents of the water the two could spot the emerging, blurred crimson mark of a red streak along the side of dark brown scales merging down to a pale underbelly. Its features became more defined and the fight drew fiercer still the closer it was drawn to the surface, before the shepardess was gawking wide-eyed at her catch, hauling it out of the water to hold it up triumphantly for all to see -

A black flash, a little canine  "Ruf!"  and the dog had snatched fish from her grasp and high-tailed it away, the furry little bandit panting heavily through lips and scales as it scurried off with its prize.

 "Hey! Hey you little devil - that's mine!"  Taalia barked, Bella laughing into her palms at her side as he watched the taller girl initiate chase, but give up such a hopeless cause only a few strides in.

 "Maybe he was hungrier than you?"  Bella offered through a blushing laugh behind her, reaching a hand up to rub it along Taalia's shoulder comfortingly. The white-blonde haired shepardess was not so amused, as she stood there glaring at the diminishing little black-furred shape of the thieving dog, wishing she could strike it down with a look alone as it fled with with evidence of her new-found mastery over this skill.

 "Little bastard. I hope he chokes!" 

Bella just snickered and laughed beside her.

When it came time to cross the river on the barge, Taalia  seemed  normal at first. She stood upon the banks in waiting with the others, dressed once more in her mail, helmet, shield, guns, sword, backpack, a traveling foreign mercenary perhaps to the uninitiated onlooker! But as the wooden structure of the vessel moved closer towards them, the pointed tip of its bow seemed to penetrate something within her thoughts, an intrusion she had long thought buried, memories that were from a lifetime ago of the cold sea spray of the Sea of Claws upon her face as fires within her town pockmarked the disappearing horizon, and those who could not endure the frigid environment were tossed overboard to doubtless wash-up on distant shores as markers of the Norscans cruel passing. As cold as they were beautiful, the blanket of stars above looked down pitilessly at the mixed fate of mortals, villainy rewarded and innocence punished.

 "Taalia?" 
 "Hey - Tarly?" 

A hand on her elbow. Taalia inhaled sharply, yanking her shoulder away, before blinkign away the past and seeing what was before her. Bella stood beside her, eyes widened with surprise, while the barge awaited only them to initiate its transfer, all others having loaded themselves upon it.

 "Oh...sorry, yes, sorry,"  the shepardess said weakly, offering a faded smile to her friend and reaching over with her hand to affectionately rub her forearm in physical apology, before slowly moving onto the wooden floor of the river-crosser. The tall girl moved immediately in a few long strides towards the railings, where her strong hands encircled the protective wooden poles and gripped them tightly, her feet apart as if braced for an impact that could throw her overboard. There, she stared into that water, a glazed look crossing her blue and green eyes as time seemed to wink past and all possible intrusions failed to get through.
 
"Oh - we're here already, that was quick!"  she piped up when the barge met the other side, her hands finally letting go as she hurried off the wooden floor of the vessel and back onto dry land, where she inhaled deeply, swallowing down fresh air and breathing it out, shaking her head and rolling her shoulders.
MrAbdiel
 The voyage across is blessedly uneventful, but the scattered clouds that had offered a light snow cover the previous day return with a vengeance, and progress on the road in Quenelles does not get very far before the sky swallows up the sun.

 "We do not have far to go to the city - but we can not go far like this!"  Briant explains, forced to yell over the howl of the wind.  "This is a blizzard coming on - we need shelter, for us and the animals. It will blow out before deep night, but if Cleménce panics and bolts..."  The knight is too stoic in the moment to grimace, but you and Bella know he left one of his steeds cleaved and murdered in the Iranna mountains with the bodies of the orcs that killed her. Even if he were over reacting some, there is little point proceeding in such weather, and he leads you back off the road south back toward the river.

It's no surprise that Briant knows grail chapels at many points on the road, and the knowledge serves you wall as you find the three of you packed into another humble stone edifice, with Cleménce settled in one corner and Milo perched on her back, batting at a lock of mane that stands up as if to challenge. All three of you spend the next couple of hours making jaunts out into the snow to find firewood before it can vanish into the white; enough to light the hearth in the little chapel and offer some warmth as you shelter. It's less beautiful than the last one; there is no stained glass image of the Lady gazing down. The stones here are bricks, more regular and square cut rather than stacked roughly and mortared. And the foundation is flat, strong, and composed of big graven stones that extend past the walls and vanish into the snow.

Your rations are thin but sufficient, and you pass the time in the glow of the hearth listening with Bella as Briant tells the stories he was told about the heroes of Bretonnia - Gilles the Uniter and his grail companions. Supposedly, Gilles was a blessed warrior of the province of Bastonne who inherited the crown of his tribe when his father died repelling invading orcs. But he was well suited to be a warrior-king, having already claimed fame slaying the giant red dragon Smearghus in his youth. His first two compnions were Thierulf of Lyoness, and Lord Landuin of Mousillon.

 "Landuin?"  Bella notes with amusement.  "My donkey's name was Landuin - how funny for my parents to name a donkey after a knight." 

There is a world in which that might be seen as low grade blasphemy, but Briant takes no offence.  "A noble name to ennoble even a simple animal. I hope he lived up to it." 

Bella's donkey was the only part of her family that did not mysteriously abandon her. She holds the little carved donkey in her hands and turns it over in her fingers - the one Signore Cestié kept, engraved with the name of his own donkey Lazlo - and she smiles a little.  "A very noble donkey indeed." 

Briant tells the story of the Fourth Great Battle the Grail Companions fought for the kingdom of Quenelles. They lifted the seige on the city, but discovered another orc army had set fire to the Forest of Loren and were hacking and burning through the aged boughs. The Fay dwell in the forest, the people of the mysterious sorceress known as the Fay Enchantress, and the dealings of those folk with men had not been good. But the bone-weary knights honored their vows and charged into the forest, doing battle in the night by firelight and the flash of steel. The Fay Enchantress joined the battle, and the enraged forest came to life and rose up against the orcs, fighting in league against the greenskins with the sons of Bretonnia. Thus, Quenelles was secured, and Gilles became friend to the Fay.

 "It is a tense friendship at times. But you will see when we get to Quenelles - there is no eastern wall, as the city butts up against the forest. The Fay protect from that way, and so the flank of the city with no wall is the safest of all." 

You sleep some, but you awake during Briant and Bella's watch. Your ears are good, and you note that the howl of winds outside have died well down, allowing you to hear clearly what woke you - Milo's plaintive yowling, clawing at the closed door of the chapel. The snowstorm has died down, but the kitten is as insistent about this as he was about the strange tower the night before  - and though the fire has gone low, your eyes pick out the stray greenish glow of the light of the demon-moon outside making itself known through the chimney over the hearth... 
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 

Having crossed, Taalia would take a moment to put a hand on Bella's shoulder, kissing her friend upon the cheek and whispering a soft   "sorry,"   for her odd behaviour. She was close to Bella. Perhaps closer than anyone living, even her adoptive parents. But she did not want to reveal or burden her with the grisly vestiges of her past that could foster a further cynicism within the Tilean girl, whom herself had already been the victim of life's depredations. Taalia had been taken from her family by force of arms, but Bella had been willingly relinquished.

Combining this with Briants further history lessons made Taalia think of a question that she wanted to ask the Knight, given how both well-read and travelled he seemed to be. In honesty, she felt slightly embarrassed that she had not thought to pose the inquiry to the man before, but given the loss of her adopted grandfather and the occultish mystery of Lord Donallo, it was relatively forgivable that such a question had slipped her mind. However, now was not the time to dwell on her missed opportunities!

Striding towards Milo, Taalia reached down and wrapped her hands gently about her pet and hauled him up to her chest/collarbone region, kissing his white furred head once and rubbing it against her cheek as she peered out through the fissures within the masonry cracks at the Witches Night that lay beyond the protective barriers of the holy place. Inhaling, exhaling, the girl swallowed and shook her head, counting that this was now the third evening that forced her and those around her indoors, as if physical barriers were the desired protection against the scornful eye of the Demon Moons gaze.

Moving back over to Briant and Bella, Taalia uttered a few words of caution, but she doubted she had to elaborate further to either companion. Briant would not have gotten this far were he a fool under such conditions, she imagined.

Sitting down with them in a little circle, the physical wards of their protection arrayed about them in the forms of guns and sharp steel, Taalia offered a reassuring smile to both and the words that they could rest tomorrow during the day if it meant that she could keep watch for the night. She knew the wicked and treacherous ways of the Demon Moon, she was not about to fall for any of its duplicity.
MrAbdiel
 Hunkering in the gloom with you, Briant and Bella are equally dissuaded from going out into the witchlight outside. Rest does not come to any one of you easilly, this night - though there is little opportunity for it.

The ghostly warcry comes again:
 "WaaAAAAaaghhh!" 

The ground does not shake with their footsteps, though you can here the mustering thunder of it outside. Though it is met with other sounds - the beat of hooves and the warcry of men, and the phantom clashing of steel outside in a battle long fought, and long lost. Still, there seems to be no compelling reason to venture out to see the full of it...

... Except a shift in weight on your hip, and the accompanying realization that the ghost-sword has chosen this moment to become real for you again, right where you left it. 
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 

Perhaps of the three, Taalia remained the most alert during the Demon Moon, though it was likely that Briant was just more casual in his demeanor and self-assurance. The knight had more than proven himself several times, with the scene replying in Taalia's head of swooping past his confrontation with the three orcs, the shot she put through the big ones head and the two remaining vicious brutes for the lone Bretonnian knight to contend with...which he evidently did, but not without cost.

And so when the ghostly sounds of battles long gone murmured and growled outside to the whine of spectral horses and slavering wolves, Taalia sat up right and - that sword! The weapon had returned, despite the distance traveled since that ghostly encounter! Would it always retain this property? Would it glow and emenate with spiritual light even if she crossed the border into the Empire?

Withdrawing the weapon from her sheath, viewing it with an astounded curiosity, Taalia's eyes moved over to Briant to try and gauge his thoughts on it.

 "See, Singore Briant?"  the girl whispered, her Breton getting better the more she spoke with the knight, holding it up for him to inspect, or even to take and peruse in his hands.
 
"This was the weapon the lonely ghost granted me upon the ramparts of that ruined fortress - it has now returned on this eve, of all nights. We should remain here, do not go outside; the devils of the night know many tricks to lure us into their reach." 

Taalia could still remember the sounds made within her house back upon her farm when she was sheltered in the barn with her pigs, workers and Bella. Initially believing someone was in her house, the girl had been  so  tempted to rush out and into her domain to protect it and what few possessions were in there, but the girl had known better, and her instincts were soon rewarded when nothing it was later revealed nothing physical had been within her abode. Another trick of the devils!
MrAbdiel
  "This is the blade..?"  Briant observes; reaching to touch it lightly in your grip, though he does not take it.  "Old... No crossguard on the hilt, see? Just a banded hilt. I wonder-" 
 Thump. 
 Thump thump thump! 

Urgent, angry banging on the door.

 "WaaaAAAgh uz nuk nuatuu! Waaagh!" 

"Blood of gods," Briant hisses and draws his own sword, snatching for his shield from the ground. "Bella, stay back - back with Cleménce!"

 Crunch! 

The ethereal blue corner of a monstrous great axe pierces through the chapel's door, throwing splinters of wood inward. Briant readies himself - it seems the door won't hold for long....

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
Roll initiative!

 (1d10+3)[ 5 ]  Ghost Orcs
 (1d10+4)[ 6 ]  Briant and Bella
 
 
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 

When the semi-transparent, bladed edge of an axe punched itself through the wooden barrier to the church, Taalia snapped her head around and reacted quickly. Reaching over for Clemence, she withdrew the short-sword she had gathered from the haunted villa back in Tilea, before tossing it to Briant.

 "Try this!"  she beckoned, as she moved forward with him, shield coming about from her back to be held in her arm, the ghost-weapon gripped in her free hand as she pressed her shield up against the door, using her weight and strength to keep the intruders at bay as best she could.


OOC:
______________________

Helping barricade the door as best she can, while warmed and ready.
MrAbdiel
 Briant takes the xiphos from you with a nod - giving its leaf-shaped blade a glance and a single test slice through the air behind him.  "Odd blade. Where did you-"
 
 Crunch! 

The top half of the door buckles in with a shower of splinters, and the snarling orc's spirit howls through it. It's hard to tell if he's a 'big' one; they all seem pretty big, the one's you've seen. This one is, or was, as tall as you, though its bulk is bulled forward into a hunch that must make it hard to look behind it, but also means its big bony skull takes impacts that would otherwise hit the trunk of its neck. It seems a positive defensive tradeoff for such brutes. The huge two handed 'axe' is barely an axe; the lumpen blade of iron at its top is so roughly sharpened it's almost a maul, but it's doing the job. And all of this, blade and warrior, rendered in that transluscent blue bleeding through the grim greenish light of the demon moon in the sky; and the rampage of orcs, and ancient knights making war beyond...

 
 Spoiler: OOC: Waaaugh! 
Taalia's up first. As of the moment, half the door is still in tact, so blows from either side of the combat that hit the legs migrate up to the body.
 
 
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 

Taalia felt the steel build within her when the ugly, porcine skull-head of the orc shoved its skull through the top of the door, splintering wood and planks where the translucent axe bit through.

Her shield up before her, Taalia gritted her teeth and stabbed out with the ghostly weapon in her hand, slicing it forward at the exposed, snarling, massive-jawed pig-like face of the orc...
MrAbdiel
 The ghostly orc bellows and reels away from the door, ripping his axe from the frame and splintering much of the wooden remnants as he totters back. The ghostsword feels good in your hand, and you find it shears through the 'armor' the beast is wearing with incredible ease...

 
 Spoiler: OOC: Take that! 
The Ghost Sword ignores armor on Ethereal targets.
 


Briant launches himself through the gap to follow up on the retreating target, before it can regroup, and standing in the doorframe you can now see the scene for what it is.

The demon moon is full tonight, and the whole snow-covered plain basks in its malefic glow. The spirits of ancient Bretonni and their orcish attackers make war everywhere around you. The Chapel seems to be built on the foundation of another watchtower fort like the one on the other side of the river - this one must have been rendered to nothing, its stones carted off for one project or another and some here reused to make the grail chapel. But the ghostly echo of it stands here, rising up high above you with its footprint completely engulfing the grail chapel inside. At its top, a blazing watchfire warns other towers around of the attack underway; and you can see the matching fire in the ghost-knight's own tower across the river.

But more than that, you see what stands out in the scene of ghostly chaos: a woman in simple clothes, her hair covered, a young child in her arms, pressed to the side of the watchtower as warriors around her fight, kill, and die. Her eyes are on the river, and the far watchtower. At once you recognize the familiar distance in her gaze - the same in the eyes of the ghost you met prior. He looks toward her tower, and she looks towards his; he waits idly, even as destruction comes on, for a sign that she might be coming, and perhaps together they might... escape, or die together, or something superior to dying apart.

It's clear to you immediately that the woman and her child must have died here. In a matter of moments, the nearest orc to her - a ghostly monster of a greenskin with huge shoulders and a helm with beastmen horns worked in - is going to overwhelm the wounded ghostly knight defending her and will cut her down. How many times has this pitiful tragedy played out in lonely, empty nights to the amusement of the wicked skies? But here, in your hands, is an opportunity to permit the unwelcome play of history to resolve in a somewhat more fitting way - and perhaps that is valuable to ghosts, in their unreal lives. It's almost certainly the reason the blade was put in your hands.

Briant is an experienced orcfighter; he will be able to defeat the one you wounded and guard the chapel and Bella within it, now that you've armed him with the xiphos. But unless you attack now, and cut the way for this doomed ghostly mother and child toward the river, the scene will resolve as it must have for hundreds of years.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
You are within charge range of the wounded orc threatening Briant - but also within charge range of the horn-helmed orc who poses an imminent threat to the ghost maiden and her child. Both orcs are already engaged, so whichever you choose to attack (if any) you get an additional +10% for outnumbering.
 
 
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 


Even simply looking outside of the protective barriers of the decrepit church gave Taalia a chill down her spine, as years of heavily ingratiated 'do not gaze upon the Demon Moon or its shadow!' fought against her peering through the splintered fissure created by the orcs crude hewing of the chapel door. Yet...Taalia did so. She could hear the pandemonium, the ghostly call to battle and struggle of beings dying and hacking at each other to such a degree that her curiosity refused to be satiated or remain quiet, and what the girl saw conjured memories.

Taalia could still recall marching in formation a year or so ago, the only female out of dozens and dozens of citizens of Bella Collina and the surrounding hamlets, marching in square formation towards the dread pirates armed with gunpowder and cannon. She had been in fights before that, against the troll, the mutants and an ambush upon the buccaneers themselves when they walked into an ambush, but never in  that way . Battles were chaos. Chaos and violence. Yet the anarchy had a direction, a plan almost, as there was no individual man upon the field who would slash and bellow and draw victory upon himself and others. No no, the battlefield was the theatre of  teams , regiments and coordination. Taalia had learned as such when she stood shoulder to shoulder with full grown men as they advanced upon the pirate numbers threatening their beloved town, to her right a full grown man with many years under his belt and to her left an even older man who probably had children her own age - and yet there she had been, the only woman upon the field against the raiders. Well, save Squire Scudiera, who had thrown dirty, low-key jealous glances her way when Taalia had gained a piece of smiling affection from Cavaliere.

But it was that experience that was dredged upon from her mind when she viewed the spectral battlefield before her, as ranks of ghostly men speared and held at bay the baying hordes of orcs that sought any entry from whence they could inflict damage and carnage. The greenskins desperately tried to batter away the polearms wielded by the Bretonni, while the men kept the beasts at a distance in preparation for the doubtlessly brutal charge of their liege of masters, the Knights of the Realm.

Yet it was within that bedlam that Taalia spotted the lonely maiden, babe held to her chest and vulnerability all to clear as the ghastly orc nob reared its fang-filled maw in bellowing brutality behind her, orc choppa gripped in a green hamfist and hurtling towards the helpless woman as a familiar, ghostly figure could only look upon the scene with resigned melancholy. To be forced to re-live such a horrifying moment ever year, decade after decade, century after century...their presence alone spoke of some existence after death, some judgement that awaited them all to weigh their deeds, thoughts and actions in accordance with a morality that Taalia hoped she was following. But she knew she had to intervene, to at least  try  and end the cycle.

Seeing Briant was dealing with the orc that bore the "bloody" wound upon its ugly, porcine face from Taalia's stab, the shepardess surged forward, trusting the man to look after himself as she hurtled towards the choppa-wielding orc that threatened mother and child, her own weapon raising back to bring it skewering through the brutes huge bulk in hopes of undoing the inevitable...
MrAbdiel
 The massive orc brute is taken aback by the effectiveness of the blow. A simple one handed thrust and the ghostly metal seems to almost leap deeper into the the greekskin's ethereal corpus. Aborting his killing blow, the orc steps back, looks at you with beady eyes, and then fades to vapor.

The rules of this spectral recurrence are not clear. Perhaps you have 'killed' this ghost. Perhaps being so comprehensively impeded has knocked it 'off centre', and that is enough. All that is clear is that he would have killed the woman, and the woman has been spared, and she starts to run as fast as she dares carrying her child. She does not spare you a glance - it seems she cannot detect you at all - but takes the opening made available to her to race toward the river. The spectres making combat in that direction are weaker in color than those closer to the ruin. The scene seems to 'fade out' halfway to the water, as if there is only so much strength holding the trauma of the dead close enough to the land of the living for this to take place. Perhaps there was a boat waiting for the woman in her day; there is nothing now, but she races as though her salvation lay beyond the faded edge of oblivion.

You keep pace with her and she loses luminescence as she nears her goal, but though she does not seem to perceive you, the orcs certainly do - an unfair kind of dream logic that puts you squarely between two of the closing brutes and the fleeing maiden. If you can hold them back a little longer...

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
Two orcs charge Taalia!

She has to run to keep up with the maiden, so they intercept her with a +10 for charging and +20 for her running. They charge more or less at the same time, so we'll forgo outnumbering for now.

   GhostOrc1vs65  - (1d100)[ 83 ]  for  (1d10+4)[ 12 ]  
  GhostOrc2vs65  - (1d100)[ 25 ]  for  (1d10+4)[ 10 ]  (left arm!)

Successful hits will require dodges and parries, before they can be replied to!
 
 
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 

It was easy to get lost in the moment, as the world around her became a back-and-forth sea of turquoise and shimmering, ghostly vapor. The long-gone spirits of men and orcs stabbed and speared one another, the sounds of death long repeated being iterated one more time and with a mortal participant. Ducking and weaving as she pursued the lone woman, the unarmed and vulnerable maiden become the focal point of the shepardess' attention as all else seemed irrelevant in the face of evidence for life after death - for what was her current mortal coil if a genuine afterlife awaited her in judgement of her decency?

Two orcs thundered forward. The riverbanks sparkled to Taalia's side beneath the Demon Moons emanations, the once verdant-green of the waterfront beckoning the spirit forward into half-visibility as the shepardess brought her ghostly weapon about to smatter away the powerful, overhead blow of one of the orcs that had rushed towards her with its ape-like locomotion, its companion swinging so wildly she did barely had to move in order to evade the lethal trajectory of its weapon...
MrAbdiel
 The ghostblade turns aside the deceased orc's huge weapon. The orc has mass and power over you, but whatever rules of life and living the spirit is entitled to ignore, the principles of leverage are not among them. That's something you came to understand intuitively in Rashabang's workshop and academically in Cestie's experimentation; it's natural to start to embody the notion with your burgeoning combat experience, and the formal lessons from knights that catalyse your knowledge into skill.  With the orc's arm extended for the downward blow, with a backward step, you meet all its force and mass at the extreme of its reach with a lateral parry near your sword's grip. A chopping strike that could have split your skull in half now shifts to your left, glances further off your shield, and suddenly the brute's force is two feet off centre from where his footing expects it to be. If you were facing one opponent only, you could have brought the sword around and chopped into the top of its neck, ending the fight there and then. But there's two of them, and one of you; and you learned another lesson on defense as a child growing up in dark warrens full of jealous and miserable slaves and slavers.

 Don't stop moving. 

You keep moving backwards and right so the beasts get in each other's way as they try to get at you, and can't easily strike with their preferred hands. Return strikes become available, and you take them where you can, leaving glowing lacerations on both creatures that do not bleed, but cause the membrane of their being to distend and flutter like torn spiderweb. They are enraged, and undeterred; but at least you have their attention.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
Last round of attacks from the orcs. After this, they fade out. All Taalia needs to do is survive! Swift attacks from both, with +10 included for outnumbering.

  Orc1vs45  - (1d100)[ 88 ]  for  (1d10+4)[ 13 ] .
  Orc1vs45  - (1d100)[ 70 ]  for  (1d10+4)[ 14 ] .
  Orc2vs45  - (1d100)[ 100 ]  for  (1d10+4)[ 6 ] .
  Orc2vs45  - (1d100)[ 67 ]  for  (1d10+4)[ 6 ] .

I'll make an additional post for the wrap up, after damage is taken/avoided.

EDIT: Damn, abject failure. Well, I'll edit in the addendum here...
 


And their rage avails them little. You spare a glance to the maiden over your shoulder just in time to see her vanish entirely, fleeing past the limits of her stay in this world and fading into the beyond. As she does, the great spectral fires in the paired watchtowers flash and wink out, and the ghostly light leaves the battlefield. With it goes the ghosts, drifting apart like melting snow in an unseen stream over a handful of seconds until it's just you, and Briant a little ways off, catching your breath in the light of the demon moon.

 "They're gone...? Like last time. But..."  The young knight glances up at the sky. No cloud cover, tonight; the blizzard melted the clouds away long before. Looking down at your empty hand, the ghost blade gone once more, your instinct tells you this time, this play of spirits and anguish was not interrupted, as much as satisfied.

You remain on guard, but the ghosts do not return - atleast not that night. Your party has escaped unscathed, and despite the rough barricade you and the others are forced to put up where the door once was, the next few hours of sleep you manage to get in that chapel are some of the most comfortable and restful you've ever had. Does the Lady bless the valorous - even for the sake of the dead, and for those dead who perished before she revealed herself to Gilles the Uniter? Maybe so. But at the very least, the sensation that you were tasked with something noble, and fulfilled that charge, remains with you for days to come.

Then you dream of Appletree, and the visiting Bretonnian knight who fought there when it was put to flame - and presumably died, trying to ensure some made it out alive from the hellfire and carnage brought by the northmen.


 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
Gain 100XP!

You're almost at Castle Quenelles. Before we get there, during the next day of travel, give me a +0 Hearing based Perception Check.
 
 
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 


Taalia battered away the down-ward cleave of the orcs weapon, its crude weight giving it an effective power, but one she managed to glance off of her shield. The girl was getting better at this, she knew, though for obvious reasons could not dwell upon. Though eclectic in her training and education on the matter, Taalia was a capable combatant, with her statuesque mixture of height, agility and endurance allowing her to stand shoulder to shoulder with men, who had an obvious upper-body advantage.

But against orcs? Even the shadowy imitations of those long dead? Taalia had never imagined, or hoped, that such a thing would occur. Yet here she was, gritting her teeth, shifting her feet to help angle away the orcs blow, exposing its arm, shoulder and flank to her ghostly blade that she brought about and stabbed into its side –

Until everything faded away.

The woman had made it to safety…she  thought . The shepardess shot a glance back up at the tower walkways, her keen eyes searching for the grim, lonesome figure of the long-gone sentinel, but no trace was found.

Had they broken the curse? Had she, Briant and Bella finally brought an end to the tortuous cycle that played out once a year like some eternal limbo? Something told the girl they had, something deep within her where the spirit was perhaps spread throughout the body, that they had brought a modicum of rest to the ancient Bretonni that had fallen in these fields. Or, perhaps, to the only one whose consciousness remained, his vigilance once a duty but now a curse, one that they had lifted by offering their mortal coil to assist the lone woman and her child, allowing her to re-unite with her partner in the next lifetime.

Taalia spoke quietly with Briant and Bella as they shot each other questions and posed theories, but the shepardess rested well as the soul seemed warmed by the deed they had done. Even though her dreams contained memories she wished were not true, they reminded her that she had been surprisingly lax when traveling with a possible font of knowledge on the matter.

And so, when they were back upon the road and traveling towards Castle Quenelles, the shepardess would speak to Briant with her gentle, sonorous tone.

 “Sir Briant?”  she would ask cautiously.

 “From what lands do you think I hail?”  

This would be followed up by a description of the Bretonnian Knight she could remember, as well as the details of the device upon his shield and colors that he wore. Taalia had come to learn that these were important identifiers in the land of Chivalry. Perhaps it was a worthwhile lead?
MrAbdiel
 Briant seems a little baffled by the question - perhaps mostly because of the sincerity with which it is asked of him, of all people - but he listens genuinely as you try to dredge up details in your vision of the knight. You remember the massive two handed sword on his back; at the time, it seemed like the biggest sword possible. Now with your stature, you consider that you could probably wield such a weapon comfortably enough. You remember halved fields of black and white on his tabard. You remember many Fleur de Lys worked into his armor and gear; a symbol of a gold grail on vambrace, with a stemless gold cup beneath it, into which the content of the grail was spilling.

All three of you in the saddle, Briant on Cleménce and you and Bella on riding horses the knight effortlessly wrangled on loan from the last village, you are able to have the conversation eye to eye with Briant on account of your less glorious steed.

 "Well, black and white are ducal colors for two places. The duchy of Brionne ..." , he thumbs back over his shoulder along the bank of the river Brienne, westward.  "If you were to follow the river all the way to the bay, you would have Brionne on your north face and Bilbalian Estalia on your south. But the halving of black and white in panels is more like Montfort..."  He gestures north, aside the line of the approaching forest of Loren and into the distant mountains in the northern horizon.  "Montfort is, ah... Frankly, it's Parravon's poor cousin. Parravon south of the pass to Sigmar's land; Montfort north. The Fleur de Lys, well... Those are everywhere in Bretonnian heraldry, so I fear there is no help there. The greatsword suggests he was a questing knight. When knights take up the quest for the grail, they put aside the lance and take up the sword, often the great sword. A knight errant would likely be bearing his shield, lance, and arming sword. A knight of the realm also, but they would not be so far from home as often as other tiers of knight. And a grail knight... well. You would know, if you had met a grail knight. You can tell. Everyone can tell." 

The western face of the curtain wall (or 'enceinte' as Briant prefers) rises grand and fair in the distance. You can just pick out the great blue banners, and the unicorn iconography of Quenelles flying proudly. A pair of dark songbirds flit by your ear, and chase each other off into the sky. You like to imagine they are the ones that hatched in the structure of Cestié's flying machine, but of course you can't know that for sure.

 "The grail and cup, though. That may be something. The gold grail is obvious, but the gold cup is something. Nobility use silver for cups, knives, forks... Silver is the noblest metal, even if it is not the most expensive. Merchants use glass or gold for their dining ware... I would take the grail pouring into the cup to mean the knight's family sprang from peasant-merchant origins, and received noble title from the King. That may be any number of generations back, but it is a distinct enough feature of a line to spring from that perhaps someone more familiar with Montfort's courts directly would know it. If you suspicion is connection to the Wasteland, that would fit; Montfort does a decent amount of trade and needling
 into the Wasteland; Marienburg is more concerned with the border with Couronne than such small efforts." 

That's something go off - more than you've had before. If you are going through Axe Bite Pass, you will be going by Castle Montfort near enough that you might even swing by and ask some questions without deviating too much from your destination. But a sound your finely tuned ears pick up snatches you away from your own thoughts. It's off the road, past a tall clutch of grass and under an overhang of tree roots from a scrubby little fig tree whose earthen base had been dug away by some animal. It's a voice - a soft voice.

A child's voice.

Upon closer inspection, a baby's voice.

The swaddled child lies under the cover of the fig's roots, sheltered from the surrounding snow, but not particularly sheltered from the cold. It is crying softly. Initially, you take this to be mild distress; but the babe is shivering and softly moaning such that you can only conclude it has wept its lungs raw out here all through the night and is now at the point of exhaustion. There are no tracks in the  overnight snow - someone abandoned, or hid this child here last night and never came back for them. Left much longer, the child would certainly die. It may still. It had to have been after the blizzard had quieted down, but before it had burned itself out completely.

Who would do such a thing? 
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 

There was a simple and base enjoyment to be had in discussing the devices and iconography of Bretonnia and its connection the lay of the land, particularly as it she was personally related to the topic. As she sat atop her riding horse, periodically leaning forward to rub the beast behind the ear, Taalia smiled and listened and asked the odd question, but otherwise found herself happy in conversation as the snow-touched fields rolled out across them. So far, during her entire time within the realm, Taalia had relied on Bella for translation duties, which had created something of a barrier between herself and the natives around her, such as Briant. But now that she was coming along with the language and could hold relatively moderate conversations, she was able speak with more ease and enjoy his company further. Who would have thought that something so rudimentary would be so pleasant, as the Shepardess learned more about the culture of the Land of Chivalry and received several clues as to where she herself might have originated from.

The Wasteland. Terra desolata.

 "I might be from a wasteland, Bella,"  Taalia leaned her head back to peer at her friend over the back of the taller destrier that Briant was upon, the shepardess' mouth in a cheeky grin.

 "That makes sense, doesn't it? Hehe!"  she giggled in self-depreciating humour, while dwelling on it more within the privacy of her own head. The Wasteland. It didn't sound particularly pleasant, and yet for such a grim and foreboding name, Taalia could only remember greenery and her parents apple orchard and cider production, while the village subsisted considerably off of fish drawn in from the adjacent waves, the ones that had borne aloft the wretched Norscans. It was in that moment that Taalia knew she would need to try and find a large map of Bretonnia and the Empire, to try and discern where this 'Wasteland' was. And if what Briant said about their journey was true, the shepardess would have the opportunity.

Of course, in regards to language, Taalia still  thought  in Queekish. That would perhaps be a permanent legacy of the rat-men, something from which she could never escape. To them, the term 'Wasteland' could be pictured in their scrawled, hasty writings, but she didn't wish to spoil the pleasant afternoon by bringing words from that foul language into the air.

Abruptly, the sounds of a babe's wail yanked Taalia back into the present. Blinking and turning her head about, the shepardess quickly spotted a small pile of wriggling clothes nestled within the exposed roots of a fig tree. Without hesitating, her eyes open in shock for half a moment, Taalia dismounted the horse and hurried over - but paused. Apprehension and warning stayed her hand as she came to a dead stop just ten or so feet from the sobbing child, as Taalia now shot her gaze to the surrounding trees in search for any sign of an ambush or trap in the making. Afterall, how would such a child come to be here?

Then she remembered the fate of their Road Warden, Bert, and the way that the Demons Moon had seemingly cloned him. Had it also produced this child, wrapped in linen and deposited it here for some poor traveler to take pity on the babe and bring it home, only for years to go by until the true horror was revealed?

Unable to spot any ambush or trap, Taalia nevertheless withdrew her firearm and held it ready to loose a shot. Crouching, she carefully approached the child, eyes on it for several seconds, before scanning the tree's once again, then eyes back on the babe...
MrAbdiel
 Briant keeps his eyes on the road as he awaits the fruits of your investigation. Bella is dismounted and halfway to you before she detects your wary posture and holds from completing her journey, lending her eyes to the surrounds as well.

There are small clusters of trees in the snow along the banks of the Brienne, but no big blocks of forest to hide an ambush. Indeed, most of the tree cover west of the Quenelles seems to have been cleared of lumber on account of everything east of it being sacred and forbidden.

Closer inspection of the child suggests only that it is miserably cold and suffering badly. It must certainly be starving for its mother's milk, not to mention warmth; but having given its best cries to the pitiless night air before it has little left. Its cheeks gleam with the frost-touched tracks of countless tears.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: Perception (+20, Visual) 
You see no signs of ambush here; no where for anyone to hide.
 

 
 Spoiler: OOC: Perception (+20, Smell) 
You get none of that ozone tang of magic afoot in the area.
 
 
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 

For several long moments, Taalia remained sill as her keen eyes scanned the surrounding trees, searching for any trace or hint of movement that would betray the presence of one laying in wait for a gullible traveler to take the irresistible bait.

Nothing.

Just the rustle of naked branches and the small compression of snow beneath her boots, and the sobbing of that wrapped up child.

Her caution satisfied, Taalia continued forward, though still on guard. When she drew close enough to the child, her hetereochromia eyes fell upon the screaming infant, sympathy and maternal care immediately rushing into her orbs as her mouth opened gently in surprise and concern. Shouldering her firearm, Taalia reached down, her hands moving underneath the mass of clothes as she clucked her tongue gently at the infant, her sonorous and smoky voice doing its best to sound soothing as she held the child up and to her chest, kissing it upon its naked forehead and rubbing her nose against its own.

 "Bella - Bella!"  Taalia spoke, turning about to face her friend.
MrAbdiel
  "Miei dèi!" 

Bella flies to your side and goes through the same roil of panic and hope and panic again.

 "La cara bambina!" 

You create a little island of warmth between you for the shivering tot. It settles almost immediately with the human contact and kindness, and warmth. Briant is just as startled when you bring the child back and he can see. You see him grimace as he suspends his kindness to ask the necessary question.

 "Is it... mutated?" 

With due haste and care, you and Bella look over the child. Bella was right - a little baby girl. Bella rips up some scrap cloth she has been using to bandage you from her bag to clean it and reswaddle it - she has been sitting in her faintly greenish-yellow leavings presumably all night, and has developed a rash as the least of her problems. Seeing the color, Briant gives a worried look, but only reveals how little he has dealt with children of this age. There is no sign of mutation to be found.

 "It's normal enough, Sir Briant; she would need something much stranger than this to qualify as a mutant."  Bella assures, as she secures the bundled babe and you set Milo gently atop the swaddle to add his disinterested warmth.  "She's very young - though the green means only she hasn't been feeding from the pap properly even before this. What could she be doing out here...?" 

The knight shakes his head in wonderment.  "I don't know. I would have guessed an ambush, and a mother hiding the child, but there is no sign and it would be madness so close to the city. Maybe a... kidnapping, with the kidnappers fleeing the city by night and hiding the child as they gave up? It's a wonder she made the night, and no animal-" 
 "Stop, stop!"  It's Bella's turn to grimace at the prospect and she shakes her head to dispel the very notion. With a little help, she's back in the saddle holding the little girl in a blanket to the warmth of her chest, with Milo on top for good measure. You don't need to communicate it, but naturally keeping your hands free to deal with the unknown is the logical choice.

 "At least the city is so close - maybe we can find her a wet nurse before it's too late." 
 * * * * * 
Castle Quenelles and its surrounding fortress city have some of the same quietly elvishly-informed achitecture sensibilites you recall from great cities like Remas and Miragliano, but moreso. The castle itself is set towards the north of the city and is surprising modest all things considered, but features elaborate soaring parapets instead of the fashionable 'leaning towers' like the one you were imprisoned in. There is a roundness to the turrets and towers that makes them seem grander, somehow.

Getting into the city is easy enough. There is a small line of early arrivals - mostly pilgrims come to stand on the eastern road and gaze into the Fay forest. But Briant is the only knight at the time of your arrival, and everyone stands aside on principle. There's no toll for you as part of his entourage here, though you and Bella are both looked on like you have horns growing from your heads. You are foreign women with uncovered hair wearing men's clothing - pants - and armor. Being foreign is the only thing that makes you objects of curiousity, rather than criminals.

There are far fewer beggars and paupers here in the city than any city you've been in elsewhere. You must assume the indigent are driven out to the outlying towns and villages where they are the burden of local elders rather than the city. What you understand of the local political structure is that the line between peasant and noble is much sharper and more demanding than simple wealth and the pretence of sophistication one requires to advance in Tilea. The peasant class is absolutely subject to the noble class, here. In return, the nobles are expected to provide robust protection for the people. Given the problems they seem to have with orcs, the fact that there are people here at all must mean they are getting  some  value out of that transaction.

You have other goals in the city, but the first priority for your group is naturally welfare of the child. Briant, with his local authority, takes the fore, and walks straight to the first building he sees with a decent hope for warmth - a little house inside the gate with a healthy plume of smoke rising from the chimney. A stocky local farrier and his wiry apprentice are a little startled at this intrusion, but can only welcome you all into the home behind his anvil where his redhaired wife is first shocked, then pleased to have company.

 "Ooh! The poor little one!"  She fusses, turning away from the puzzling task of carving little faces into turnips to receive you and give deference to the knight.  "Well, it's nice and warm in here, certainly, chevalier; I can send on of the apprentice to fetch fresh sheep's milk..." 

Bella doesn't like the option - the baby is far too young for that to have much hope, but without a wet nurse, the only options left are the forlorn ones. She takes a simple wooden seat by the fire, and lets the child bask in the warmth, atleast.  "Briant, where can we find a wet nurse..?" 

The knight purses his lips.  "Women so dedicated I may find in the castle - I must go there directly to inform the Duke's household I am passing through, and for... another reason. If I find one there, I will send her directly. But you are likely to find a nursing woman closer by - one not moved first by pity might be moved by a few coins. But I will be back as soon as I can." 

The farrier's wife - her name is Irenna, her husband Gregor - has only recently moved to the city with her husband by request of their lord who has given them over to ply their craft to knights coming and going near the gate. With no special insights into where to find and negotiate for a mercenary breast, with Bella minding the child's immediate care and Briant duty bound to first attend the castle, it falls to you, in this strange new place, to see what you can do. But you have always been quite good in new circumstances, and haggling for nursing services feels like it ought to be the same as haggling for any service...

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
It's Gossip time. Feel free to weave any interest you might have for finding in the city while you're at it - I'll bundle that into the roll for no charge.

Normally this roll would be at +20, but you're taking a cumulative penality of -30 from...
1. Dressing in man's clothes in defiance of custom
2. Dressing in armor in defiance of custom
3. Being foreign (can't be helped).

With those at -10 each, you're looking at a total of a -10% Gossip roll. If you beat it by a margin of 2 or more degrees, you will super-duper succeed.
 
 
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 
  
 With immediate security assured, Taalia took the time to indulge the little infant, handing it over to Bella as the other girl desired and remaining a constant over-the-shoulder shadow. Briant's concern for mutation was an importance the girl had not consideredd, which might be surprising given her regular exposure to its deleterious effects both within the halls of the ratmen and on the surface since her escape. But, thankfully, the little babe had no such profanities etched upon her skin nor carried any other visible malediction. No ambush. No mutation...

"Perhaps a married woman covering up an infidelity? Or a father hiding the family's secret brought about by a promiscuous teenage daughter?"

Whatever the case, the little girl was fine, and Taalia could tell that both she and Bella felt an affinity towards the poor little thing, by different backgrounds but the same unifying reason. The shepardess didn't have to be a rocket science to connect her friends deeper concern for the girl, seeing in her a much younger version of herself, her infantile age perhpas sparing her the pain that would have come if her parents had chosen to abandoned her as a young adult...as had happened to Bella. Likewise, Taalia felt her heart pulled towards the tot for similar causes, her own separation from her origins being forced upon her by outsiders, but happening nonetheless.

Indeed, Bella's visible distress at Briant's proposed grim fates that could have befallen the infant spoke to Taalia's instincts over her friends connection, as the taller and, doubtlessly, more 'desensitized' shepardess remained close to her friend and their new, vulnerable charge on the way to Castle Quenelles.

However, what Taalia did  not  consider due to her ignorance of Bretonnian culture, both national and regional, was the possibility that this girl had been left out for the inhabitants of the Athel Loren to discover.

 oOo 
The group pressed through the snow-capped forest and soon entered the beautiful, white-glistening fields that surrounded Castle Quenelles. A creation of simple beauty, Taalia thought, it had that touch of elven design that she was still able to detect and pick out from the imagination of human creation, as the angles and pointed, conical tower peaks rose like elegant fingers high into the air around the deep walls and surrounding city of the Duccal capital. But it was something else behind that veneer that truly stood out to the shepardess when she saw how easily Briants station granted them entrance, the way peasants and traffic would swiftly make way for the mans passing that troubled her about this ostensibly beautiful land: the social hierarchy. Now, Taalia was not, as one might imagine, averse to social order. Indeed, the slavery of the Skaven had left its mark on her mind, but she instinctually felt that some type of social propriety was needed, but the further she delved into this land of chivalry the more grateful she became that it was Tilea in which she had re-emerged into the world. In that sun-kissed, passionate land of beauty and farming, man was relatively free to go about his day and master his own destiny. There were the misfortunes of life, of course, and some were more capable or motivated than others, but had Taalia returned to the surface in a village within Bretonnia, could she have accomplished what she had created in Tilea? From her modest little flock of sheep she had proven the savvy and very hard-working businesswoman and, despite her youth, she had gone so far as to acquire a vote in the Verazzo senate. Though some may pity her for having spent so long beneath the lash of the rat-men, and indeed it was an unpleasant experience, but perhaps it was a dark little irony that the slavish work ethic Taalia exhibited that had gotten her so far, was another of the marks the Skaven had left on her psyche. But...had she joined mankind once more in the lands of Bretonnia, she dreaded to think that that same drive and moxy would have simply filled the coffers of some local lord, rather than her own and, by extension, denying her fellow community members of the jobs and wealth that would have been generated. A rising tide lifted all boats, after all.

Who knew. Things went the way they went, and thankfully it was Tilea where she had gained freedom, as she watched Briant so effortlessly commandeer a house belonging to a couple who had been 'requisitioned' or passed off from one lord to another. Taalia, for her part, though Briant was a gentle man in his dealings, looked visibly troubled by how easily people could be bossed around and traded as if they themselves were livestock. Would the Empire be any better? Was this 'Wasteland', where conjecture suggests was her place of origin?

 "Grazie mille, thank you very much for your use of your home and hearth, you show great kindness to strangers and the vulnerable,"  Taalia would say to Irenna and Gregor, making sure to thank them personally for what they were doing, and to show them some recognition for the imposition they had placed upon them, seemingly from a lofty place of authority.

But, it would take more than friendly gratitude to help her now, Taalia realised. Briant had duties... somewhere  within the castle-town. Bella, meanwhile, was understandably absorbed with care towards the infant. That just left her, the shepardess, former slave and gun-carrying, armor wearing foreign woman who still thought in Queekish, to brave a new, alien town where she could try to find a wet nurse that could provide the infant with what she needed.

Did Taalia stand out?

Like a dogs funstick.

A head taller than even the men, her proportionate stature visibly athletic and covered in mail armor, her hetereochromia blue-or-green eyes peering out from beneath a steel helm atop her white-blonde head, she had her firearm over one shoulder, a shield across her back, two pistols on her hip and a sword too. But there were other small details that assisted with the demarcation of her from the common populace, to the quality of her black riding boots, the beautifully made pouches and leather belt around her trim waist and the scars on her otherwise pleasant features. To say that she did not look like she fit in was something of an understatement, and it showed. When she ventured out into the crowds of the castle town, Taalia could feel the eyes on her. She had not experienced such a sensation since the first time her tall, lanky self had wandered into the markets of Bella Collina, only to be surrounded by children that wished to be hoisted high, high, high into the air and spun about. But, there was no such welcoming committee of anklebiters, there were only stares and hushed whispers. Where-ever Taalia moved, people got out of the way, and they stared. Foreigners were not uncommon, but ones of her unusual combination of traits made her a striking and eye-catching figure indeed, and the effects were soon felt.

 "Well met, I encountered an abandoned infant on the road into your beautiful town and am in need of the services of a wet nurse, do you know where I can find one?" 
 "Bonjour, the Lady bless, my traveling companion has a child who needs a wet nurse, if you are so kind, where may I find one?" 
 "Bonjour, Lady Bless, may you please direct me to the Maison Dieu?" 

Nothing. Nadda. Scratch. Taalia showed none of the timidity of the local Bretonnian women, their manners of social etiquette lost on her, causing teh tall girl to simple approach when she thought polite, smile and ask her question, all to receive blank stares, slow, shaking heads or abrupt waves of refusal.

Taalia inhaled then exhaled, standing admist the main market area and looking about her. This was going to take some time.
MrAbdiel
  
 Spoiler: OOC: 
 
 


It's a hard slog with little response. Disheartening, considering the emergency nature of the issue.

 "You say a little one? A little baby? Hey, ah... good for you, then. Good for you! Babies are blessings from mother Rhya. Here - here, maybe you buy one of my dolls?" 

It's a distraction from your current pursuit, but atleast this merchant is giving you the time of the day. Turning to attend the voice, the man is certainly odd to behold. He is dressed in a fine tunic and breeches, but with sandals on his somewhat large feet. A floppy, conical hat tilts down the side of his head. He is middle aged, clean shaven, even somewhat well bathed. There are some gold rings on his fingers, and his garb is a not-unattrative motley of black, green yellow, all rather well sewn. But tied to the front of his face is a ridiculous, oversized, protrusive nose carved from wood. It sticks out about six inches from the front of his face, and his smile seems almost apologetic for it, without mentioning it.

He is selling dolls from a decorated handcart. Most impressive are wooden dolls carved in segments from soft wood and threaded with colorful cords at the joins so they click and jangle when played with. Most are smaller and softer, little linen pillows in doll shapes packed with hay and feathers.

 "You're a traveller, so it doesn't diminish you not to know; but all babies need dolls, certainly. For the Fay."  
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 


The shepardess smiled gently and warmly at having someone just  finally  engage her in conversation, as the marketplace about them had provided little more than a frosty reception. Though not outwardly hostile to her, the crowd was not particularly welcoming either, instead choosing to treat the firearm-carrying, armoured foreign girl taller than most of the men as a curiosity to consider rather than someone to actually interact with.

Not so for a man selling trinkets and dolls, apparently, though truth be told...Taalia felt little affection for the creepy little baubles.

 "Oh, how sweet,"  she lied through her smile, picking one of them up for inspection.

 "Why would the Fay be interested, or dissuaded, by small trinkets such as these?"  the shepardess asked after several moments of feigned interest, drawing her heterochromia eyes back up to look the man in his face, her composure gentle and her old haggling instincts returning to present a pleasant front.

 "Because it seems a newly delivered child might be in greater need of a wet nurse, monsieur,"  she spoke politely with a touch of the playful,  "they seem quite valuable too!" 
MrAbdiel
  "Well, our people have ancient and deep ties to the Fay, ma'amselle. By ancient accord, the Fay watch over the children of Bretonnia as they sleep. Sometimes, as it please them, they take certain children and spirit them away to the Fay realm to live there, instead. And sometimes, for reasons we cannot know, they leave the child but take the doll instead. The Fay are strange and powerful, and we cannot know what becomes of children who go. I... Like to think they grow strong and safe in the Fay realm, full of glamor and plenty, but..." 

He gives you then a smile that strikes you as heartbroken. Beneath that ridiculous green nose, his smile holds up his face like a titan holding up the world.  "...But who can say. They never come back. But it is against the ancient royal law to hide children from the Fay's inspection - the punishment is the child's life, though such tragedy has not been carried out within my lifetime, so far as I know. But, ah... You are right; a doll will not provide mother's milk. But I meet many expecting parents, in my business. Many throughout town - though you might try even two lanes over, the home of Hamil and Lydia. Lydia was pregnant again when I last heard from Hamil - the woman is as fruitful as the king's own apple tree - but even if she has not birthed, the last one is likely still at the pap."  
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 

Taalia could recognize the tip of a sob-story iceberg when she saw one. It was one of the oldest sales tricks in the book, and one that she, as a lass, had had employed against her numerous times. However, this was a foreign land to Taalia, and one that she did not know particularly well. After all - she had been taken from her family as a youngster, and they had just come across a babe left abandoned in the woods after all.

But also...the merchant did not try to push his goods upon her beyond the initial little sales pitch.

Pursing her lips, looking at the man, Taalia leaned one shoulder comfortably against the sturdy wooden frame of the merchants stall, peering at the man with a playful scrutiny. Flicking her lips, her demeanour remaining that of the humorous skeptic, the shepardess reached to her belt, undid a little buckle on one of her pouches and withdrew two silver coins and placed them flatly on the wooden exchange board that separated her from the oddly dressed man.

 "That's for the pointer, and that's for one of those,"  she gestured to a little doll, the one that caught her eye the most.

She would, of course, show it to Briant first before presenting anything to the tot, just in case the story around its use was a load of poppycock. Still, Taalia thought to herself as she thanked the merchant and went on her way to the home of Hamil and Lydia, in this world there was at least a kernel of truth to many superstitions. Better to have and not need, then need and not have.

Besides, at least others in the merchant square saw her buying something. That had to help to help warm them up to her, at least.
MrAbdiel
  "Hey! Hey, thank you, ma'amselle! Lady bless you, wanderer!" 

He's delighted to have the sale - a little odd for a man with such jewelry to be so pleased with a sale, but you can't imagine that nose is a big draw for customers. You take your chosen doll - a little down-stuffed fabric shape whose limbs flop about where they are stitched to the body - and follow the direction to the home of the indicated peasant-burghers.

 * * * * * 
 "Hey!" 

You halt on your approach to the little house. You can hear the squalling of a babe within and you're sure you've followed directions, but a little blonde boy stands in your way with his fists on his hips and his jaw set. He is weedy but fiery of temperable, and tall - for an eight year old.

 "Hey, I don't know if I like the look'f you, ma'amselle!"  In a move that reeks of having been practised relentlessly for just such moments, he tucks his toes under a stick on the ground flicks it up with his foot, and snatches it out of the air into his grip. It's a good stick, for what it's worth; straightish, three feet long, and featuring the nubs of snapped off twigs to make a sort of sloppy crossguard.

 "What's yer business?"  
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 

Taalia gave the merchant a small, but sincere and playful little curtsey, before stepping away and admiring her new little trinket in one of her gloved hands. She held her longer fingers around the centre, from behind, turning it one way, then the other, watching as the little baubles on the end of strings that served as its 'limbs' swung back and forth with each little twist. What would the Fay want with such trinkets, she wondered? If they even wanted them at all.

Her thoughts were yanked back into the present, however, when the shepardess came upon the guardian of the Hamil household, her eyes drawing up from her small toy and witnessing the blonde before her, brandishing a stick as if it were a sword and puffing his chest out protectively in defense of his house.

Taalia couldn't help but smile.

She put the little bauble away and held both her hands up gently at her side.

 "I surrender, brave knight,"  she spoke, her sonorous, smoky voice easily reaching the lad, a hint of humour on her face and tone.

Taalia noted the boys height, a kindred spirit already forming. He'd be a tall one one day, and even at this precarious age he wasn't afraid to confront strangers approaching his home. However, Taalia had a pleasant face, despite the scars, so he might act differently if particularly rough or intimidating men came about to cause trouble.

 "I am searching for Hamil and Lydia, I am in need of a wet nurse and was told they could be found at this house that you are guarding so well!" 
MrAbdiel
He lowers his stick at your surrender, as gracious in victory as he is brave in the face of challenge.

 "A wet nurse?"  For a moment you prepare to explain in your third-best language the nature of that relationship, but the boy seems to understand. He tuts and considers.

 "Wassit pay? My ma's been wet-nursing for years, so she's probably pretty good at it." 

He's leaning on you, foreigner you are; but you suspect if you can convincingly press the idea this is in service of a knight he'll be forced to yield. On the other hand, he seems pretty keen to parlay for coin, and it probably wouldn't take much coin to make a difference for such a poor family.
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 

Taalia's smile remained, her sense of humour intact and finding an odd fondness for the lad. When she was his age...well, she knew. Needless to say, witnessing one like this in mans natural element, there was something comforting about it all that the shepardess liked, as if this is what life  could  be.

 "Well, my brave knight..."  and Taalia trailed off, her cue being for the boy to reveal his name. Once she learned it, she returned the favour,  "Taalia Giovanni,"  with a curtsey.

 "Wassit pay?"  she repeated the question, deliberately using his contraction,  "well, Sir, it depends how many wet nurses there are and level of demand for their services. May I pass and see her?" 
MrAbdiel
  "Just one here, but she's my ma so she's the best. Seven children she's had... Oh, well, I guess...a bigger number, now."  He looks at his empty hand, but having run out of fingers at five and unwilling to relinquish his stick advantage, he resigns to the abstraction.

 "But pa says it's really important we get paid for the next nursing, and we don't get ripped off like last time! So I'll go get ma if you pay me... Two pennies! For the interview!" 

The bouncer/manager/knight/imagineer holds his open palm before you, apparently convinced he has driven a hard bargain by controlling the supply of the demanded service. Wheeler-dealer though he is setting out to be, he seems sincere enough. 
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 

The much taller woman smirked and then snorted lightly in amusement.

 "Two pennies?"  she asked incredulously. A part of her wanted to thumb-flick a silver coin the lads way, but she knew that word would get out and back to his two parents, and who knows how much their rates would go up if they thought Taalia had money to hose around town. Which she did...but she didn't want them  knowing  that.

 "How about..."  Taalia said softly, now kneeling to bring herself down to eye level, but also so that she could speak very softly to him lest anyone else here.

 "I'll hold off paying you two pennies now. But, after I hire your ma, I'll give you half a silver instead." 

Rewarding him for his diligence, teaching him the benefit of delaying gratification, and saved the shepardess the trouble of producing copper pennies here in the street.

 "Deal?"  she asked, perking a silvery-blonde eyebrow and putting her hand forward to offer a confirming shake.
MrAbdiel
 You watch his eyes bulge a bit before he can tamp down his avarice and act cool.

 "...Wait here, ma'amselle." 

Then he rushes to the little home behind him, around the back, and through some open door or window in the rear. You hear excited chatter, and a little later, the door opens and Lydia emerges; a red haired woman just into her thirties, but with the understandably tired features of a woman who is managing, as the lad suggested, more than seven children. She has the youngest with her; a baby in its own swaddling, latched to her breast, covered in a curtain of cloth to preserve her modesty as he she engages with you. After, naturally, the moment of surprise at your height, and foreign ways, and scarring.

 "Oh... My, you're quite tall, ma'amselle. There's nursing work, you say? Well, that's good. This little creature wouldn't be the first to have a milk-cousin. I can come right away, if it's urgent - three pennies I charged last year, three pennies a day... But for something longer term, I shall need to speak with my husband and know the wheres, and hows."  
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 


Taalia's friendly demeanor remained as the mother came out, her own budding maternal instincts moving to the surface, long buried by slavery but whose embers had been fostered by delivering lambs and tending to young animals on her farm. She couldn't help but smile a little wider, a   "t'saww..."   escaping her lips at the sight of the little new-born, as she reached a hand forward and with a silent,  'may I? ' affectionately stroked the soft skull of the tot in Lydia's arms. Would she, one day? Such a thought was as far from her mind as could be only a few years ago, but now? The hope was growing.

 "A beautiful babe, congratulations, ma'amselle..."  Taalia spoke, her smoky voice low and her Breton passable enough.

 "Yes, your brave knight here,"  as she gestured to the boy, that sense of humour remaining,  "mentioned it was a profession of yours. My companions and I found an infant abandoned on the side of the road on our way to this castle, and the poor thing is in dire need of a wet nurse. How long it would be for I cannot say, but I can meet the fees you seek. We have checked for mutations and there are none, no sign of deformity or infirmity. The poor little girl seems to have been brought into the world by a mother who could not have her, and so trusted to fate or the Fay to provide." 
MrAbdiel
 You can't see much of the little one - the shroud concealing the suckling provides appropriate modesty - but you gather she's a healthy little girl. The cloth foot of a doll pokes out of the bundle. Lydia smiles as you stroke the bub's head through the cloth, and you detect some melancholy in her face - but there's a lot of that going around, so it hardly seems unusual at first.

 "On the roadside..? Well, that's... horrific, ma'amselle. She must be starving - let's sort out the rest once we've seen to her. Let me just... Adrien! Adrien, mind your brothers and sisters! I'll be back in a few hours, but your aunt is next door!" 

Adrien - knight of stick, first son of Hamil and Lydia - opens a window and pokes out his head to confirm the transfer of responsibility, but gives you a narrow eyed remember-our-deal look before popping back in.

It's not so far from the farrier's house, and so not a long walk leading Lydia and her child toward Bella in the care of the abandoned one. But right before that, just as you cross the snow-slush road across from the city gate that leads to the farrier's home, the baby at Lydia's breast has had its fill, and settles in to doze contentedly. Lydia discretely covers herself again at a slowed stride, and is able to pull the shroud back from the baby so you can see her for the first time.

There is a sense in which many babies look very similar. They have not had a life's worth of weathering, diet, growth, and learned expression to become particularly distinct. But you trust your eyes; apart from being warm and loved and held, this baby's face is exactly the same as the one worn by the child you rescued from the road. Either they are twins, or something supernatural is at play. 
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 

Taalia did a double-take on the child, her mouth opening slightly before snapping shut like a trap. Looking straight ahead again, the cold of the snow upon the ground suddenly crawling up her legs to knot in her stomach, the shepardess could only think of poor Bertuccio, his life derailed as the Demon Moon formed a copy of his image for a mutant to wear.

Swallowing softly,  "Ma'amselle..."  Taalia asked quietly, her voice barely above a whisper and only just audible to Lydia.

 "...I am a foreigner to these lands, so please take no offence to my question. The recent Demon Moon was the first that I had ever seen on Bretonnian soil. Fortunately I got indoors before any calamity befell me. You have so many children, how do you manage to control them on such a perilous night?" 
MrAbdiel
 Lydia seems a timid sort of woman, unwilling to take offense even if the option were available to her.

 "Well... There is not much to do. When the sun goes down, we gather inside and say our prayers and sleep. My husband rakes the muck in the streets in the day, but when he comes home he is their favorite; so I can play the tyrant and he plays the sheltering father, haha. We impress on them the fearsome things that are at play on nights when the wicked moon is high... The greenskins take it for a god, so they are more active... Hamil, like many others, is called out to be at-arms in waiting on such moon nights. But with the windows and doors closed in our home, it is very dark; so there is not much for the children to do but whisper to each other until they fall asleep. I sleep nearest to the youngest so I can comfort them when they wake to cry, and the window is within arm's reach if we need moonlight. On such nights, we draw up together and thank the Lady for things we have - walls, and warmth, and love." 

Her voice cracks a little on the last note, as you arrive at the farrier's house. She covers the child's ear with one hand to soften the ding-ding-dinging of the apprentices pounding out horseshoes at the anvil. She looks to you, shy by nature and trying not to stare at your visible outlandishness, but also perhaps deferring to you to manage the door ahead. 
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 


Taalia listened in patient silence. She had all the positive hallmarks, if such a thing existed, of someone with her awful history, namely patience. Her expression was neutral and her tone understanding, as she listened to Lydia explain the general ritual that she and her family undertook whenever the Demon's Moon reared its disgusting face across the skies of the mortal realms. The little detail that her husband may have been outside and armed with the local militia at the time, had no escaped the shepardess' notice.

However, towards the end of Lydia's answer, Taalia was becoming visibly uncomfortable, as if she carried a terrible secret within her that was like a hot coat burning away at her ribcage. Swallowing, biting her bottom lip, the taller woman reached out and prevented the native Breton lass from progressing, but her gesture was not threatening, it was protective. The shepardess was visibly younger than the experienced mother, with 12 years distancing the two of them, at least, while Taalia was visibly the much taller and more physically capable of the two.

 "Lydia...there is something you should know..."  Taalia started.

 "I have only just viewed your babe for the first time,"  she gestured to the little tot Lydia carried protectively in her arms.

 "But...the girl that we found, abandoned on the road? They look  exactly  alike..." 
MrAbdiel
 Lydia's face flushes red, then drains pale, and her eyes fill with water as something swells within her. Not fear, you think - not horror or anything like it. Hope. Hope, and a great, levy-straining king-tide of it that she is daring not to completely believe at once.  "They gave her back...?" 

She whispers, as if fearful being too loud will reveal this to be a joke, or a dream. She looks to the door, and sleeping babe in her arms, and then without sobbing but still almost blinded by tears, begs you:  "C-can I see her..?"  
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 

They gave her back?!

Taalia's mouth opened slightly in shock. That had  not  been the response she had anticipated. The shepardess had expected incredulity or disblief, perhaps even light mockery. Instead..

 "Er...yes...yes, follow me, ma'amselle..."  Taalia said, clearly caught out as she opened up the door to the small house and allowed Lydia to enter first.

 "Bella?"  the shepardess spoke out gently as she stepped in last, closing the door behind her.
MrAbdiel
  
 
 Originally Posted by Adrien, Knight of the Stick 
  " Seven children she's had... Oh, well, I guess...a bigger number, now."  
 

 

The whole operation past the doorway is very emotional; and for most of it, Lydia is unable to speak. Irenna, the farrier's wife, takes the sleeping child after a short exchange with her fellow peasant, and Bella almost reluctantly offers up the hungry, moaning little bub she has been warming and soothing in the interim. The child takes to the breast quickly, finds its energy again in the drinking, and Lydia can only sit before the fire, nursing the child and trying to suppress her own shivering and tears.

Some time later, when she has gathered herself and holds both girls gathered to her chest, she fills in some of the foggy details of the mystery.

 "My beautiful girls... twins they are, each as lovely as any child I've ever seen - and with the witching moon, we'd thought the Fay had taken one in the night... But here she is, my lost little girl; oh, they gave her back, oh Lady and Rhya and all gods be kind..." 

Irenna is tearful and delighted for her countrywoman.  "Oh, Lydia - how wonderful... I've never heard of such a miracle. We must tomorrow take the girls for a blessing at the Chapel of the Fay. Here, here, you're eating for three now, let me make you something to eat..." 

The likeness of the girls is unmistakable side by side. Only the mother seems to be able to tell them apart at all, though she struggles some to communicate which is which - the girls have no names. You learn this to be a Bretonnian custom to refrain from naming a child until the child can name their parents, mama and papa. It's a measure to insulate mothers (and fathers) from heartbreak if their children vanish according to the interests of the Fay.

Soon Irenna and Lydia are gabbling back and forth in their native tongue with such speed you and Bella struggle to follow. Bella invites you to follow her outside for some air, anyway. With a look, you can that however sweet this miracle is, there is an aftertaste of bitterness for girls like you and Bella, for whom fate has made no warm and saving intervention. And Briant is back as he promised, with appropriate haste - a well dressed maidservant from Castle Quenelles itself is with him. She is no wet nurse, but a Rhyan acolyte with a jar of mother's milk in hand, which was the next best thing he could find; and she vanishes inside to look over the little child with precautionary care, leaving you, Bella and Briant to chat.

"Well... She they all seem happy, I suppose," Bella notes with some scepticism, "but why do these people accept that their children are being stolen..? What ancient pact could merit such an awful cost."

 "It's not a cost, strictly"  Briant cautiously corrects,  "it's a service, as much to the people as to the Fay. The Fay can discern if a child has magic in their blood, or not. The children they take are those who have such. It is heartbreaking for the parents, yes; but at least there is some comfort in knowing the Fay take them and care for them in their realm. In the Empire of Sigmar, most children are not discovered until they are at the threshold of adulthood. Some handful are found early and taken to their colleges to learn, but most ... do not. It is difficult." 

The countenance of Padrone Simonuccio flashes into your mind. If Sigmar's Witch Hunters are anything like Solkan's, the Empire must be a very difficult place to discover magical talent. And a story during your trial, about a woman in Trantio who turned out to be a witch and burned down her town...

 "...Do the Fay ever bring back children they have taken, and leave them by the roadside, Briant?" 

The knight frowns thoughtfully.  "No. No they do not. There is... more to this."  
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 

The initial elation of watching mother being reunited with her daughter thought lost, had got the best of Taalia. Initially, at least. A wayward orphan herself, she watched and wiped the faintest of dew from one of her eyes as a smile moved across her lips when watching Lydia take upon her a child she earnestly believed she would never see again. For several long minutes Taalia watched the scene unfold from the quiet solitude of a corner, not saying anything or intruding upon the reunion, instead she just watched and enjoyed a basal human element that stirred some hope within her that she would see her biological family again, one day.

However, soon, Bella and Briants words brought caution into Taalia's thoughts. As a foreigner, she knew very little of Bretonnian culture beyond what she had personally experienced. And she  definitely  knew very little of the workings of the Fay and their relations with the human natives of these lands. In truth, she was much on Bella's side, her initial reaction to the proposal of offering over children as one of horror and reluctance, though perhaps jaded by her own personal experience.

 "How can a mother willingly part with her child like that? Never to see them again? To trust them to the hands of strangers?"  Taalia asked, her voice strained and face wildly out of character; she looked worried, pained even, as if something deep within her had dredged up, a focal point of her past that Briant would know nothing of, but in which Bella was well versed. She was not a mother, yet, but Taalia could not imagine willingly parting with her child if she were. There'd be a fight. A bloody one.

But, she quickly composed herself. Swallowing, heeding Briant's words that  this was not normal , the Fay did not just give back the babes to which they had been entrusted...something  else  was ocurring.

A pregnant pause.

 "Did she even give them to the Fay in the first place?"  Taalia proposed, her voice barely above a whisper.

  "She already has seven or eight children...what if she just abandoned one in the woods  hoping  the Fay would take her?"  
MrAbdiel
 Bella frowns at the thought.

 "...She seems... genuinely amazed to be reunited. I can't imagine a woman like that would have willingly left a child to the cold..." 
 "Well... if she had, she could hardly confess so,"  Briant counterpoints.  "Abandoning a child in the wilds like that could as easily be seen as attempting to hide a child from the Fay, as to deliver it to them. The trouble following would be tremendous. But there is some sense to it... Their home is so close to the gate that they were the first milk-bearing household Taalia was directed to. But I can't imagine this woman sneaking out of the city at night, after a blizzard, with the demon-moon high in the sky and the gates shut. How would she even get back in?"
 
 
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 


Taalia did not feel vengeful or hateful towards Lydia, as much as a part of her  should  feel that way should her suspicions prove correct. Instead, she wanted to weigh up the possibilities with impartiality and pursue the one that seemed the most likely.

 "...she mentioned that her husband, Hamil, was call to be an arms-at-waiting on such a night. She was alone in her house with her children, while her husband was outside...maybe he...in agreement with her..."
 
The shepardess did not want to finish the sentence instead trusting her companions to piece together her implication.
MrAbdiel
 The trouble that crosses the faces of your companions is different. Bella is sickened by the very notion of abandonment - and a baby only a few days old, no less. But you can see Briant's eyes shifting side to side as he considers his responsibility here. Peasants are beneath his class by noble conception, but also entirely his responsibility by idealised philosophy. And these peasants aren't 'his' precisely; if there is a foul deed afoot, he would be obliged to give it to the duke or some appointee.

 "...There must be some better explanation than... that. Perhaps we should speak to Hamil... before he and his wife have a chance to confer. Taalia, if you'll come with me, we will find this muckraker; Bella, if you care to keep watch on Lydia, we do not risk them collaborating some additional story details." 

Bella, electing for now not to believe the worst, takes the opportunity she can to dote on the babies while Briant hastens you off with him. The peasants fall all over themselves being helpful to his requests, especially since he is especially gracious about making them, and soon you have a heading to where Hamil may be raking muck today. But on the way, Briant confesses the reason for his haste.

 "I wanted to speak to you alone, a moment. I had to announce myself to the ducal palace before, but I also had another purpose: offering the duke an invitation... to my wedding."
 

By the looks of the young knight's countenance, it does not seem to be a happy nuptial.  "I am to be married when I return to Parravon. Bella may... need your friendship."  
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 


Taalia watched quietly as Bella and Briant exchanged their interpretation. Bella reacted as she thought she would, a mixture of I-hope-it's-not-so disbelief and disgust at the probability that it was the truth. Briants expression seemed more neutral, and perhaps more curious than his two companions. When he suggested investigating further, Taalia nodded in agreement. She had a cynical core to her, for better or worse. This was heavily influenced by her upbringing, as the world of the Skaven was not one for upbeat optimism. However warm and friendly she could be on the outside, Taalia rarely expected things to get better.

This was, sadly, confirmed, when Briant took her away in search of Hamil, Lydia's husband, as the Knight revealed the true fate of Bella's affections. Taalia's mouth gaped slightly, visibly shocked and concerned. An anger coiled around her insides, wanting to lashing out and strike at the man that had outwardly been so good to them - yet he was toying with Bella's emotions in such a way! He  knew  they could not be together, that he was promised to someone else, and he led her on anyway?! For a brief moment, the girl remembered Marco, the sweet but not-her-type back in Bella Collina who had tried winning her affections, and whom she had had dto summon and find the courage to gently tell him that they were not reciprocated. She had done as such because she did not want to lead him on, to give him false hope that could fill his head with all sorts of silly notions that might compel him to act in unfavorable ways.

 "You  what ?!"  Taalia hissed, her typically gentle face abruptly sharpening with anger as she stepped forward, her gloved hand coming up to grab the knight by his gorget.

 "You led her on this whole time knowing there was no future in it?!" 
MrAbdiel
 Briant tense for just a moment when you seize his gorget, but does not react beyond that. This may be to his credit; in this moment, laying hands on a Knight of Bretonnia, he does not retract the air of  defacto  peerage he has treated you with on your journey. It means peasants nearby look on with brief fascination, but then detecting no struggle or outcry, hurry on their way.

 "No, of course not. Nothing like that. We talked about it early in our travels; before anything developed. She knows we cannot be together - she is neither Bretonnian, nor nobleborn, and my wife needs to be both. My brother married a peasant woman for love, and now he is ineligible to inherit my father's fief. If I were to do the same, it would be as though I slapped my father in the face, and I will not do this. And the woman I am arranged to marry I... Well. I do not care for her, exactly. But my father lost some face at court after agreeing to my brother's request to marry out of class... My betrothed is a difficult woman, but marrying her secures a familial alliance that will go some ways to repairing that. But Bella knows all this; I would not betray her by not saying so, nor betray my honor by... taking advantage of her feeling. We just..." 

Sadness crashes into the levy wall of stoicism behind his eyes; the dam holds, after a gathering pause.

 "We just enjoy each other, and thought to enjoy the fantasy of it all. Talking, holding one another. But she is a girl with a big heart - I want us to remember each other fondly, not painfully..."  
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 


Taalia blinks gently, the angry angles to her features melting away at this new revelation. Mouth slightly open, eyes shifting about once, twice, three times in thought before returning to Briant, the shepardess takes her hand away from his gorgot and took one step back.

 "I'm sorry, Briant..."  she offered.

 "I had heard tales of knights preying upon the naive dreams of common girls, I thought for a moment this might be one such case." 
 Common girls . Just to say or think that phrase felt unnatural to Taalia. Though she understood the necessity of leadership and an innate distribution of talent and capability within society, the idea of being resigned to such a demeaning phrase by stint of birth had never sat right with her. Perhaps the freedom of Verazzo and Tilea had truly tasted so sweet to the former slave that she had taken their beliefs in as her own, but one should be the author of their own station, not have it handed to them by a natal lottery.

Indeed, as much as Briant was afforded privilege, so to was he shackled with responsibility: to marry a woman he didn't care for and to be by her side for the remaining decades of his natural life. Maybe he could grow to love her or, at least, become fond of her. But given his dour attitude over the prospect of tying himself to this woman, Taalia lacked such optimism.

Still, maybe this had a sweeter tone than her original suspicions that had initially aroused her ire. Bella, abandoned as she was, wooed and sweethearted by a gallant, handsome knight of Bretonnia during her travels through the land? It would certainly make for a nice tale of gossip among her future friendship circle of fellow wives and developing daughters.

 "You know her history, yes?"  Taalia asked, assuming that Bella had informed him.

 "I do not wish to see her heart injured. But...if she knows of this with you, and is doing so for similarly innocent, heartfelt reasons, I am sorry for judging so swiftly, Briant." 
MrAbdiel
  "No no, it's nothing,"  he waves off the apology.  "It happens more than it has excuse to. But my father taught me the tales of Martrud of Montfort, who cared for the peasants and was loved by them in turn. I suppose that's why my brother's heart - and I suppose my own - are left unguarded before such women. So I am... glad you are protective of her. She deserves to be protected." 
 "And.. yes. She told me that her family sent her to market on her donkey and left while she was away. She fears being abandoned. That is why I tell you this now - we entertained each other's hearts with eyes open, knowing it was for a short time, but I fear the reality of the parting will come to her harder than the foresight of it. When we are in Parravon, I will go up to the castle and my family and my fate, and I will have to leave you both. Perhaps we will see each other again, perhaps not - but I take comfort knowing whatever happens, you are her best friend."  He gives you a weary smile.  "But we have adventures before that. We follow the pilgrim road north to Parravon, and on the way I thought we might deviate to the town of  la Novogiorno . There is a large Tilean diaspora there. I thought you might both enjoy it. But first, this man, Hamil..." 
 "Perhaps when we find him, you should speak to him first, and I wait nearby. He has likely been bowing to knights his whole life; he will be left off guard, meeting something like you and hearing such news."  
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 


Taalia nodded solmenly to the news as she silently mulled it over. As much as she understood dipping ones toe into the pool of fantasy, Taalia knew all too well what hope could do to a person. Or worse yet, hope in the absence of its affections. Perhaps it might be best if she spoke to Bella about this privately and tried to warn her about the dangers of the heart with which she was playing, however sympathetic her compulsions.

 "Yes, perhaps..."  she answered, correcting her posture and falling in beside the knight as they continued on their way, the awkward silence slowly melting. Briant perhaps relieved to have this burden off his shoulders, while Taalia simmered down to reflective understanding.

However, there had been a question that had long been aching within Taalia's need to know, and now that she was alone with Briant and with a need for small chit-chat, she tilted her head slightly to speak to the Knight as they went on their way.

 "Sir Briant,"  she asked,  "why doesn't your nation use gunpowder?" 

The tall, white-blonde haired girl used both her hands to tap the dome-like pommels on the butts of her two pistols that were holstered astride her thighs. Hip holsters were too uncomfortable for the girl to wear on account of how her hips flared out slightly, compared to a mans straight dimensions. And so, Taalia had taken to modifying the holsters to fit on the outside of her thighs instead.

 "A few hundred peasants with blunderbuss could see off a five times their number of orcs; breaking their formations up if not slaying many, loosening their number for a charge from the knights to shatter their resolve and send them running." 

There was a part of Taalia that knew the  real  answer, deep down. It had only been a tiny seed when she first considered it, but baring further witness to the strict hierarchy of this land had germinated and nurtured that revelation into a truth she knew she would do well to keep to herself: because guns were the great equalizer. If peasants had mortars, cannons, blunderbuss, rifle and pistol, why would they need showboating knights to take half their produce and boss them around?
MrAbdiel
 Briant's eyebrows lift slightly, as if they are rushing to parallel with  his forebrain to assist with the lift of a particularly weighty thought.

 "Well, I suppose you are asking a very large question there. Several questions in fact; like a rope which is a cord in itself, but also a braid of cords. My nation does use gunpowder. You might have to ask a child of L'Anguille or Bordeleaux how much, but we cast our own cannons and mix our own powder in the big ports. The ocean is a danger where horse and lance can afford you no help. The Lady is our mistress of war on land; but at sea, our master is Manaan, like everyone else. The Empire of Sigmar has to defend its coasts from Norscans and the odd pirate, but it's the cost of Bretonnia that needs teeth when the Dark Elves come shearing through the waves with their hooks, and monsters, and killing legions. We have the most powerful navy in the old world, perhaps because it is afforded all of our gunpowder. But..." 

The tilts his head left, and then right, as if regarding a different cord in the braid.  "If you mean mostly why we do not use them in the field... I can't deny there is tactical utility to them. I have heard the stories of the Great War, where they were instrumental in seeing off the great army of Chaos in the oblasts. And I've benefitted from your own weapons, in the mountains. But Bretonnia's strength is her knights, and her knights must embody the three virtues: valor, loyalty, courtesy. And an instrumental part of valor means engaging the enemy steel to steel. It is the same reason our knights do not use bows, or slings, or throw darts. Our way keeps us safe, and combat eye to eye is our way." 
 "But as for why there are not peasant handgunners, there are many good reasons. The most superficial is that the nobility is afraid enough peasants with handguns will blow the entire structure of our society off its horse, but I do not find that especially compelling over all. The truth is even the Imperials - for all they wag their chins about 'Faith, Gunpowder, and Steel', do not equip their peasants with gunpowder. They have standing regiments they equip and invest in heavily, and that has a cost that is so heavy that the greater hose of their troops are still toting longbows or crossbows. Some suggest that there will come a day when all warfare is conducted with such weapons, but I cannot see it. It's simply too expensive. For all the gems in Kislev, there is exactly one regiment of gunners, and they are maintained in Erengrad where they can best afford it. But take the scenario you presented - peasants and orcs."

"You have, for a start, exaggerated the power of the blunderbuss. A peasant will fire it once before the orcs are on him. In a press of orcs, he will certainly hit them - but if he is fortunate, this shot will kill one of them. If he is extremely fortunate, it will kill more than one. But then he is ruined. He has been brought out to his lord's field to fire a blunderbuss only five or six times because firing the weapon that many times alone costs an ecu, let alone the fact that the weapon itself could be traded for a horse or two. He cannot be afforded many times to practise with the weapon because of how prohibitively expensive it is. Just enough times to know how to load it, and to convince him - against the genuine chance - that he will not be given a defective weapon and blow his fingers off when the powder betrays him. The peasants get one  good shot because of the time it takes loading such things, but orcs are such ridiculous brutes that they cannot be convinced to turn and flee so easilly, so then they must drop this expensive device and pull out their hatchet or longknife and fight for his life against the rest of the orcs."

"Now, this is a grim scenario. Perhaps I am being uncharitable, because this is not how such a unit would be used on the battlefield. When they are deployed in fact, they remain in the rear until the enemy has charged and made contact with the men at arms. Then, while the orcs are trying to cut through the forest of spears, you quickmarch your small units of gunmen to the flanks of the combat and start raking their sides. You want them to feel as if there is a world of spears ahead, and a world of lead to the sides, and the only place to go is back; and then you can chase after them and see if you can't cut them down that way. But that is what our knights are for - the lance formation crashes into the flank of the enemy and they are caught between the spears and the horses and is squeezed out just the same. And once that's done, the knights may disengage, wheel about and charge again without needing to reload the horse."

"The blunderbuss, and all firearms, may be more powerful than a bow. If you had but one chance to fire at a warrior of the ruinous powers came racing down at you, you would perhaps wish to have a strong firearm in hand. This is why they are so popular with adventurers and freebooters and such - in that kind of skirmish where you get one shot, it might as well be the best shot. But knights belong on the battlefield. It is our sacred duty. Peasants do not. They belong on their farms, and in their homes, as safe as they can be made. Most conflicts with the beastmen and the orcs and the odd mutant band are conducted by parties of knights riding out without peasant support; only in times of great crisis do we pull the peasants off their farms and ask them to make war. The bravest are given spears, and asked to be prepared to hold the enemy back long enough for the knights to relieve them. But the rest are told to bring their bow - the bow their father gave them, that they have grown up hunting rabbits with, that they have trained with all their life with their fellows at the town archery buttes, perhaps winning a pig or two for a prize if their lord has the good sense to incentivise the competitions. The bow is familiar. It's light. He can carry it for miles without feeling its weight. He knows how to use it with his eyes closed. He can fire it in the burning sun, or in the plunging rain. If it misfires, the string may take some skin off his forearm and he will be mocked, but it won't blast out his eye or maim him or kill him. When the combat is joined, he loose a volley every ten seconds. If the combat is difficult, and he is lead by a yeoman with a good eye and the trust of his lord, he can arc his fire into the rear of the enemy press over the heads of his countrymen. And if he happens to lose his bow, he knows two or three folk in his village with a spare, and who know how to make him a replacement with just a straight bough of ash wood and a little time to work it. He is not a slave to a cartel of metallurgists and chemists without whose very specialized labors and a princely sum he cannot replace his weapon. So their may come a day when all wars are conducted with firearms - but I shall hope, that on a day of such fantastical universal wealth, we have seen the end of all mankind's troubles anyway." 

It seems to you this may not be the first time he has thought about it. 
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 

Taalia had the maturity to broker disagreement in polite and civil discourse. Though she had her theories and convictions, she listened quietly as Briant provided his own, which, naturally, sprung from both his personal experience and his cultural upbringing.

In a way, the shepardess even envied it, as his had been within the lands of man, while Taalia had...well, that was recollected history. But it was the  content  of that history that spoke the most to the girl in her current times. Not the hardship nor the misery or burning hatred for the vile ratmen and all their disgusting works, as they certainly still held a place in her heart and mind. No, it had been the Skavens admitted cleverness for the mathematical and mechanical. Though humans were so gifted as well, it was the Skavens lack of remorse for the lives of their own kind that were required to be sacrificed in the name of scientific progress and their complete exploitation of Warpstone that had allowed them to devise truly devilishly clever technologies whose general premise Taalia still remembered within her skull. Though it had been years since she had worked on one, she had not forgotten the ratling gun or the poison wind globes, oh no, she had not. Nor had she forgotten how effective they could be when employed against opponents who either had no response to such lethal methods or could not generate as such.

 "Briant,"  Taalia spoke, leaning her hand over to place it affectionately against the knights shoulder. She was taller than the man by a few inches, her image a stark difference to his own, as she leaned her head over to almost whisper.

 "I think you and I should spend an evening discussing this topic, we have much to share,"  she said softly, before retracting her positioning - but only slightly.

 "Has Bella told you where I am from? Why and how I came to reside in Tilea?" 

The question only had a yes or no answer, really, but Taalia allowed it to hang in the air between them all the same.

 "How I got these scars?"  she gestured to the marks on her face.

 "The Norscans took me from my home, sold me to the Skaven. I was in their Underempire for 11 years before making my way to the surface in Tilea, where I was taken in by those in Bella Collina, where Bella resided. But down there, I was owned by a clever rat that made all sorts of devices and weapons for his clan. I laboured in the workshop, following schematics and putting things together. One day, there was an attempted assassination attempt, a coup, and my owner was one of the targets. Skaven assassins came for him in the workshop, slaughtered most of the other slaves there. I was only maybe 11, 12 years old. I wouldn't be here with you now, nor would Bella, if I had not of picked up a globe forged from glass and within which was a noxious fume that would burn the lungs of any who inhaled it. Rat-ogre, skaven, man, orc, it doesn't matter - your lungs are as vulnerable as any other, and you need to breathe. Armor, naturally, is useless against it.

I picked it up and hurled it at the centre of the melee, and quickly shoved one of the filter masks on my head and hid under the work benches. I can still remember the sounds of a dozen Skaven rats choking to death, coughing up bubbling blood and squealing their last moments as the green-black vapor did its work. Me, I didn't have a name then, I was only 12 years old, yet I killed a room full of Skaven assassins, lethal murders all, with a glass globe I could hold in one hand." 

As if to emphasise the point, Taalia held her gloved, right hand up, fingers and thumb extended as if she held such a device in her palm at that instant.

 "Gunpowder, firearms, blunderbusses, pistols. They're expensive now, but they were impractically inefficient when first devised - now they are an essential weapon. They will become cheaper to produce as we develop the means to do so. I could make you a firearm if you so wished, and I have ideas to improve the process. A day will come my brave knight when a firearm can be placed in the hands of every able-bodied man willing to defend his home and womenfolk from snarling greenskins. And if not fallen by the shot, then the morale of such brutes can be broken and shattered by the terror it unleashes. I will tell you the full tale another time, but Bella Collina once came under assault from pirates, and I walked in formation with the other men in the workings of a plan to fight them. Had we not taken out the mortar, our numbers would have counted for nothing. I was there when it went detonated fire and shrapnel around me, I was in the ranks when the lead shots raked our numbers..." 

Taalia pursed her lips, swallowing softly and inhaling-exhaling as she shook her head.

 "I respect your desire to adhere to your ways, to whom you are and what Bretonnia stands for. But...well, perhaps I have said too much, Sir Briant. Please understand I speak from a place of love for your people, mine, whoever they are, Bella's, for humankind, and our continued survival."  Taalia confessed, her hand affectionately upon the knights shoulder before drawing away, as they both walked side by side towards their destination.
MrAbdiel
 Briant listens to your tale of tribulation - who could not? - and can offer no more than anyone else can to justify that wellspring of suffering from which you sprang, except a look of pity for the pain, and admiration for your survival. He takes the offer to build him a firearm in the spirit it is intended, even if he declines it.

 "Perhaps it will be that way, some day. Perhaps in that future day, we will have a king who takes such a view. All I can say is that there is power in tradition as well as innovation. Perhaps the world needs both kinds of men - those who have moulded themselves after the virtues, and those who devote themselves to..."  He hesitates, then follows through, trusting you to take the sentiment well.  "...To clever designs, and fire arms, and flying machines." 

Not to long after, you find Hamil. He's easy enough to spot; he has the shaggy red hair that was in the description supplied to you and Briant by the folk of the city, and a prominent wooden icon of disk with an eagle's flared likeness upon it - a Myrmidian token, you think. He and another fellow with him arm armed with bronze spades and rakes. They sift the mid and muck where the snow has turned to slush in low patches of the road in this low-merchant band of town, clearing out the mush and pouring gravel from a cart in the holes so that horses are at no wrist of ankling themselves.

 "There is our man. Go on, Taalia. Your instincts saw us through the debacle with Lady Margot. I trust them again here. I'll remain just behind this corner - I would not let fear of a knight in this regard be mistaken for guilt."  
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 


Taalia noted the diplomacy in Briants tone and mannerisms, his desire not to offend or dismiss. He had only seen her use her rifle once, and she had done so while sailing past on a flying machine from which she put a lead shot through the brain matter of an orc Nob at a pace of almost fifty yards. Lethality like that was not something to be sniffed at, regardless of ones adherence to the dressings of tradition and old styles of fighting.

 "We should trade war stories some time,"  Taalia snickered gently by his side as they continued on.

When they came to Hamil, the shepardess nodded at the knights suggestion, agreeing with him that perhaps an authority figure such as he would evoke the wrong response or bury the correct one. And so, when Briant moved around a corner to wait and listen, Taalia approached the man and offered her bright smile when she caught his attention.

 "Bounjour,"  she started, coming to a halt a polite distance from him.

 "Monsieur Hamil, correct?"  she asked,  "your wife and I spoke today. We were after a wet nurse and she was happy for the work. But..."  Taalia's eyes drew over to the other that was with the man,  "...may I speak to you in private, monsieur?" 
MrAbdiel
 Hamil is startled by your appearance - you're startling, after all. He takes a boggling moment staring at your height, and your exposed hair, your foreign-ness, and your scars.

 "...What?" 

After a repetition, he gathers his senses and tells his offsider to give him a moment, and steps aside off the road between a cooper's workshop and a cloth importer's storefront.

 "...What... what do you mean? What has happened?"  
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 


Taalia was used to the stares by now. Even back in Tilea, in Bella Collina, people stared when they were uninitiated with her.

Offering a friendly smile as she softly shook her head,  "nothing, Monsieur, your wife is fine,"  she reassured him.

 "But she bid me to seek you out and deliver news: your babe has been returned by the Fae. She was found on the side of the road." 

The shepardess then paid attention to his reaction...
MrAbdiel
 Shock.

Shock is what you see in Hamil's face; white, grave shock. It's very quick - and a moment after he is stuttering a response that itself could go either way.

 "Sh-she was? O-oh! Oh, this-  I must go home, at once! This is incredible news! Refanial, Refanial - here, I must go!" 

He pivots away from you at once to tell his workmate, and make his apology to depart. That haste, the nervous excitement and adrenal stir, all of that belongs to a man experiencing a genuine surprise, which tells you nothing. But that flicker of shock in his features told you something else: that this man was completely blindsided by the news. And you have to believe a man whose child had vanished in this way by the 'fae' would be hoping against foolishness that he would have just this miracle. However stoic these people are, however much they shield themselves from the chance of this misery with their dolls and their refusal to name their infants, they cannot be without hope the day after the loss. But you didn't see hope, in Hamil's face. Only shock, in the realization of something he thought to be impossible, and then a scrambling for a right response.

That is instinct, of course; how complicated this might be, you do not yet know. But with Briant waiting around the corner, the decision on how to act next - to confront Hamil with an accusation, or to let him return home and see the interplay between him and his wife, remains in your hands.  
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 

Taalia watched the mans response, equipped with her human-emotion detecting empathy, such as it was. What piqued the shepardess' interest is that though the man was surprised his wayward infant had been returned, he hadn't seemed... happy , about it. At all, really, more just surprised.

That was odd. One would think a father would be heartfelt in his elations, instead...

She had to consider the possibility. Infanticide, though terrible, was not  unknown  among people of lesser income, so to speak. And what better way than to claim the Fay took them?

Nodding, smiling,  "Of course, monsieur,"  she gestures for him to go with her,  "I came here with a knight, just to let you know. He said that the streets might not be safe for a lady to traverse on her own,"  she smirked and snickered, gesturing down to her attire that was composed almost entirely of mail and weapons.
MrAbdiel
 Hamil doesn't catch the irony of your gesture. Women do not carry weapons or wear armor; less worldly than a knight, he has not had the time to conceptualize a niche for you to fill. You're an alien to him, in the plainest sense, but at least you can communicate.

 "O-oh. Well. Ah... Good. Good, then. Thank you."  And then he's off at jog through the streets, in the direction of his family home (and the city's west gate). Briant falls in beside you as you match the peasant's pace at a remove, and follow.

The knight looks to you expectantly.  "Well? What do you say of him?"  
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 

Taalia  wanted  to inform Briant of the deliberations and her suspicions, but the shepardess held her tongue. Instead, she looked up at Briant and drew her gloved hand up to the front of her neck and made a 'no, no, not now' swiping gesture. Later, the movement implied, later she would tell the Knight everything he wanted to know, such as it was.

Thus, Taalia moved back to walk alongside Hamil and at his side, saying little except for when he addressed her.
MrAbdiel
 Hamil hastens home. He has nothing voluntarilly to say to you - but that alone doesn't speak much to his actions one way or the other, considering everything. He doesn't seem to be trying to lose you, and he peels off to the side street near the gate towards his home. You're forced to intervene to direct him to the farrier's house, where his wife and baby girls are presently waiting.

Bella is standing outside, bidding farewell to the nursemaid who seems to have completed her work to her satisfaction. You catch her eyes tracking Hamil's hurried approach, and shoots you a questioning look.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
Just checking in before he goes inside if you wanted to intervene first or let things play out.
 
 
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 


The trip back was in silence, which Taalia was fine with. Though she would have liked to try and acquire some more information, she knew she didn't have the linguistic mastery or emotional insight be that smooth. So instead she mulled over the mans reaction: shock, but no hope. Astonishment, but no love. Such a response when hearing about the return of his daughter from "the Fay", should have elicited at least a touch of gratitude or relief, some type of basal emotional elation that would have been visible in his eyes. Instead, there was none. Taalia understood that men were typically more stoic and guarded, but she had seen tough men get emotional over their daughters, it seemed one of the few things that they were allowed to shed a tear over, she mused. For a brief second she wondered if her own father, wherever he was out there, would do the same if they ever met again.

When they arrived back at the house, Taalia played it cool, gesturing towards the door for Hamil to enter, before pausing to speak with Bella. Lowering her head so she could speak into her friends ear, Taalia whispered:   "He showed only shock at his daughters return; no relief, no elation, no happiness. Just surprise."  

The implication was clear, however uncomfortable it was to consider: Hamil had taken the daughter and left her for the Fay.
MrAbdiel
 Bella winces at your assessment.  "I can't believe it. The little girl is so beautiful - if they fear the fay taking their children, why volunteer them..? Why leave her out to freeze..?" 

It's incomprehensible to Bella, who has suffered abandonment but has not witnessed the kind of callous accounting for life that you have, under the skaven and for that matter the northmen. There were many reasons one might desire one fewer child than they had, but the seeming abundant of baseline human decency buried that galling truth away from the eyes of the world.

Inside the house, the reunion sounds tearful and joyful. A child had been lost, and now has been returned. She was thought dead, but now she is alive. Both mother and father seem to fracture under the emotion of it, and nothing about Hamil's or Lydia suggests at this point anything under than deep appreciation to be near their reunited girls. So is did he callously discard the girl, or not...? Briant joins you and Bella dwelling by the doorway, his expression darkened with the trouble of the scenario...

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
Give me... an intelligence check. +20 is basic difficulty, but I'll give you another +10, the source of which will be clear only if you succeed.
 
 
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 

Taalia stood at the rear of the room, her arms folded as Briant and Bella spoke to each other from her flanks. Bella raised prominent points, but they were shaded by her own past, for she too had been abandoned. But watching them now, Taalia eyed Hamil with particular inspection, her suspicions of his black deed morphing and changing in explanation the more she witnessed him together with his wife and returned child. What had happened? Had he really carried the babe off and left her by the road? Were the Fay really to blame? She doubted the latter, as Lydia's testimony discounted such a possibility. No, the girl-child had simply gone missing one night, and Taalia was beginning to suspect why.

She remembered the blonde kid, the eldest of their sons. He was tall for his age, and the teenage growth spurt had not even hit him yet. Taalia could envision a day when he would be a big lad, taller than her possibly, but he was coming towards double-digits in age and knew he would soon be working to support the family. Nine children, a muckrakers salary, Lydia's, ahem, 'seasonal' work...

It hit Taalia why. There was no supernatural force at work, no malicious disregard or neglect: Hamil had made the cold calculus that only one of the girls born could be supported, the other would have to go.

On her person, the shepardess inhaled softly at this epiphany, her gloved right hand coming up to her mouth to cover it as she stared at the mother and father with their girls, knowing what brutal decisions had been made in the background, and the causes that motivated them: either one child perished, or half of them did. It was a cruel reality of the lower orders, Taalia imagined, where poverty drove some to perform some rather black decisions. Such a hidden institution bore a grim defence in that if Taalia merely gave Hamil some money, it wouldn't fix their situation, it wouldn't solve their problems, it only buy them some time. Even now, Taalia could still remember her movement through the Ox Sector of Verezzo, where the gutter-born and destitute would beg her for money and, after she offered it, they did nothing to improve their station. That coin went straight to food or, regrettably, alcohol for a momentary buzz of happiness in an otherwise bleak existence. It didn't go into learning how to read and write, or to learning some type of skill or buying a piece of equipment to perform some labour to give oneself an income. It just made Taalia feel better about herself, and bought them some moments of relief, but nothing was  solved , nothing was fixed or improved.

 &lt;"Bella, I think I know why he did it,"&gt;  Taalia said softly to her friend, speaking in Tilean so that Briant, Lydia or Hamil could not understand. She doubted the two parents could even hear them, but better safe than sorry.

 &lt;"They had seven children, all survived the first crucial years. Seven mouths to feed on a muckrakers salary and Lydia's occasional employment. And then Rhya blesses them with twins - that's nine children to support. He performed a cold calculus, one of them in the night, or half of them over years of malnourishment and starvation?"&gt; 

Taalia didn't expect Bella to be too sympathetic, given her own station, and the shepardess couldn't blame her. However, as awful as the situation was to consider, Taalia had been in...'pragmatic' times. She was desensitized to such things by now.

 &lt;"We can't just offer them money. That will be temporary. Look, you can see genuine love from both, but the means to support won't be there. I met their son, he is not yet ten, but he is already a tall boy, and will be a big, strong lad done day. Perhaps we can find him employment so he can help support his family, his labour saving his sister?"&gt; 
MrAbdiel
 Your faithful confidante as ever, Bella leans in to whisper with you. She looks sickened at the scenario as you describe it. But the sound the baby girls fussing and crying and then being hushed back into soothed quiet nearby takes the edge off her outrage.

 "He left the girl to die - to freeze, or be taken by beastmen... In a just world, he would be..."  The dark haired seamstress forestalls the actual judgement from being spoken - perhaps not wishing to put such a wish out into the world where the gods and daemons might snatch at it.  "...But any punishment put upon him will only hurt his wife and children as much or more. Gods, Taalia, if they ever even come to  know  what almost happened... Oh, I don't like this, Taalia! I don't like this at all. This is like Bertuccio over again - there's no justice, no matter what way we turn... But maybe you are right. This isn't Briant's home, but he is a noble. Surely he can find some way to propel the boy into employment. What was his name...? Adrien?"  
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 


Taalia pursed her lips. Bringing a gloved hand up to rest on Bella's shoulder, knowing this situation was likely getting to her for personal reasons, the shepardess leaned forward and kissed her friends forehead affectionately.

 &lt;"Best not tell him our theory. He's likely to punish Hamil in some way, and then the family is in ruin."&gt; 

Turning to Briant, Taalia asked quietly.

  "Briant, Lydia and Hamil - their son. Have you seen him? He's big for his age and he's not yet ten. He could be taller than I am when he's older; tall, strapping son, already vigilant and cluey. With their child returned to them, they now have 9 babes to support on one income. Do you know a job that their eldest son, Adrien, could perform to support his returned sister?"  
MrAbdiel
 Briant looks thoughtfully away for a moment. You've been circumspect about your observations, but he seems to trust you, and does not pry or demand.

 "Hmm. Tragedy of the cities, I suppose. In a village, he'd have work to do on a farm easily enough.  Here, not so much - he's still a little young to be trusted with an apprenticeship. In another year or two, he could seek work as a rope weaver or comb maker or any number of things. But right now, this moment..? I do not know. Maybe. I..."  He rubs the back of his head; the gesture of a man who wants to deliver, but dares not promise.

 "I could see."  
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 

Taalia kept her voice low, sometimes looking over at the two parents reunited with their daughter. Knowing they wouldn't have much time left as Lydia and Hamil wouldn't dote on their returned daughter forever, Taalia swallowed softly before whispering again.

 "He's a big kid,"  she repeated gently,  "and perceptive. He considered himself a knight when I met him, but that's not uncommon in this land,"  she laughed gently,  "and now, he has a valiant quest: to provide for his youngest sisters,"  she gestured towards the two babes in Lydia and Hamils arms.
MrAbdiel
  "Alright, well... I may need to do a little more socializing to accomplish something like that. Let's see them home, then I may have to leave the two of you under your own supervision again for the day. If I dare." 
 * * * * * 
 "Wheeeeeeeee!" 

The little girl, Zuzanne, might be the cutest of their brood. She is two years old, just articulate enough to call  mama  and  papa , and so old enough to be named. But she's got only the fundamentals, and is still required to express herself in terse one or two word questions and ambiguous gestures of the hand. But when she peers up at you on her wobbly little legs, reaches up her hands and squeezes them open and shut, she asks  "Haut bas? Haut bas?" , and you have played the Tilean variant,  su giù , many times before. When you lift her to the full reach of your arms and invest a little momentum as if you are going to throw her and let her go, she squeals and kicks her legs and becomes so excited you have to put her down and let her sort through the emotions. The rest of the brood - Adrien (9), Celia (8), Moriah (7), Edmon (5), Erique (4), and Millia (3) - are not averse to clambering on you either or the odd game of  haut bas , but Zuzanne's (2) eyes light up each time like she is experiencing the miracle of flight.

You think, briefly, about Cestié.

Hamil and Lydia give you their best hospitality - which is clean water from the well and warm bowl of lentils, and a chance to sit on the chairs they own. Briant turns down the offer, explaining his need to get about certain business - not announcing a promise, before he knows he can keep it - but the the family seems positively chuffed that a knight is interested enough in them that he stepped into their threshold. You catch Hamil struggling with his riot of feeling, when Briant leaves. Guilt for what he's done; relief that it didn't take; uncertainty about what comes next. He is a man beneath the hand of the gods, unsure if he is being sheltered or swatted. But his just as inseperable from the returned baby as Lydia is, and they both appreciate you and Bella (her  haut bas  game is not as good, but she is sweet) playing with the children for a bit while they settle in. But after that, the completed family finds its harmony again and you and Bella have some time to yourselves, in a big city for the first time since Miragliano. You might as well see the sights...

 
 Spoiler: The Sights 
You can see at least two sights and what encounters they offer this day; after the second site, you'll roll a D10 and try to get higher than the number of places you've visited today. If you do, you have enough time to squeeze another location/miniscene in before rolling again. Regardless of how many you get through today and whatever they yield, you'll get one more visit to a place of your choice tomorrow as well.

   CASTLE QUENELLES   
 Castle District: 
La galerie du Triomphe
Shrine of Verena
The Proving Ground

 Westgate District: 
Shrine of Myrmidia
Temple of Taal and Rhya
The Temple of Shallya
The Gardens of Morr
The Great Market

 Grove District: 
Grove Le Bosquet de Reprieve

 The Pilgrim Road: 
The Lesser Market
The Gambling Hall
The “Gambling” Hall
The Gambling “Hall”
Chapel of the Enchantress
 
 
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 

Briant would try.

That was enough for the shepardess. For now, at least. She was beginning to learn how this nation worked. Though he was "only" a Knight, a few rungs above a peasant, that meant that he passed the threshold to receive treatment warranted to the respectable, his words carrying at least a modicum of weight. Hopefully he could find some type of profession for the young, but physically and mentally capable Adrien.

Besides, Taalia thought to herself, the lad was 9 years old. He should have started down some apprenticeship path already, rather than wasting his energy on playing knights and dames in his parents house.


 oOo 

A fresh day!

The beautiful sun of Bretonnia kissed Taalia's face as she stood at the small window of the cottage in which herself and Bella were guests. Foreign women as they were, strange in their ways and unusual in their mannerisms, the two girls had made themselves useful and welcome by entertaining the children of the host family, as well as taking the time to cook between them a large pot of mutton ragu that had proven to be a dish that had won both the hearts and minds of the Hamil and Lydia household. Stomachs too! But it had been a task that was easier said than done, for the desired fettucine was not regularly available in Bretonnia, and so Taalia and Bella had gone about acquiring the eggs, flour and salt required to create their own, the result being an almost mythical entertainment as the children of the household watched in awe, while Lydia peered on with a noticeable curiosity, as the two foreign women turned eggs and flour into delicious, stringy food that was astounding in its taste, flavour and texture when boiled for a sufficient period of time. Upon this was added the ingredients of the ragu, the carrots and celery, the herbs and salts and peppers, the fresh mutton, it all formed a pot of astounding flavour that the two girls were happy to transcribe into written form so that Lydia may recreate such a dish for future purposes, in whatever way she saw fit.

Taalia, meanwhile, was a source of endless fascination for the children. Though Bella was visually a foreigner, her thick black hair and olive complexion marking her as such, she was still visibly feminine in her height and dimensions. Taalia? Not so. She was as alien to the region as could be, her height, gait, scars, hair, hetereochromiatic eyes, her mannerisms, the gunpowder weapons she brandished - striking and unique, would be the best way to describe her in the city, and the children, in their blissful ignorance and unfiltered glee, found her a totem of magnetic curiosity. And so, the shepardess often found herself kneeling down to take herself to eye-level with the kiddies, playing peekaboo or pulling funny faces for their entertainment. Often she would perform the easiest astonishment of  Haut bas  - her hands hooking under little shoulders and hoisting childrens bodies nine feet or so in the air and twirling them about, often to their ecstatic delight. But there were other delights, more serious than mere carnival amusements. She withdrew  Daybreak , and allowed Adrien to hold it and swing the weapon about, Taalia's taller figure squatting behind him, one hand on his unused shoulder, her other on his occupied grip, and directing him with parries, slashes and stabs. Meanwhile, the older girls found a willing recipient in Taalia to visit upon their budding and adolescent identity, as the multiple-colored eyed, white-blonde-haired, scared-faced, towering-heighted foreign female allowed the little Bretonnian girls to paint her face and braid her hair - much to Bella's amusement.

However, when the two were free to go about their business for a day, given that Briant had gone off to try and pull some favours to gain employment for the Adrien boy, Taalia and Bella were free to choose to where they would travel. Bella had no particular impulse either way, leaving Taalia to become the itinerary's author.

To that end, the shepardess pointed a gloved finger to the Westgate District.

 "We owe gratitude towards the gods that have blessed us with longevity through all the foolishness we have ploughed ourselves through!"  the taller girl would laugh, putting an arm around her black-haired, shorter friends shoulders and kissing her upon the forehead again, hugging her affectionately before moving to change into her mail and gear for the day.
 
"And the Pilgrim Road!"  Taalia would issue.

 "Marketplaces are where I got my start, after all!"  she would flash a toothy smile to her friend.
MrAbdiel
 The Westgate District is a sensible choice to start with - it's the district you're in to begin with, having come into the city by it's west gate. And the temples and shrines tend to be good landmarks, affording you an easy enough means of navigation by peering about for where the stone structures for the gods rise up over the peasant homes and storefronts.

The Shrine to Myrmidia is much more humble that her temples you've seen travelling Tilea. It's a modest two story structure with a steeple featuring a carved wooden icon of an eagle, wings spread, surveying the land in its imperious majesty. Ironically, pigeons perch upon it with dull fearlessness. The building itself is handsomely appointed, but the interior is without the opulent tapestries or gilded ornamentation of the Remas temple. A single stone likeness of the goddess dominates the centre of the small hall; granite instead of marble, a barely feminine figure in male with shield and spear; even less dynamic in pose than the grotto to Myrmidia back in Bella Collina.

 "I suppose Bretonnian men have only space in their lives for one divine lady of battle,"  Bella notes as she looks into the unattended offering  bowl at the foot of the goddess - full of copper.  "It's strange seeing Myrmidia as a peasant goddess, when back home she's everyone's... but especially for the mercenaries and the monied princes that rely on them." 

It's a empty shrine, but the activity is nearby. Outside in the fenced grounds there is a training yard of hard packed dirt, archery buttes and training dunnies, and a wooden amphitheatre where a maybe forty men of various ages sit and listen to some kind of lecture being delivered by a barrel-bodied man with a Myrmidian icon hanging around his neck, and a cassock of dark brown linen with a white threaded hem. He is the kind of man whose whole life is there in his posture, his voice, and his face - survivor of many battles, now wiling away his latter years in service to his goddess.

The assembled crowd has some variety: no women or knights, but there's some range from young men at arms in their lords' varied liveries hoping to learn enough to be raised up to the ranks of the yeomenry to ununiformed peasants hoping to capture some favor from Bretonnia's second most promient lady of battles. A cluster of odd men, strangers in ecclectic mail and leather whose bodies are adorned with trinkets, carved things, and strips of cloth pay attention, too. These last ones do not strike you as Myrmidian, if only for the obvious grail iconography on their various tokens, but the space given to them by the others seems more wary than unwelcoming.

The priest's 'altar' in this case is a wooden table given form by surprisingly sophisticated models of hills and trees and populated by little regiments of cast lead figures of soldiers. The observers look on with rapture.

 "...With the anniversary of the battle coming up, it seemed appropriate. It's a rare matter in which there are four armies afield and loyalties alter in the fight. That may be considered a fortune or a blessing for the victors; but fortune provides only the opening for discipline and dynamic action. We have precious few records of the opportunities that were missed by warriors who were wiped out by their inattention; but you can be assured there are many. But our Duke Tancred was not inattentive; and so took the day despite the doubled enemy host of both dead men, and rat-men..." 
 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
If Taalia wants to audit this lecture about the 12th Battle of La Maisontaal, she can - but I'll ask for a flat Charm roll to exude the kind of warrior sensibility that might make her unusual presence implicitly welcome.
 
 
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 


It was an interesting point of development for Taalia to witness, how  different  Bretonnian society was. Not just in its social stratification, but also in its means and customs - and how this reflected in the deities they worshiped. To be fair, the shepardess knew very little of The Lady. She gathered that she were a deity-like figure whose decrees were the law of the land, but this was the first time that Taalia had really got to behold the nuts and bolts of how different religions nourished the land of their nations, and from what fruit was yielded from the trees that sprouted forth.

However, Lady of Battles as she was, Myrmidia was also the daughter of Verena and Morr. Verena in particular was the Goddess of sciences, law and justice, and that could be seen reflected in what the Tileas valued and how their nation was largely a composition of Republics, where serfs were unheard of, a nobility did exist, but the common man was relatively free to do as he wilt. That wasn't so in Bretonnia. This Lady, whomever she was, professed ideas that had produced...well,  this , the current state of the Bretonnian caste system. Taalia wondered, as she entered the Myrmidian temple and, smiling at her friends comment, found a small side-shrine to kneel and pray. She offered silent gratitude for safe-passage thus given, such as it was, the continued health of her companions, and to grant her any insights in the future that may mean the difference between life and death.

As was expected of Myrmidian temples, there were those who were practicing their martial skills, which Taalia happily viewed and watched. Predictably, they were all peasants, or men-at-arms and those lowborn who had managed to elevate themselves slightly in Bretonnian society. And so when she entered the altar room and saw a group gathered to listen to the priest speak, Taalia remained quiet and in the back, her excellent hearing gathering what she needed.

Naturally, Taalia stood out like a sore thumb. He her height, her visibly physicality, the feminine charm of her face that was marred by a couple of scars, these would be unusual enough, though she had seen fit to tie her blonde-white hair in a bun that sat neatly beneath her steel helmet. But the full mail she wore and the colors over such protection, the shield on her back, two visible pistols on her hips/thighs, the firearm she carried on her back and the beautiful hilt of a predictably well-made blade scabbard upon her hip. It was clear to anyone looking at her that she was foreign and unusual, but from her scars, size and many armaments, she wasn't helpess.
MrAbdiel
  
 Spoiler: OOC: 
You may re-up your  Blessing of Myrmidia  trapping.

(The Blessing of Myrmidia is a trapping, even though it is obviously not a trapping in a physical sense. Once, you can add 20% to your Weapon Skill for one turn. Importantly, you can do this after rolling; so a judicious use might turn a post full of failed parries and missed ripostes into a series of narrow deflections and telling hits. You will not gain this automatically every time you visit a Myrmidian Holy Place - first taste was free. But piety may increase the chances of receiving it again.)
 


You're an odd sight to be sure, but you carry yourself respectfully enough in this place, and you are obviously enough a foreigner, that it seems not to cause a fuss at all. Ironically, if you had been  merely  a woman you might not have been seen as welcome; but Bella particularly has the duskier features of a member of the southern kingdoms, and your mercenary attire is somehow less offensive to these peasant folk than it would be likely to a convention of chivalric knights. The weathered priest notices you, and most of the eyes of the assembled men notice you and then look to him for some signal as to how they should feel about this. But he gives you the best regard a soldier can - no more consideration than anyone else, and no one challenges that. Some of the grail pilgrims shuffle over to make space for you and Bella.

La Maisontaal, you learn is a fortified monastery castle in the mountains of Parravon. It's unusual in the fact of itself - holy places devoted to Taal in isolation from his wife Rhya tend to be groves and natural places, not grand fortified structures. But clearly it is sacred enough to attract attention - apparently this is the "Eleventh Battle of the Maisontaal" and it had attracted the hostility of both a warhost of skaven and a march of the living dead, coordinating against structure. Duke Tancred - then merely Lord Tancred II, son of the reigning Duke Tancred I back in Quenelles - had been leading his knights in attacks into the orc infested mountains of Massif Orcal when Taal's high priest summoned his aid through a supernatural vision.

 "But when he arrived to see the beseiged monks fighting for their lives on the ramparts against  le zombie  and  le rat  alike, he read the battlefield and held back from the charge. A truly coordinated host might have posed an insurmountable threat, but this was merely two armies in uneasy agreement. He saw the rats keeping their deadly warpfire throwers lagging instead of bringing them to bear on the gates and walls, and anticipated the treachery of the rats that would follow. Thus, he reserved his charge until he was proven right - the skaven turned their fire on the necromancer Kemmler and his retinue. The evil wizard lived, but now the battle had multiple fronts and the rats had the advantage. Without intervention, their surprise betrayal would mean they overwhelm the necromancer and then the fortress, and turn their fire-guns upon the knights if they revealed themselves too late. Thus, with restraint and warrior cunning, our duke made his charge when the rats were winning, but had not yet won, and drove a wedge of knights into the rat host that balanced their forces against the dead men. Rats flee when they feel they cannot win, and deadmen do not flee at all until you kill their puppet masters - but with the battle driven into balance, all armies ground themselves down with attrition. A costly victory - but the only possible one, in amidst a variety of possible defeats against two superior forces..." 

Miragliano had dedicated ratfighters and the everpresent threat from the swamp, but this is the first you've heard talk of the rats actually marching to war and employing the kinds of machines you saw constructed in the underempire. You never worked on a warpfire thrower - probably for the best, since it sounds like it used a lot of warpstone - but the device isn't conceptually hard to imagine, and horrifying to consider being on the receiving end. But this story had a happy ending, or happy enough: the necromancer driven to flight, the skaven shattered and their beasts run down, and the battered Bretonnian survivors praising Taal and the Lady for a miraculous day of victory. It seems the current Duke of Quenelles is an experienced rat-fighter, though by the way the story is told his primary grief is with the necromancer named Heinrich Kemmler.

Visually, with the priest reenacting the battle in abstract with the miniatures on the board, it's an interesting lesson you can't help but interpret with the principles of craftsmanship you have come to know - leverage, fragility, balance, lift, torque. The trick of preventing the skaven from wiping out the undead so fast they retained critical strength, but not being too successful lest the undead (who will not flee like the rats) overcome with their weight in numbers, is quite a needle to thread. At the end of the lesson, the priest speaks a blessing over the assembled listeners, and they file out.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
If you have queries for the priest, now's the time - otherwise, I'll take you on to the other holy sites.
 
 
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 


Taalia watched the display unfold with a child-like amusement, enthralled to the movement of little minatures and learning about the cunning of the Bretonnian duke who summed up his enemies and bid himself the right time to strike. It was was a curious for this an ex-slave like herself to witness the final fruits of her child labour: weapons for the Skaven to employ in their own endless civil wars, and their battles on the surface. She'd seen up front the conception, design and construction of the vicious machines the ratmen's devious intelligent generated, as well as the grotesque horrors they bred in their spawning grounds, so she knew the type of bravery it took to not only stand against them in the field, but also to kill them and drive them from it.

Good.

Taalia would have spat on the ground, but this was Myrmidia's temple. Even such outward displays of disrespect towards a foe that didn't deserve to exist would be seen as an insult to her patronage.

 &lt;"We built lots of those weapons,"&gt;  Taalia would whisper into Bella's ears during the little show, while her eyes remained on the board. Again, she spoke in Tilean so no one would understand them.

 &lt;"Deep underground, in the workshops. I hope they all drown down there."&gt; 

But the prospect of the Undead - now that  was  new to her. Obviously, ghosts existed. But Undead? Zombies and skeletons? Taalia knew very little of them, but she had heard several times the hushed whispers the ratmen ushered to each other over the prospect of fighting the undead. Here was an enemy could not infiltrate and bribe, an implacable enemy whom they could not frighten, poison, law low with disease or spook. No, the restless dead were an inexorable advance, and though they were not invincible, the shepardess had heard one of two tales of the Skaven suffering disastrous defeats at their decaying hands.

Good.

Taalia had no love for the undead, but knowing the Skaven felt the same fear that they savaged upon others, made her a little happier.

When the sermon was over and the priests eyes fell upon Taalia, she shepardess offered a pleasant smile and small curtsey.

 "Thank you for the address,"  she started,  "may the Skaven and Undead alike join each other in destruction." 

It was small and sincere, a wish that could be shared by men separated by borders and culture.

Before leaving the temple, Taalia went to pray once more. This time it was a smaller affair, but no less heartfelt, as she knelt, brought her hands clasped together before her amidst the castles, and offered a spiritual gratitude towards Myrmidia, the Lady of Battles. Only this time, she also shared a thought for Cestie, a man whose genius had brought them here yet had sadly passed before witnessing its future greatness. Buried on Bretonnian soil as he was, Taalia would take his memory forward to Nuln and ensure it would enter the history books.
MrAbdiel
 Shallya's temple is much more impressive than the space devoted to Myrmidia. The complex relationship the more warlike sister has with the various peoples of the world is not felt by her gentle counterpart - kings and muckrakers alike have to fear the plague, the poison, and threat of fouling that comes with every incidental wound of life. Over all, the Quenelles Temple of Shallya is less impressive than the one you saw back in Remas by a degree. There is more statuary here and fewer frescoes and painted likenesses. You note at once that the primary likeness of Shallya in Remas was the painted ceiling of the divine Shallya with her nudity concealed by tasteful spirals of silk and the flight of her doves. Here, she is depicted with a more predictable Bretonnian modesty which is coincidentally more like the the conservative gowns Shallyans back in Remas, and here in Quenelles, work themselves. The central statue is very impressive - a tall marble Shallya stands on a plinth with her hands balming the foreheads of two kneeling, slouching figures who have brought their illness to her for mercy. One is a beggar in rags, the other a nobleman with a coronet and a broken sword. Only Shallya's hands, feet, and sweet face are uncovered here, and the feet are all that are in reach of visitors to touch. The marble on those feet is noticably worn smooth from innumerable fingertips grasping for the divine. You notice, particularly, another detail; her weight is forward on her left foot on the flat of the plinth, but the right foot has the heel on a flat piece of raised stone. It's almost hidden by the fall of the marble down, but that stone has beneath it the stone likeness a rat, crushed to death by Shallya's gentle stride. The effort to carve that additional feature in the partly concealed space of the statue must have been considerable, using curved tools and patience. It must have been important to the sculptor.

This temple also has a dove cage, and birds being purchased by small groups of peasants pooling their pennies to load their avian intercessors with prayers before releasing them to the sky outside. You notice that there is a new demographic here - bands of dusty and road-weary men and women with dusky complexions and a profusion of Shallya iconography like strips of yellow fabric and carved wooden bird tokens. All of them have some manner of injury of malady, or else they are carrying someone who does. Just inside the main archway, beside a statue of Shallya touching the cleaved arm of a stumbling man-at-arms, a small group of these pilgrims work to fix a handcart with a busted wheel, which seems to be conveyance for withered old man sitting patiently to the side.

 "Pilgrims,"  says a swarthy gent in stylish light leathers and an extravagant cloak, all as road-weary as the garb of the others around,  "on our way to the Grand Cathedral in Couronne. Is this your case also, señoritas mías?"  Hearing an Estalian speak is slightly surreal, since you've only ever heard them mocked in Tilean play and rumor. It's like having figure of fun leap off the stage and begin speaking to the crowd. 
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 

Taalia smirked when she noticed the more Bretonnian-suitably modest Shylla of these lands, the shepardess gently nudging Bella and gesturing up at it with a little giggle.

Gods and their ideas lay the seed of a land...but maybe sometimes that land altered the way the ensuing trees grew?

Within the temple, Taalia would gently take Bella by the hand and bring the pair of them over to a shrine where they could prayer together. Once again, Taalia's thoughts roamed to the hopes of safe travels, but also to her friends and adoptive family back home: Gaulfredo, Ariana, Vittorio, Polo, among others. She prayed for the guidance necessary to sustain the school she had helped built and the business she had made and handed over, for the fertile fields and excellent harvest of crop and swine. When she was done, Taalia felt cleansed. Gratified and happy. Drawing her hands to her front, exhaling and smiling, she looked over to Bella and whispered  &lt;"We should also pay a visit to Morr's shrine when we are able. Tell them Cestie's full name and passing so that they may say his final rites,"&gt;  she nodded sagaciously.

 'Men have their own Gods too...'  the words rang in Taalia's mind. If the rat-men had that... thing  lurking down in the dark, then surely man had their own guardians that embodied their best aspects.

When Taalia and Bella were going to leave, after passing some silver to the donation box of course, that is when they spotted the visible foreigners, the Estalians. Though Taalia herself was an alien to these lands in culture and kin, she was no so distinct in her more pale appearance and lighter hair that she could be easily marked as such without first surmising the warlike gear she wore, and how very out of sorts it was with Bretonnian decorum.

But these people were clearly southern in origin, similar to Bella. The sun-kissed skin and darker hair, the way they spoke their language was most bizzare! Taalia could  almost  understand it, almost. She like like she were listening to a drunkard who still had enough wits about him to form complete sentences in his slurred tone, and if she first thought what was being spoken - in Queekish of course - then the translation, however slow, would occur.


 "Pilgrims," says a swarthy gent in stylish light leathers and an extravagant cloak, all as road-weary as the garb of the others around, "on our way to the Grand Cathedral in Couronne. Is this your case also, señoritas mías?" Hearing an Estalian speak is slightly surreal, since you've only ever heard them mocked in Tilean play and rumor. It's like having figure of fun leap off the stage and begin speaking to the crowd. 

 "No, I - "  Taalia smiled, her words cut off first out of shock before regaining her composure. Already she could remembers Gaulredo's warning from the first time he took her to market, that the men of Estalia were unscrupulous curs who'd take the kitchen door to bed with him if one put a skirt on it.

  But, best not tell him their true destination  , the shepardess told herself.

 "We,"  she gestured to Bella and herself,  "are passing through, accompanying a Knight. We had the afternoon and so wished to offer gratittude for safe passage to Myrmidia and Shylla. Where are you from, Signore?" 
MrAbdiel
 When you speak, his dark eyes flash and he clutches at his chest as if preparing to keel over on stage.

 "Tileans! Tileans beauties, ah, what cruel vexation!"  He bobbles back on his heels like he's punch drunk before settling from his melodrama.  "Alas, I suppose we all bear imperfections. Wise to offer gratitude to the gods, of course."  Having recovered from his faux agonies, he bows with one arm over his midsection and the other drawing his cape to the side.  "Diego Vigo de Arinterro, a humble diestro of Magritta. Doing a kindness for Shallya by escorting her pilgrims to Couronne, and then one for Myrmidia by guiding hers back to Magritta. How good it is, when sisters share things so comfortably!"  Ultimately, his flirtation has dried up at this point. Either the Tilean accents really were a deal breaker or frontloaded flirtation are just part of the way he greets women.

He gestures to the pilgrims.  "These are Bilbalians mostly, but they are humbled in their state so they will accept a Magrittan or two in their midst. The blizzards are starting early this year, so I have had to convince them to wait out the middle of winter - the Bretonnians call it 'King's Sleep' - here in Quenelles. They are all suffering, but they will suffer less waiting here for two months than they will trying to push on through the snow." 

Bella is considering the same lifetime of warnings against Estalians as you are, but she is also, like you, being exposed to more of the world than she used to be, and engages albeit warily.

 "Your Breton is very good, Signore. Ah - señor. Do you spend much time here? I had thought Estalians and Bretonnians had little in common." 

Diego seems delighted to speak on this, or any other topic. He leans against a nearby stone pillar, and gestures loosely around as if to the nation beyond.  "Ah, they are strange, certainly. I do not think much of their codes of manhood. And even Tileans are more free under the princes, I think. But a single crown rules Bretonnia from the Sea of Claws to the River Niveau, and when that crown summons all its dukes to war, they muster and ride and shake the mountains together. They have disputes, but if you put all the Dons of Estalia in the same room - or all the Princes of Tilea - only one would walk out alive! And in the olden times, when the Sultan Jaffar brought his sheiks and their  muharidin  and seized all of Estalia and carried many of my people into captivity, it was a great crusade of these frog-eating knights and their beer-swilling Imperial cousins who came to set Estalia free. How can I have bad feeling to them then, imperfect through they are? You have reminded me, and I shall buy a dove for the King of the Bretonnians this day." 

He touches his heart, as though moved. After this considerable discourse, he probes again:  "And where are you from, señoritas mías?" 

Out the corner of your eye, you can see the pilgrims trying to fix the hand cart reaching the limits of their technical skill. Elsewhere, a call goes out toward the back of the temple, and the attending sisters hustle off to give their aid to some medical emergency. A handful young girls - children, really - who are neophytes in Shallya's faith remain to watch the relatively serene main temple. 
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 
 "Tilean beauties - indeed!"  Taalia scoffed, her eyes narrowing into suspicious slits, but her smirk remaining in good humour at the implication that this man was indeed a scoundrel. She looked over to Bella after saying it, still wearing her amused snicker before drawing her attention back to Diego, clearly too clever to fall for any of his wiley tricks.

However, it was interesting to hear his perspective on things from other parts of the world, as Estalia had been, during her time with Gaulfredo, a mysterious land of thieves and whores. Apparently they once fell under the depredations of the "Arabyans", whom Taalia gathered were human, but evidently shared more in common with the verminous Skaven if they would empty whole towns into the waiting steel of the manacle. Despicable. But, despite that, Taalia found it curious that the Estalians apparently enjoyed a degree of freedom similar to that of the Tileans, with both groups, though unable to stand each other, looking up the Bretonnian society as little more than a pyramid of slave-serfs and lords. From an outsiders perspective, it seemed that the Tileans and Estalia's were two brothers of similar qualities, yet whose ceaseless bickering and distrust sprung from being  too  alike.

 "The Bretonnians have odd ways,"  Taalia added in,  "but can be quite endearing at their best." 

But, as Diego spoke further, the shepardess' eyes drifted back over to the cart that a group of pilgrims was attempting to fix. For a moment she considered offering...but she had little real experience. If it were a gun, or something  like  a gun then she could take a look, but fashioning firearm stocks was about as far as her wheelwright skills extended.


 "And where are you from, señoritas mías?" 


Taalia smirked.

 "You seem like a well travelled man, Senor,"  the shepardess responded, the question she had asked Briant some time ago drawing back up to her lips.

 "Where do you think I am from?" 
MrAbdiel
 He laughs, and clutches his heart again.

 "Well travelled, she says - she calls me old! What blasphemy, to do injury to a man in a place like this. Let me see... Well, you are not from the same place, plainly. The further north one goes, the folk get paler and taller; the further south, they get shorter and darker. So you..."  He gestures to Bella,  "may be from anywhere in the peninsula, Luccini to Tobaro. But you, señorita..."  he turns his attention to you again,  "have a touch to your accent I cannot place, so you - like Myrmidia herself - may not have been born to the Southern Realms, as much as descended there. Tall as you are, it would be hard not to think you had the northmen's blood in you. But if I must guess where in Tilea you have sprung from together, I will say..."
 
 
 Spoiler: OOC: Roll 
Diego's Common Knowledge: Tilea - Hard.   vs35  - (1d100)[ 56 ] 
Edit for the outcome pending.

Okay, so he can't piece it together, he'll guess a random Tilea province. I will run through the provinces in alphabetical order until I count to 56 and that's where he'll land...

Luccini, Miragliano, Pavona, Remas, Sartosa, Tobaro, Trantio, Verezzo. That's 8. And 56 is 7 times 8, so... numbert 8. Which is Verezzo.

Ranald's on this one's side.
 

 "... I think you would be carrying a pavise if you were from Miragliano, and I would have picked your accent if you were Tobaran. If you were Trantine or Reman you would have been picking a fight with me for just trying my luck, as it were. You do not strike me as Sartosans, despite your firearms, on account of the fact you are not robbing me. If you were Pavonan, you would be now in Pavona, enjoying her climate rather than here confronting the northern snows. And I see..."  He makes a show of looking you both over - focusing on leathergoods where their might be brands or marks -  "no trace of the leopard, so you cannot be Luccinan. I will guess you are from Verezzo, and are the only two agreeable people left in that state plunging it now into total bickering partisanship. Is it not so?" 

It's a flimsy guess, but a lucky one. 
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 


Taalia smiled in genuine amusement at the mans playful pantomime, clutching at his heart and O Woe is me! over having his possibly advanced age brought into question. However, she was impressed by how much he lived up to the suggestion by moving through the logical deductions to arrive at conclusions that were, if deliberate rather than guesses, very accurate.

The shepardess still wore that smile of hers, seemingly put at ease by the affable nature of the Estalian - but those warnings remained in the back of her mind.

 "You are very close, Senor,"  she nods, honor satisfied and general privacy maintained.

 "I do not know from where I hail, only that it is north of here, where as you say, we are taller and more fair in complexion. Though Sartosans have been encountered,"  and she brought both gloved hands to the pommels of her pistols that rested on her hip/thighs,  "trophy's"  she flashed a smirk that formed into a smile.

 "My companion,"  she gestures to Bella,  "had never seen the snow until she crossed into Bretonnia with me, across the mountains,"  Taalia looked at Bella, her smile becoming both playfully teasing but also sincerely affectionate.

 "I imagine it would only be found within the mountains of your Estalia, si Senor? You seem very well informed and up to date on the happenings within Tilea, yet I know almost nothing of your homeland, Senor." 

Taalia gestured to the shrine in which they were speaking,  "Shallya is the daughter of Verena, after all, the lady of knowledge. Maybe they fated that I should encounter you to learn something new about the world?" 
MrAbdiel
  "Well, I imagine it snows in the mountains and near off of them from time to time; and it will lay down even in sunny Magritta from time to time, but Estalia is not so south as Tilea. And Tilea is a land surrounded by mountains - Estalia, alas, is a spar of mountains surrounded by land!" 

Diego is happy to talk about his homeland; as happy as you and Bella are to hear about it. Estalia, as he tells it, it not a collection of states with their merchant princes or republican representatives, but is largely split north and south into two kingdoms. There is Bilbali in the north, bordering Bretonnian duchies Carcassone by river and Brionne by bay, and whose politics is dominated by relations with their knightly neighbours. However incomprehensible their codes of combat are to each other, they seem to recognize each other's nobility as genuinely blooded. Diego paints a picture of a coastal city resting in the bowl of a crown of cave-riddled cliffs, servicing merchant fleets from all over the world, menaced constantly by pirates coming from as far as Sartosa, and as near as Brionne. The other kingdom, Diego's home, is Margritta, is the southern realm of Estalia, whose fortunes are most often entangled contentiously with neighbouring Tilea. The source of that conflict becomes immediately apparent to you as he goes on.

 "...And you might, if you can be very careful about it, make a pilgrimmage to the Archecclesiastium of Myrmidia in fair Magritta, señoritas. It is a marvel to behold. And I have seem myself the great relic - the sacred rock where the goddess's feet first touch the ground, and the stone yielded to her heavenly alighting. You can see the print still, in the stone!" 

This of course is impossible, because you have been to the Great Cathedral of Myrmidia in Remas, where you have yourself seen the sacred egg in which Myrmidia came to the world as an infant and crawled out, to be raised by goatherds, betrayed to servitude and indignity, and to go on to take up the spear and conquer. You know that Myrmidia did not, in fact, descent to the world as a grown adult in Magritta and begin her exploration of the world without a childhood at all. At least, that's what they told you in Remas. Having two centres of workship of the same goddess, both with their own tales of the goddess being authentically of their country but uniting the other to it by divine right, has natural hazards that require only a little imagination.

 "But two kingdoms is only a half of the truth. In fact, neither crown has much control over their respective Dons. Hundreds of petty kingdoms giving  minimal genuflection to their parent crowns, each lord settling his own dishonour with his neighbours. But we have historically had much to unite over. There were the Arabyans, of course; the rats, at other times. We have our share of beastmen in the forest, and more orcs in our mountains than most places - this is part of why I like Quenelles so much, for they see the greenskin for all his menace. We have pirates and the odd dark elf, and all kinds of things - frankly, we are too busy for holy war with our neighbours. But I tell you this much, señorita - if you want to learn more than just how to chop and hack with that fine sword of yours, you find a  diestro  to train you. The way of the  spear  may belong to Tilea, and the way of the  lance  to Bretonnia... but the way of the  sword  was born in Estalia." 

If nothing else, he has proven to be harmless and chatty. Bella asks questions now, about Bilbali and Brionese pirates, but it's at that moment that you realize the mechanical issue the pilgrims are having with their cart. It's a solution they don't have access to because they have a single wooden mallet and hope as their tools, where you have Cestié's compact kit of tinker's tools in your pack where it has lain dormant since the destruction of the flying machine... 
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 

Taalia listened quietly, learning more about the world and this mysterious  "Estalia"  even further. It was clear to her why the schism between them and Tilea was so perennial, as a mixture of cultural and religious rivalry would make poor bedfellows out of any well-meaning people. Yet, Diego's words carried the same troubles as those she had heard from the very south of Tilea to all the way up here in Bretonnia: beastmen, skaven, orcs and goblins. If the two peoples could not be unified in friendship, then they could at least be allied in purpose, and that might be enough for now.

But as Bella started to speak to Diego, the world seemed to slow down for Taalia as her eyes went back to the cart. There was something about the wheel and its fumbled spokes. The clumsy beating with the mallet and ineffective use of hands that lacked the precision and dexterity to fix the heart of the matter - one that they couldn't even see.

Saying nothing to her friend and the Estalian, Taalia merely stepped forward towards the damaged vehicle, reaching over her shoulder to draw her backpack about as she neared the group so that she could produce a leather-folded set of tools that she soon lay out across the ground where she got down on one knee.

 "Mi scusi..."  she spoke gently, her smoky voice catching attention as her focus was on the connection between the axil and the damaged wheel. Reaching towards her tools, a left over from Cestie's time among them, the shepardess smiled in the assured knowledge that the old man would have loved for his instruments to be employed in such a fashion. Assuming she received no obstacles or objections, Taalia got to work...
MrAbdiel
 It's easy enough, once you've seen the problem. Your hands go to the tools and you are reminded how long it has been since you've made something. After a few minutes of work, the wheel turns properly, and the pilgrims are delighted with you. Estalian though they are, all contention of origin is lost on them - or atleast forsaken while they are pilgrims of Shallya. They gabble at you in their familiar but not quite comprehensible language until they get your name, and they commit it to the keeping of a dove the release in your honor.

The withered old man who has his nephew pushing him from Bilbali to Couronne in the handcart is not as old as you thought - maybe in his forties - but he is withered indeed, with some manner of wasting disease that surely they are taking the pilgrimage over. He has dark, sunken eyes that suggest a permenant state of exhaustion but they shine with interest at such a fabulous place to be and people to see, and he mouths  gratzi  to you with some non-trivial portion of his daily ration of strength.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
Gain a  Blessing of Shallya .

(The Blessing of Shallya is a trapping, even though it is obviously not a trapping in a physical sense. Once, you can turn a  failed  Heal roll into a comfortable sucess. Importantly, you can do this after rolling; so a judicious use might turn a catastrophic failure that leaves a friend dead on the table into a medical miracle born of desperation and divine favor. You will not gain this automatically every time you visit a Shallya Holy Place - first taste is free. But piety may increase the chances of receiving it again.)


Additionally, you have earned the custom Talent:  Tinker .

 Tinker - You may attempt to repair broken and jammed objects of any kind with the application of versatile experience and moxie. If you don't have the associated Trade skill for a repair, this roll is at -10%. If you are attempting to repair something that you do indeed have the appropriate trade skill to address, this talent allows you to succeed on simple repairs automatically and entitles you to a further +10% on those rolls that must be made. Sensible limitations apply, as the GM dictates - you cannot unsmash a marble statue, and you need atleast somewhat compatible tools to repair machinery. 
 

 "Shallya remembers her own - perhaps, even the Tileans."  Diego bows to you and Bella.  "That wheel has been a menace to poor Hidalgo there since we crossed the river and some lout manhandled it badly off the barge. But I shall delay you no longer. Adios!" 

With another bow and a flourish of his cape, he returns to his pilgrim charges and applies his sparkling banter to keeping their spirits up.

Bella puts an arm around you companionably as you head out and down the steps.  "Well, we have visited both the daughters - time to see about the father. I fear it will be less charming of a visit than these..." 
 * * * * * 
In fact, considerably nicer than you might have feared.  Garden of Morr  is a term both literal and euphemistic - a graveyard in which the dead are planted like a garden for the deathgod's tending, and also literally a garden to add some degree of consoling beauty to the consecrated resting place of the dead, as well as to crown the sepulchral residences of those priests who live and work there. You have passed by Gardens of Morr many times in your life and travels. While wealthy families may have a small patch of consecrated ground on their land that is for the care of Morrite itinerants, most men and women, young and old, end their stories interred in a communal cemetary with walls and a resident Morrite or to watching over the dead. But Quenelles has the most impressive you've seen by far.

The walls surrounding the grounds are ten feet tall and wide enough for men to walk on them without balancing. The crenulations on that wall are bound and choked with some manner of dark leafed thorny vine that hangs down a few feet from their planters over the wall's edge. As you pass through the gate, your ears are confused to hear the churn of water. Just past the wall is an interior moat between wall and cemetery proper, eddying and rushing at the bottom of a thirty foot drop. As best you can reckon, the water is coming in from somewhere at the north east edge of the octagonal chasm and flushing out at the opposite, presumably diverted underground from, and ultimately draining away back into the River Brienne somewhere. Squinting into the dark below, you see the smooth tight brickwork works in statuary in snug alcoves presenting the faceless hooded god. The most impressive of these statues are at where the water enters and exits, in both cases the likenesses are standing waist deep in the flow and holding an open arm over the opening, beckoning it in or ushering it out. The alcoves create natural imperfections where the rush of water catches churns, making it easier for visitors to pick them out. You see many of Morr statues are carrying oil lanterns that sway slightly, and are perhaps lit and tended through the nighttime hours so that this deep rushing river glows in its chasm.

The moat is traversable by a kind of drawbridge on each of the eight faces of the octagon. Your mind for mechanisms appreciates this immediately, for they are more complex that a simple drawbridge - they have no upright portal to close when raised, but a remarkable concert of chains and large sprocket wheels simultaneously pull the outer end of the bridge upward, and lower the inner end of the bridge down into the pit so the drawbridge in its 'door' state is upright and flat against the garden's interior 'mesa'; waiting there to be cranked the other way and hauled up out of the pit when the morning comes.

The graves of the poor are predictably snug and narrowset, the well-off larger and noted with more elaborate headstones, and wealthier patrons still have family mausoleums decorated with their own statuary featuring the various icons of Bretonnian faith. The chapel in the centre of the mesa is a snubby little fort with a small courtyard in its own interior, and enough lodging for the not-insignificant crew of priests, acolytes, and anointed protectors of this place. They variously drift about the place, maintaining the graves and especially tending the literal gardenbeds within the cemetery. They are not colorful gardens - all bear flowers some variety of white, which splashes brightly out against the surprisingly green grasses of the place.

An acolyte in a black robe looks up from a bench, where he is carefully tending dozens of small clay pots of tiny white flowers - Witchbane, you think - which are to be given away to mourners to plant on their loved one's graves so the flowers may multiply and blanket their departed's rest. The snows do not seem to have bothered the delicate blooms at all.

 "Welcome,"  he bids in an introduction not precisely warm, but open.  "Would you like a flower?"  
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 
 "Prego, prego!"  Taalia smiled in return, graciously playing down her role and downplaying her part in getting the carriage working again. She held the hand of the withered old man and nodded her head, a gentle  "Prego,"  from her mouth before she could unwind herself from the knot of people whom all wished to thank the apparently divinely sent foreigner.


 "Shallya remembers her own - perhaps, even the Tileans." Diego bows to you and Bella. "That wheel has been a menace to poor Hidalgo there since we crossed the river and some lout manhandled it badly off the barge. But I shall delay you no longer. Adios!" 

There were a couple of things left that Taalia wanted to ask, as the idea of learning further swordplay  did  appeal to her. But, there was no such time or chance to ask, as she curtsied towards the Estalian and wished him safe travels and return.

Departing the shrine with Bella, Taalia smiled in amusement at her words, leaning over and kissing her friend upon the forehead.


 oOo 

In another lifetime Taalia might have agreed with Bella. But in this one, she found the Temple to Morr to be oddly comforting. When most moved through the resting places of the deceased, 'comforting' and 'calm' were not the usual words that sprung to mind, but ever the individual, Taalia took some solace in the peaceful atmosphere fostered by the Priests of Morr. The emerald grass that moved between communal and private mausoleums, threaded like woven nature through a tapestry of graves. That white flower, Witchesbane, grew rather prodigiously, its grace coming from the simple elegance of its alabaster, tulip-like bulb that saw in patches as silent, beautiful partners in the resting places of the fallen. But it was beyond the physical markings and tombstones where Taalia found the greatest comfort, as she and BElla moved through the half-cemetary, half-temple, their silence borne in different ways as Bella clearly did not share the shepardess' appreciation. No, it was what came  after  the body gave out and the eyes closed forever that seized Taalia's imagination. Desensitised to violence as she was, it was difficult to remember a time when death shocked her. She had seen it first hand in the boats of the Norscan raiders, then in their dwellings and hamlets. Following this was her her bondage to the Skaven, for whom slaves were no more consequential than ammunition discharged by a rifleman. And so to walk among the graves of those who had once been, Taalia pondered to where exactly they all went to,  if  they had traveled to any place at all once they departed the mortal coil.

Surely they had. The Priests of Morr could perform the divine form of magic, after all. That had to come from  somewhere  other than the stuff of Chaos, some divine source to whom they were connected and from whom they received instruction and insight. Were they simply bearded mad-men yelling apocalypse from a street corner, Taalia would pay no heed. Instead, they were a priesthood that could, and frequently did, perform miracles in connection with their deity. And in a way, that was an encouraging thought. Whatever befell us here on the material plane, as long as we had not thrown in our lot with Chaos or performed dark, rapacious or wicked deeds, we would travel to Morr and find eternal rest under his guardianship.


 "Welcome," he bids in an introduction not precisely warm, but open. "Would you like a flower?" 

Taalia had been somewhat lost in her own train of thought, but not so much that she was startled by the question. Blinking away her own mind for a moment and returning to the present, the cool, gentle ambiance of the Temple finding comfort within her once again, the shepardess offered a small nod of greeting.

 "Well met, priest,"  she started, not sure if he had a particular title one should address,  "my traveling companion and I have come from Tilea, and we are heading further north. However, when we set out we had a third with us, however, he was quite old, and sadly did not make it this far with us. We wish to ensure the last rites for his passing." 
MrAbdiel
 The fellow does not object to 'priest', and so it seems to pass muster as a title for future use.

 "I see. It is the task of our church to retrieve, where possible, the wayward dead. If you can tell me your companion's name, and where they fell, we can send a shepherd to see them home." 

When you begin to explain that Cestié fell not within Quenelles, you can see a certain tension creep into the priest as if the following information about where he  did  fall seems to matter significantly, and there is at least one answer he is hoping is not the case. But when you explain it was over the river in Carcassonne, and especially that the body has since been safely interred within the walls of Lord Donallo's castle, his expression softens.  "I see. It is good for you to have such care for a departed loved one - I shall send word to one of the southern abbeys along the border road in Carcassonne to see he is given rites. Most castles have itinerant priests who tend their gardens - but since you have come to seek extra assurance of solace for your friend, I will seek to give you extra assurance." 

You see he takes a little shingle of wood and writes on it with quill and ink in some priestly shorthand, but you see elements within it enough to believe he is being honest and not simply trying to sooth someone he might assume is an illiterate peasant.

He puts the shingle aside, and you see him glance over your unusual regalia.

 "You say you are heading further north...? Do you might, good ma'amselles, if I ask where your ultimate destination may take you? I see you are travelling armed, but seem likely to be bound to no Lord or fief. There are often small tasks to give and they are given to knights errant as they roam, but... Perhaps you might consider doing Morr a service yourselves..?"  
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 
 "Oui, merci, Priest of Morr,"  Taalia would curtsey slightly, the warmth of her smile sincere as she was relieved to know that Cestie would move into the stewardship of Morr himself. Eternal rest for her adoptive grandfather, while she moved to Nuln and gained him eternal fame.

While the Priest busied himself, Taalia looked over at Bella and offered her a friendly smile, the one a mother might give to a child to reassure them when they looked out-of-sorts. The shepardess knew her friend felt somewhat uncomfortable around so many graves, knowing that who-knew-how-many rested all around them, and it was a stark reminder to Taalia that her own childhood of slavery and death had taken from her the precaution of being in such places. Whether that was a curse or a blessing, only time would tell.

  &lt;"Cestie will rest with Morr,"&gt;   Taalia whispered softly to her shorter friend and did so in Tilean, leaning over and putting an arm around her shoulder to hug her close in affection.

  &lt;"One day, in the far future, when our time comes, we'll see him again. We'll see them all again."&gt;  

  "You say you are heading further north...? Do you might, good ma'amselles, if I ask where your ultimate destination may take you? I see you are travelling armed, but seem likely to be bound to no Lord or fief. There are often small tasks to give and they are given to knights errant as they roam, but... Perhaps you might consider doing Morr a service yourselves..?"  

Taalia turned her head, almost as if she had forgotten about the presence of the priest. Taking her arm away from Bella and wondering for a moment whether she should reveal their true destination, she decided against it and thought it best to just supply their trajectory.

 "We are heading into the Empire,"  she stated gently,  "for many reasons,"  her smile was one of amusement.

But then came the request - the Priests of Morr, requesting something of her? Would Bella approve?

Looking over at her friend for a second, then back at the priest, Taalia asked slowly, clearly uncertain but not fearful.

 "How could I be of help, monsieur?" 
MrAbdiel
 Bella, fortunately, does not seem exactly put off by the Gardens entirely; just a little ill at ease with death so generally, in the way most people have a healthy aversion to imagining themselves shrouded and buried beneath a splash of Witchbane flowers.

  "Yes we will,"   she concurs quietly to your assurance of otherworldly rest for Céstie and those others lost in the world,    "and we'll tell him they... they named a wing of the Nuln engineering school after him."    

He seems a little excited when you say you are going as far as the Empire. The priest - who names himself Brother Brann, incidentally - delicately explains his ask.

 "All the priesthoods in the old world take some responsibility to stand against evil; and Morr's  sons and daughters are naturally most preoccupied with managing the disorder sometimes inflicted upon the dead. I am a member of a specific group called the  Lafontaine Society , that spans the eastern provinces of Bretonnia - Quenelles, Parravon and Montfort - and Reikland on the other side of the Grey Mountains. It is our charge to observe certain... illicit spellcasters' works, left in the world that are not as easily destroyed as say... burning a tome, or some such. There's a ruin in the mountains on the Imperial side that has some peculiar properties. It has been razed, but... well, there is more than enough left to be a source of trouble. And more than once, when a knight is sent to make an observation, he can't help but wander in looking for glory or treasure and sometimes does not come back. Ma'amselles, I would not ask you to go into such a place. Not at all. But I have here..." 

He produces a slim wooden case that looks like it might once have been a folding game board, except there are no playing pieces on the inside. Instead there are a number of small, chipped off rock samples, a compact rock hammer, and a flat little book.

 "There are certain locations around the exterior of these ruins where my society has been trying to make observations over the years. The collection isn't much, honestly - there are Morrite symbols we've left marking locations where we are taking samples of the rock for the last... well, four hundred years now. Seeing how the nature of the landscape changes over time, you see? We just need an up-to-date collection of samples matching the locations of these here. Once obtained, they can be turned into a colleague of mine, Brother Lustig, who quarters in Bögenhafen. There will be a reward, certainly; one well worth the small diversion. Fifteen gold crowns - the diversion from your journey shouldn't cost more than five if you were to elect to travel most luxuriously. I can offer those in advance. There's just always a modest amount of danger with such things - but relatively little, if you are wiser than the hotheaded young braggarts looking to come back with a story. Are you interested?" 

Bella looks a little cautious at the offer - she is on an adventure, but doesn't quite consider herself an  adventurer , but she feels safe with you. And aside from the gold on offer (gold is gold, after all) there is something enticing about the academic mystery of the venture. The little rocks in their nooks in the case all look fairly normal - some brick, some white quartz, some flat grey granite. What could warrant a centuries-long investigation? 
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 


Taalia perked her eyebrow at Brother Banns offer, her lips pursing into a 'Hmmm, really?' look, before tilting her head to register Bella's reaction. Naturally, her companion was wary, which was fair enough. After all, why take the risk? They weren't geologists. What did Taalia know about rocks? Except the ones she busted open back during her time of indentured servitude. Now she was to scurry around various plots of land, adjacent to old ruins that might be home to the undead, where she'd carve off bits of rock to collect? And what did they even want them for? Monitoring an area through rock chips? Taalia was no geologist, but didn't tectonic movements take thousands of years, rather than just a few?  And  some Knights Errant had gone missing in the area? They weren't silly boys with wooden swords. As brash as they could be, they were well armed and armored, and they knew how to use those weapons.

It all seemed rather odd. Particularly with the potential price tag attached to it. No one spent 15 gold on a task unless it was damn worth every penny.

 "That's quite a price tag, Brother Brann,"  Taalia responded, the light of intelligence visible in her heterochromatic eyes.

 "All to collect some rock shavings? There wouldn't be any details you have forgotten about, would there?" 
MrAbdiel
 Brother Brann looks at least hurt, just shy of offended at the implication. His hands clutch the wooden case of the rock sample like he is weighing if he has made a misjudgement, and ought to withdraw them.

 "I would not send you or anyone else heedless into danger, ma'amselle. Like I said, it's a location that was subject to the work of an illicit spellcaster - a necromancer, naturally, as you might infer from it being a Morrite project - and the magic has a slow warping effect on the ground around the ruin. There's danger that there will be some trouble - maybe minor undead, or beastmen from the forest nearby - but that is why the pay is so high. I made an assumption based on your many, many weapons that this was a matter you would be comfortable confronting. Was I wrong...?"  
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 


Taalia's features softened as she detected the borderline offence in the Priests tone, and to be honest, a slight flush of shame ran across her shoulders. This was an appointed member of the brotherhood of Morr - they weren't highwaymen out to make a quick talen.

 "My apologies, Brother Brann,"  Taalia responded, her tone gentler,  "please forgive any insinuation, it was not my intention. My life has not been an easy one, and the adage,  'If something is too good to be true, it probably is' , is one that has preserved me many times. Old habits die hard. I meant no offence, please accept my apology, and I would be happy to try my hand at this task." 
MrAbdiel
 Brother Brann gives a thin, awkward smile - a mutual apology for the brief clash.

 "I suppose it is fair to be wary. It is a dangerous world... Think nothing of it. I mean only to say, I think the danger of the job is commensurate with the offered coin. And I am not being colorful when I say more than one knight has gone missing on such an errand over the generations of this effort - but in both cases I'm aware of there is corroboration suggesting they strayed into the ruins against instruction. The notebook within shows the signs we have left, and where to look for them."  He doesn't ask if you are literate. He seems to have intuited it, somehow.

He counts out five gold  ecu  and, after taking notation of your name and Bella's and the deal you have struck for his records, he hands them over. "Bless you both, ma'amselles. This is inglamourous work, but it is vital to guarding the realms of men. For every epic tale of a striving hero casting down a wizard from his tower, there are a hundred nameless scribes and priests and humble men who have contributed little works to make smooth the way." He slides the case over to you, where it enters the honored ranks of your many possessions.

"The ruin will be easy enough to find, once you're within Reikland. Just follow the signs on the road to  Castle Drachenfels. "

 * * * * * 
 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
Where to now? Was it the Lesser Market on the Pilgrim Road?
 
 
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 

Taalia received the instruments and placed them among the numerous items she had acquired over the couple of years she had been free. From a girl with nothing, to a lady with substantially more than most - hers had been an unusual trajectory. Though, truth be told, it had started very poorly.

 "Castle Drachenfels..."  Taalia repeated the name, as she and Bella bid the priests farewell.

 "Castle Drachenfels...Reikspiel is such a different language!"  she said chipperly to her companion, as they moved into the main street of the city and slowly moved through the throngs of people going about their business, the scent of cooking food and animals joining the everyday live within the protective purview of a Bretonnian castle.

 "It sounds a touch harsher, like Norscan - I can only remember a few words of that. I wonder what they speak where I'm from?" 

It was a fair enough observation, as Bretonnian, Estalian and Tilean had considerable overlap in their vocabulary, grammar and structure. But Reikspiel? That language originated in a land separated from the others by the imposing geography of mountains and a cultural demarcation. Though Taalia didn't know it, the darkly woodened lands of the Empire was a very different environment to the open, sunny grasslands of Tilea and Bretonnia.

And then, of course, there was Queekish, Taalia's regrettably  native  language.

 "Do you know what the phrase for this in Queekish would be?"  she asked Bella, a clearly sly and devilish smile across her features as she softly delivered the ratmens sharp, scratchy words only loud enough for the Tilean girl alone to hear.

Chatting among themselves, the two foreign girls moved onwards towards the Lesser Market. This name was something of a misnomer, Taalia would soon discover, as they emerged into a far cleaner section of commerce that had a noticeably higher presence of castle watchmen on guard, while peasantry rable, brightly dressed but determinedly boorish, had thinned in number and gave way to a higher frequency of smartly dressed men, or small groups of finely garbed women with a circle of female servants attending them. It was here that Taalia and Bella stood out in particular, though Bella less-so ever since she had adopted the custom of wearing at least a white veil across her dark locks. Taalia, however? Her clothes were finely made and her riding boots of outstanding quality, but the armor draped over her body, the guns on her thighs and further assortments of weapons and un-ladylike instruments, drew the odd stare. Her height, though drawing regular looks, was something of a boon in these situations, as it was easy to dismiss some silly local tomgirl that had imbibed too many tales of Repanse de Lyonesse and was likely to get herself into all sorts of trouble. But Taalia was different. Her striking and unusual appearance saw her behaviour partially excused, as she looked so  foreign , her ways were her own, and not a threat to the established order.

Inhaling, smiling, and exhaling, Taalia took in the sight of both the central enclave of finer quality stalls and the colorful, exotic wares presented upon them in the hope of luring in a passing monied fellow, and the flanking buildings whose entrances were adorned with signs that carried emblems for the professions and skills to be found within. As if further seductions were required, the smell of cooked meat and fried onions wafted over the market square from the open windows and doors of the more up-market eateries that were strategically placed as to ensure anyone leaving after a day of bargaining would be reminded of their rumbling stomach and be tempted to put their feat up by the fire with a cold flagon of ale.

 "Did you want anything?"  Taalia whisper-asked to Bella, beside her, leaning down slightly while keeping her eyes on the scene before her.

 "I think we will need some currency while in Bretonnia, so I will sell something to ensure we have what we need for our trip further north-wards!" 
MrAbdiel
  "It is a funny language, isn't it?"  Bella agrees as you peel away from the Gardens of Morr.  "All throaty. All hacchhh and sprechhh. You can hear where the Classical springs up in Estalian and Breton, but Reikspiel is just a different world. Polo says that we in the south kingdoms came up from the Southlands long ago, but the Sigmarfolk came from over their own mountains east of them. What's over there, I've no idea. But if that's how it happened, how come the Bretonnians speak something that has so much Classical in it, and they aren't hacching and sprecchhing everywhere? I don't know."  She curls her nose at the ratty sounds, and sticks out her tongue a little in distaste. It's not exactly poetry.  "Yuck. I'm sure your  real  first language is is better than that. But whatever they speak where you were from, your lips were made to speak Tilean. E non dimenticarlo." 
 * * * * * 
The wealthier districts seem to cluster north, so moving west to east cuts laterally across the city's demographics instead of distinctly shifting. But there's definitely a new energy when you arrive at the city's eastern edge; a wide, paved road bordering Quenelles running north to south. On the western side of the road, the city's cobbles sprawl out into a town square and the spidering roads leading off to its various districts. On the east side of the road, a verdant carpet of grass rolls a fifty yards or so out before petering out into the edge of the Forest of Loren, the realm of the Fey. It's a forest of a different kind to the one you emerged into in Verezzo, and not by a little. The trees closest to the grassy space would have been very impressive - some fifteen to twenty yards tall. But these grade upward as the forest rolls back, and the trees get older and taller as they stretch to the mountain horizon. Within the distance you're comfortable estimating, you see trees that must be close to a hundred yards tall. Beyond that... you can't say. The forest here is not comforting and lovely. It is grand and beautiful and dangerous as an amassed army with all its banners, ancient and pregnant with power older than any man, dwarf, or elf.

There is only one building on that side of the road: a beautiful, high steepled grail chapel whose iconography differs subtley from those you've seen elsewhere. In the stained glass rendition high over the entryway, the feminine image is different in kind that those depicting the lady you've seen before. In those cases, the woman rose from the water of a lake offering a grail; in this one, a different woman appears to be descending, almost coalescing, from the trees behind her, with a crown of flowers on her brow and a whirl of blue and white fabric picking her out against the leaves beyond.

Aside from this chapel, that side of the road is entirely undeveloped. There is no sign of where the wall on this side used to be, but it seems whatever memory there was of the east wall has either been paved into the Pilgrim Road, or vanished into mystery, reclaimed by the forest. Pilgrims stay on the road without wandering onto the grass, however lush and fine it looks. A few stray saplings grow defiantly in the green between city and forest, but you and Bella are fortunate to arrive at such a time to see the fate of such ligneous rebels. A peel of gasps and muted cries of alarm and amazement ripple up from a cluster of peasants, north of you, and the two of you rush to see the cause. There is a shaking in the forest, a ripple like some immense beast moving through the trees, lumbering toward the edge. But as you watch, it is not a beast lumbering, but  lumber  that is lumbering under its own bewildering power. A tree that walks like a man, whose bark thins around the joints to permit motion but otherwise bristles with moss, and leafy branches, and vines spiralled around its humanoid shape. It's too far even for you to make out a great deal of detail, but it's puzzling to witness. It's the largest living creature you've ever seen, at least five times your considerable height. It makes the trolls you have fought seem modest in power, and even out-bulks the various monstrosities you once fed corpses to in the darkness below the world - though the ambition of those creatures' makers may have yielded greater things you never saw.

The treeman emerges from the cover of its more mundane cousins and, with massive unhurried steps, crosses to where a sapling grows a little ways into the grassy divider. It kneels down and uses a branchy hand with huge wooded claws to gouge it carefully out of the earth with a great clod of soil around the roots, and cradles it close to its trunk. The spellbound pilgrims murmur in awe when it turns its eyes - asymmetrical green hollows above a craggy wooden mouth - up to the watching humans briefly, before turning away to carry the excised sapling into the forest. You could swear your eyes detected creatures flitting about in the treeman's branches and leaves - tiny things, fist sized, but with slender human proportions and fluttering hummingbird wings. But the whole complex, treeman and passengers, wander back into the forest proper, and soon the sound of it pushing through the low branches fades out into the clamour of excited peasant gabbling.

By the time you get to the Lesser Market and seen the shift of peopling from penniless to monied, you have intuited a few things. The first is that nobles here wear red, blue, white, and silver. This leaves black, green, yellow, and gold for the merchants as the highest expression of the peasant class, so in a place like this where no one is forced to wear the undyed linens they can barely afford, the peerage is color coded. Another thing is that the nobles do not seem to do their own commerce. There are nobles here, in numbers; but they do not directly interact with the exchange of money. They have liveried servants who act as middle men, and more than once you see a noblewoman look over some fine ware, turn to her attendant rather than the marketeer, and then drift away to some other endevour while her delegate goes forth to do the haggling and exchange of of coin. The nobility have much more wealth than the commonborn here as everywhere else in the Old World, but some aspect of chivalry seems to oblidge the highborn sons and daughters of this kingdom from taking too active of a hand in trade. Whether this is virtuous or ignorant you can only speculate, but it certainly seems to suggest that the merchants are a feature of Bretonnian society that doesn't make it into the stories. It's not just grinding poverty for the potato farmers and glamourous high society for the blooded ones, but a humming middle class exists here too, even if it is strictly speaking only the highest echelon of the peasantry.

 "I want... everything!"  Bella replies, drifting into into a loose, wistful orbit as she looks over tables of the local seamstress's craft. She's happy to windowshop while you look to deal with a jeweler by the name of Hugo Ledon. He's tremendously fat, sweating now even in the crisp wintery air, but he seems genuinely delighted to meet you.

 "A dealer in pigs, you say? Hah! Good for you, mon cher. Good for you. I know Tilea is a mutton nation like we are here, so getting a corner on pigs must be a nice penny for your pocket, I'm sure. When you get to the Empire, you'll see they love their pigs there - love them! Never met a part of the pig they weren't willing to grind up and pack into a sausage casing. Roast the thing, I say; the way the skin turns into a golden shell? Ah! Ah, it's wonderful. You know, there's a town in the Border Princes called Knappsburg where they farm pigs as big as ponies! I know a fellow who bought a breeding pair and herded them up to Averland. Apparently, the Knappsburgers got them from Pigbarter, which is halfway down the Ivory Road, where orcs and men live among one another and somehow they managed to pair normal eating pigs with the great bloody ones the orcs ride. How about that? But, ah, you said you had something you wanted to sell?" 
 
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 


Taalia giggled to herself as she watched Bella's less-than-enthused reaction to hearing the nasty language of the ratmen.  "I think in Queekish, you know?"  she said softly, almost matter-of-factly,  "that's how deep it goes. Whenever I speak, I have to quickly translate in my head how to say it from their language to the one I want to use." 

Then, the shepardess' smirk turned a little more coy, a little more mischevious.

 "Maybe I could teach you how to flirt in Queekish?"  she snickered.

 &lt;"Oh Southern human breeder, your fur is as rich as a Grey Seers purse, yes-yes!"&gt;  she spoke, barely able to hold back laughter as she playfully drew one gloved hand across Bella's hair in a mock symbol of affection, before finally chuckling to herself.


 oOo 

Taalia watched, wide eyed and smiling at the scene of the treeman, the wooden being towering, enormous and as eternal as the trees that surrounded him. It. Either way, it scooped up a sapling from the earth and cradled it close to its oaken chest with paternal guardianship. To wonder at how old the being was, how long it had strode the forests of its homeland, here and beyond. Could she even speak to it? Learn from it at all? Would it even tolerate her presence? The shepardess could remember the vast, disgusting monstrosities that the Skaven bred in their pits and pets in their insane schemes to craft deadlier and more lethal weapons of war. But the way in which the treant moved, its slow and ponderous pace suggested an ancient judgement, a purpose that stretched beyond the next immediate conflict and into a longer view of the natural world that existed with the understanding that it would always be here, in one form or another.

Looking over to her side and spotting Bella struggling to stand on her tippie toes to view over the crowd, Taalia reached an arm around her friends waist and leaned herself to the left. Using her taller body as a fulcrum, she used her hip to help elevate the Tilean girl up half a foot so that she could see above the crowds enough and spot the natural wonder occurring before them. When it was over, Taalia slowly lowered her back down and turned to face her, eyes wide, a bright smile across her face. This was a pair of girls who had made history taking to the air in an experimental flying machine that carried them across Tilea and the mountains, but they had not become so jaded that the shepardess couldn't look smitten with wonder.

That energy remained with them even when they travelled to the market, the girls speculating and exchanging opinions and theories on what they had both just witnessed, and what a wonderful tale it would make in the next letter they penned back to Bella Collina.

When they finally reached the market and Taalia's giddy energy remained, only to now funnel into the marvellous world of commerce!


 "I want... everything!" Bella replies, drifting into into a loose, wistful orbit as she looks over tables of the local seamstress's craft. She's happy to windowshop while you look to deal with a jeweler by the name of Hugo Ledon. He's tremendously fat, sweating now even in the crisp wintery air, but he seems genuinely delighted to meet you. 

 "I'll get you a roasted onion..."  Taalia teased gently, her cheerful mood still with her since departing the company of Morr's priesthood.



 "A dealer in pigs, you say? Hah! Good for you, mon cher. Good for you. I know Tilea is a mutton nation like we are here, so getting a corner on pigs must be a nice penny for your pocket, I'm sure. When you get to the Empire, you'll see they love their pigs there - love them! Never met a part of the pig they weren't willing to grind up and pack into a sausage casing. Roast the thing, I say; the way the skin turns into a golden shell? Ah! Ah, it's wonderful. You know, there's a town in the Border Princes called Knappsburg where they farm pigs as big as ponies! I know a fellow who bought a breeding pair and herded them up to Averland. Apparently, the Knappsburgers got them from Pigbarter, which is halfway down the Ivory Road, where orcs and men live among one another and somehow they managed to pair normal eating pigs with the great bloody ones the orcs ride. How about that? But, ah, you said you had something you wanted to sell?" 


 "I started off with mutton!"  Taalia commented, that bright, winning smile across her face.

 "I had a small flock of six, including a ram. Fleecing time was hard practice in the Tilean sun, and selling the beautiful lambs was even harder, but necessary. But I soon noticed...no one was raising pigs, and after I bought some - I found out why. Pee-you!"  she laughed, waving her hand before her nose.

 "Ever walked through sty's, monsieur? Flanked by hundreds of squealing, smelly pigs? Paint them green and you'd mistake them for orcs! But - ahhh, monsieur! Salted pork? Pork and pea stew?"  Taalia inhaled with a wistful smile, holding her right hand up in a finger-purse and chefs kissing her fingertips,  "Bellissimo!" 

She continued the small-talk for a few more minutes, knowing that humour and humanisation helped grease the economic wheels of bargaining. After all, it felt easier to give a better deal to someone you liked.

 "Oui, monsieur - jewellery. Uncut gems and rings..." 
MrAbdiel
 Hugo opens a lacquered redwood case and takes out a large magnifying glass to inspect your goods. He whistles, apparently impressed, especially with the rings.

 "Hoo, look at those; yes, very nice indeed. That's Tilean silver alright; they certainly know a thing or two about the noble color down Luccini way... Lovely cut on the set gems, too. Tourmalines, I think. Very fine." 

He sets down the magnifier, and steeples his chubby fingers just beneath his jowls.  "I'll take the topaz off you, if you like. Call it... Forty-four ecu, between new friends. As for the rings, I can't bring myself to snatch them up myself, right now. If I wanted to make a turn-around profit on them, I'd have to gouge you, and I feel Affairiche would snub me if I were to be so rude. But! I can help you find a buyer, I think. Such things - specifically fine silver jewelry - will always have buyers in Bretonnia because, as far as roving merchants are concerned, they constitute a currency in itself. I'm sure you'll hear a story of such, this evening." 

He produces a smooth-sanded coin made of pale wood, marred subtly by perhaps a thumbnail on one side. He puts in it the scale beside him, tweaks it to measure zero with this new baseload, then counts out the forty-four gold on top of it. Once it measure square, he sweeps all of them into a small pouch for you.  "If you come by Happy Henly's Hollow - that's a great big tavern just off the north end of the pilgrim road - tonight at sundown, you'll find there are many willing to buy those rings. Make sure to tip Henly - he'll show you the way, if you  have the coin ." 
 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
If you had Academic Knowledge: Theology, this would be a given; but without it, make me an Int check at +0.
 
 
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 

Taalia's conduct in the market only further demarcated her from the local Bretonnian women: she haggled. She traded her own goods. She stood there, tall, one handd on her hip, other hand free and gesturing as the chubby fellow perused her jewels and gems through his monocular that was set into one of his fat eye-sockets.


 "Thirty five  ecu ,"  came the first offer.

 "Thirty five?! Mamma mia! Da mezzo mondo di distanza!"  she finger-pursed, her tone not angry, but clearly entering bargaining mode.

 "Topaz' are only mined in Kislev or Araby. It has come all the way from southern Tilea to land in your lap, monsieur. Cut that well and there's not a noble around who won't pay a destrier for it!" 
 "But  until  it's processed, it remains as so,"  he answered, leaning his bulk back into his chair, fat hands resting over his bulbous belly,  "Forty ecu." 
 "Forty ecu? We're talking about a fortune in your hands, not the boots on my feet, monsieur! Fifty." 

A throaty laughter chuckled up from within the tubby fellow, the glistening sweat across his skin almost making him look like a giggling balloon.  "Fifty, mademoiselle? In your hands this is just a pretty rock - but in mine it actually becomes valuable." 
 "Well, maybe I find someone here whom can work such similar magic, eh?"  she stated, her finger-purse gesturing towards the rest of the market, the mans amused countenance remaining as he perked an eyebrow.

 "Let them keep, say, sixty percent of proceeds after cutting it." 
 "What would you do with almost half a horse?"  he chuckled again,  "what you suggest could be very unwise, mademoiselle..." 
 "I'm a foreigner to these lands, we're always getting into mischief, haven't you heard?" 

The heft mans eyes remained fixed on the girl, his smirk remaining as he chuckled once again, drawing himself back to lean once more into the strained embrace of his chair.

 "Forty four, and that's the best offer you're going to get in these parts without evoking the ire of the local guilds." 

Taalia inhaled, one hand on her hip, leaning forward,  "and here I thought I was safe from highwaymen in the protection of these walls!" 

The merchant chuckled again as they both shook hands, clearly appreciating the entertainment brought to his day by haggling with one of the colorful southern, Tilean traders. As he started to count out the money, Taalia made a comment that she would like a few  ecu  in silver coins, to which he obliged.


 He produces a smooth-sanded coin made of pale wood, marred subtly by perhaps a thumbnail on one side. He puts in it the scale beside him, tweaks it to measure zero with this new baseload, then counts out the forty-four gold on top of it. Once it measure square, he sweeps all of them into a small pouch for you. "If you come by Happy Henly's Hollow - that's a great big tavern just off the north end of the pilgrim road - tonight at sundown, you'll find there are many willing to buy those rings. Make sure to tip Henly - he'll show you the way, if you have the coin." 

The merchant received the topaz, and Taalia received a thick purse of currency, which she tucked into her cleavage beneath her clothes and mail armor.

 "Au revoir, monsieur, et bonne santé à vous."  she offered a small curtsey.

Readjusting her black and purple muffin hat, Taalia turned about and departed, seeking to find Bella and buy her some food and drink while they waited until sundown.
MrAbdiel
 You take your lucre and slip away to have a roast onion on a stick, with Bella. They are stronglty flavoured, but crispy on the outside and roasted with honey, which cuts through the sharpness and makes it quite pleasant indeed with the spices dusted on top. It's served with a scorched brand in the vague likeness of an orc's face on one side, and then the onion mounted on a stick like a head on a pike. Quenellers have fondness for orcs like Miragleanans have for skaven, it seems.

Of note is the drink served with it, which you have never seen before. A proud looking merchant ladles cups from a barrel, serving doses of bright orange liquid. The mystery of the drink is not strongly obscured - behind him in the stall, the man's wife and two daughters work diligently producing fruits from crates under the serving bench and then squashing  in bench mounted vices so the juice drizzles out into bowls that are then added to the barrel in some arcane specific quantity. It's no secret fruits have juice, of course; but this is the first time you've seen them squeezed and served for drinking rather than as an additive to a recipe or something to ferment. In Tilean dining there's plenty of call for fruits in cooking, particularly in dessert, but abandoning the fibrous part of the fruit seems wasteful of the most filling element, and therefore somewhat  fancy . But the result can't be denied: it's wonderfully sweet, and tangy, and zesty, with just enough fruit pulp to provide a fragment of texture. And it slashes away the onion's aftertaste, leaving your mouth remembering only the sweetness of the juice mix. Bella asks one of the daughters what happens with the rinds they accumulate after a day's work.

 "Well, we used to give it to the pigs a friend of ours had; but eating too much peel seemed to make them sick. Then we fed them to goats, and they started to get fat. But now we give them to the chickens, and the chickens pick all the flesh off the rind, and then we give the rinds to the goats, and everyone's happy."  It seems to have fairly low wastage over all, even if the juice end of the transaction is somewhat luxurious.  "Father said, in Brionne where he grew up, there were elves from across the sea who used to make such drinks. I think elves can't drink water, because it's poison to them - but they drink juices instead! How big their orchards must be!"
 
 * * * * * 
The Chapel of the Enchantress is beautiful and grand, even if it is more modest in size than many temples you've seen. Two features are most remarkable here, one more than the other. The first is that this Chapel's object of worship is not the Lady herself, this mystical figure who invites Bretonnian men to strive to become icons of chivalry with the promise of one day receiving a sip from the magical grail. It is instead dedicated to the Fay Enchantress, who seems to be a kind of prophet or speaker for this goddess. You remember some of Lord Donallo's riders were dispatched hoping to find her, imagining her power as the arch-damsel would be sufficient to exorcise the daemon from his wife. Wherever she resides, she is apparently afforded some modicum of recognition here, even if it does not seem people worship her explicitly. But the wonderment in the eyes of the peasants and knights alike who wander into this place to give prayer and offering suggests the line between worship and recognition is very thin, here.

 "Oh my goodness. Taalia-..."  Bella tugs on your arm, breathless, pointing at a pair of knights by the entry of the chapel. They are standing amidst four other knights, but you do not require her to explain which knights she means, and why.

They are grail knights. You know this not because they bear more grail iconography, or because of any outward physical transformation. They wear layered mail armor with plate elements but so do some of the lesser knights around the. One of them is about your height, the other is a full foot shorter making him shorter than most men by a couple of inches. The tall one might be at the end of his fourth decade, the short one the end of his third, and the other knights interspersed between them are scattered throughout that age range.

All the same, you recognize at once, as did Bella, some difference in the substance of these two men. In their essential quality that appeals to your instinct before your reason, in the way your body knows to shut its eyes and flinch away before your mind has a chance to understand there is a blow coming. The short one looks gregarious and kind, and the tall one laconic and thoughtful. But you have to stare for a moment to be sure they aren't casting light in some way. They're just...  more , somehow.  More  of whatever it is knights like Donallo and Briant are trying to be. What they are reaching for, these two have grasped, and it has changed them in a way that is apparent to any who look upon them for more than a moment.

Furthermore, your sense of smell, which has proven to you to from time to time perceive things beyond merely the perfumed and odorous, registers something about these men that is not purely physical. You cannot completely navigate the 'scent' of magic yet, but you smelled the movement of  ghur , the amber wind, when the daemon in Lady Margot panicked the animals to attempt her escape. And you think in retrospect some of the pinesmoke snarl that came off Andreuccio was more  aqshy  than just the odor trapped in his clothes. There is something subtle, embodied, and genuinely magical about the grail knights. Whatever this strange covenant is that this country has made with the Lady and her Fay,  this  is the transformation they are purchasing with the orientation of their culture entirely to the elevation of chivalry. They haven't  done  anything, exactly; they are simply talking to the other knights, and the peasants don't dare approach.

Bella makes she she is close to you, whispering her astonished commentary.  "Oh... I thought I would want to speak to such men, after how Briant talked of them... But I think they scare me, Taalia..."  
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 
 "Belissimo - c'est vraiment excellent!"  Taalia complimented the tavern owners as she and Bella sat at their table and enjoyed their fried, spiced onions and flavourful, lowly alcoholic grapejuice. Even without the added light salting of spice across the top of the softened, cooked onion, Taalia would have enjoyed it. Though her tastebuds and standards had been elevated since her escape from slavery and vaulting into the paradise of Tilean cooking, she had never forgotten where she had come from, and so even the simplest of hearty, tasty meals were wonderfully satisfying to her.

Taking another modest bite out of the onion, giggling to herself as she held it up, orc-face towards Bella and made a   "Glrrrrgh..."   gargling sound with her eyes crossed, the shepardess nodded gently towards her friend and leaned in closely.

 "...what if I sold all of the jewels and gems in my possession? Had them all cut. Sold my firearm, made some more, bought a nice house here in the castle, set up a physicians practice: would you stay?" 

It was, of course, not particularly an option, and Taalia was, in her round-a-bout way, asking a different question: what do you think of this place so far? This land so far from your won and so different in a multitude of ways, from cuisine, to people, culture, speech, beliefs and mannerisms? And, if they couldn't make it to Nuln, despite their best efforts, could she stay here?  Would  she even stay here, if some handsome knight came along and asked for the pretty, dainty hand of the beautiful, dark-haired foreign girl?

 oOo 
Taalia's eyes widened slightly upon spotting the grail nights. She had, originally, been admiring the architecture and sculpture of the beautiful temple, her appreciation for these things expanding such she had restored the one near Bella Collina - a deed that had ended up preserving her from the witch hunters flame.

Turning her head about, the shepardess smiled at the sight, her lips arching and her appreciating swelling within her.  "What's there to be frightened about?"  she asked softly, in Tilean, to her friend, leaning her head down a little so she could keep her eyes on the two while speaking to Bella.

 "Let's talk to them! I have heard from Briant so much about such men - they have supposedly drank from the Holy Grail that all knights in this land hope to one day find. Their presence is the confirmation of a belief; a small sliver of divinity among us!"  she smiled, her mind recalling that fateful sentence from so long ago: Men have their own gods too.

 "Come, let's go see them!"  Taalia encouraged warmly, holding Bella by the hand and confidently striding forward with her usual mannerisms.

Approaching the two men, one her prodigous height, the other shorter and more welcoming in appearance, Taalia stopped a respectful distance away and curtsied, her muffin hat containing her white-blonde hair.

 "Bravo, chevaliers. Nous sommes deux étrangers voyageant à travers vos terres bénies, avez-vous le temps de parler?" 
MrAbdiel
 
 
 Originally Posted by Taalia Giovanni 
  "...what if I sold all of the jewels and gems in my possession? Had them all cut. Sold my firearm, made some more, bought a nice house here in the castle, set up a physicians practice: would you stay?"  
 

Bella looks over the tizzy of the market. She considers the question carefully. A peasant's lot here is certainly rough - but there were plenty of peasants in Tilea whose lot was awful, too. They did not pay such sharp taxes up to a fuedal lord, but when the orcs or the pirates come, they must find the money to  hire  the knights required to dislodge them. It's beyond question that a man, or especially a woman, is more free in Verezzo; but with a seamstress's skill, Bella could probably escape the most punishing levels of the social order easilly enough, even before marriage was considered.

 "I think I could,"  she decides finally; " but it would take more than some nice castles and pretty snow to drag me away from Bella Collina for life. That town is special to me - and when we get back, there is a schoolhouse I'm looking forward to seeing." 
 * * * * * 
When you and Bella approach the knights and wait for a lull in their conversation, the reaction is mixed. Of the lesser knights gathered around, some look astonished, even affronted, that you would make the approach at all. One of the younger ones immediately scours you, and especially Bella, with the kind of gaze young men are prone to dispense without thinking. The short and tall grail knights look mildly surprised at your gall, though not outwardly disgusted. They share a little hand gesture and the younger one quickly sweeps the attention of the other knights back to himself with a commanding word, picking up back on their previous conversation about some manner of royal hunt happening in Bastonne.

But the taller one, with a close cropped beard and moustache in pale gold matching the short scruff of hair on his head crowning his tan countenance, peels away from that discussion to receive the pair of you directly. He responds, in fact, in thickly accented Tilean, in deep and patient tone.

 "You have come some way, yes. Have you come seeking some knowledge of the Lady..? Or perhaps to deliver a message, for the Fay's keeping?"  
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 

Taalia smiled to herself as she watched Bella explain her motives and designs, the desire to return to Bella Collina one day a clearly deep-seated wish that resided within the Tilean girl and close to something very sentimental. Naturally for Taalia, her world was her own. Her perspective had been shaped by her experiences, which were themselves the product of cruelty and servitutde to the brutal Norscans and the cruel Skaven. Only when she had emerged into southern Tilea had the shepardess known the grace of luck, for she had been blessed to have been delivered to a community of people that had taken her in and shown her the first kindness she had felt in years. But for Bella, her past had been different. Abandoned by her parents and finding community within a peaceful, small town south of Verazzo, Bella had both roots in the nation, the culture and the surroundings, while Taalia had only been adopted into it.

 "Do you miss it? Back home?"  Taalia asked, using a wooden spoon to scoop some of the deliciously roasted, soft onion from within her bulbed treat.

 "Really, they adopted us both there, didn't they?"  she stated, rather than asked, her voice soft.

 "We've come so far already, and yet have a long way yet to go. We'll make it back there one day. Unless some Bretonnian Knight or Imperial sweeps you off your feet,"  she teased with a bright smile.


 oOo 

If Taalia was bothered by the odd looks and sour glares from the younger knights, she didn't show it. Truth be told, though she naturally wanted to make good impressions and adhere to etiquette and would rather be liked that scorned, she ultimately didn't care what strangers thought of her. Well, that wasn't  exactly  true, she did care if it meant an objective of hers had become more difficult to achieve, but the baleful gazes of others who thought her impertinent? No one had her history and didn't let such opinions wash off their back.

When the taller of the two knights spoke, however, Taalia, and likely Bella, detected the Tilean accent. The shepardess' eyes widened, her smile brightened:


 "You have come some way, yes. Have you come seeking some knowledge of the Lady...? Or perhaps to deliver a message, for the Fay's keeping?" 

 "We have travelled from the southern most parts of Tilea, and venture towards the Empire,"  she answered.

 "Before arriving in your lands I knew very little of the Lady...and I still do. But, we are traveling with a companion who is currently absent, tending to another matter. He is a knight, one who we have witnessed brave great peril and has gone out of his way to assist us, at great risk and financial cost to himself. We are set to soon go north, but I understand that all knights in this land seek greater peity with the lady? Sir Chevalier, if you would be so kind as to help us repay a debt: what advice can we pass on to him, to show our gratitude in a way that means something to him?" 
MrAbdiel
  
 Spoiler: OOC: 
It was ambiguous before, but  this knight, Sir Raduard de Roqavaine of Quenelles, is speaking Tilea to you in a strong Breton accent, not the reverse. Just to be clear! :D
 


The grail knight listens to to you, as laconic and thoughtful as he looked. There is a sense in the air that he is doing you a favour just by receiving you, though you detect no malice in that undercurrent of caste sensibilities. He does not seem disgusted or off put by your foreignness, or your gender, or anything else that has been so inherently obstacular in this nation.

 "I would stop short of saying all knights seek greater piety - but those destined for greatness invariably do so, and piety is embodied in chivalry. By your description of your friend, he is operating with courage and selflessness. I hesitate to offer advice to a man doing good in such a way." 

His name is Sir Raduard de Roqavaine. He introduces himself mildly, offers no bow to you, demands none back. He tries to take your question in its spirit, and speaks a little more about knighthood with you, and the grail, and how it all fits together. Knights do not seem to gain the grail by effort in themselves; a man like Sir Briant might remain a typical Knight of the Realm for many years indeed before the Lady strikes him with a vision summoning him to give up the lance and wander the world. After some number of years, the Lady reveals herself to that questing knight and he drinks from the grail. Typically, his first act as a grail knight is to build a grail chapel on the site of his revelation, which is why there are thousands of Grail chapels in various states of staffing and disrepair across the nation, and indeed the world. But not all knights who quest find the grail, and not all those who  would  quest are called. For the uncalled knight, he can only confront the responsibility his family and fief put on his shoulders and seek to shoulder it nobly.

 "Well... He has been very good to us. I wish we could do something, or give him something, that was a genuine reward or boon. But would that be... rude? Detract from his selflessness, I mean..?" , Bella frets. The knight takes a few seconds to think, before replying.

 "Your friend is young. He does not sound arrogant, which means he likely rises in the morning and goes to rest wondering if he possesses within himself the thing that will be the proving of him. Young knights are prone to insecurity because they have grown into men feeding on legends about the Grail Companions, but find themselves now operating in courts where their neighbours, peers, and sometimes family are just as flawed and cretinous as any highwayman or rogue. And if they see their friends, and their father's friend's, making schemes against one another, and taking peasant mistresses, and all manner of rapscallionism, how shall they imagine themself immune to such a soiling collapse of spirit? He can not. He is not. The best advice your friend can receive cannot come from me. If I tell him he has what it takes to some day receive the grail, he will know in himself that I say it only to be kind and encouraging. But if  you  say he has what it takes to some day receive the grail, he will engrave the words on his heart because you know him, and have seen the quality yourself."  
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 

Taalia listened to the knight with an apparent fascination, her attention focused on the Grail Knights words and taking in the lore he professed for the Lady and the religion for which he was a living avatar. In many ways it fascinated the shepardess, how close one could get to a sliver of the divine in the mortal realm. From her time among the Skaven where she witnessed magical horrors born into the world from the rat-mens mad genius and unfortunate connection with the Great Horned Rat, to the miracles performed by the Priestess of Verena at her trial, the idea that there was something  beyond  this mortal coin, something more substantial but influenced by physical action, had always held an appeal to the girl. Perhaps it was the idea that however poorly an innocent was treated in life, once it was all over they would find eternal solace and peaceful rest in whatever came after. For a former slave of the Skaven whom had watched hundreds, maybe thousands of fellows perish before her, it was an encouraging thought that there was some ultimate justice in the world.



 "Your friend is young. He does not sound arrogant, which means he likely rises in the morning and goes to rest wondering if he possesses within himself the thing that will be the proving of him. Young knights are prone to insecurity because they have grown into men feeding on legends about the Grail Companions, but find themselves now operating in courts where their neighbours, peers, and sometimes family are just as flawed and cretinous as any highwayman or rogue. And if they see their friends, and their father's friend's, making schemes against one another, and taking peasant mistresses, and all manner of rapscallionism, how shall they imagine themself immune to such a soiling collapse of spirit? He can not. He is not. The best advice your friend can receive cannot come from me. If I tell him he has what it takes to some day receive the grail, he will know in himself that I say it only to be kind and encouraging. But if you say he has what it takes to some day receive the grail, he will engrave the words on his heart because you know him, and have seen the quality yourself." 


Taalia pursed her lips in thought. The phrase 'taking peasant mistresses' echoed in her mind, and she avoided shooting a look at Bella, knowing that the two had...well, they had not gone that far. Just  flirted  or enjoyed the whiff of possibility, while respecting the redline boundary from which there was no return. But still, was becoming a Grail Knight even among Briants ambitions? He was to return home and marry. She couldn't recall fully, but Taalia remembered him mentioning that his father was placing great hopes in the young knight to fulfil the family duty and bring further mini-Briants into the world, so perhaps drinking from that divine cup and receiving its utmost blessings was not within the cards of his wants and desires?

But from what Sir Raduard de Roqavaine had told her, knights did not always  see  out the grail of their own volition. A good number, it seemed, received visions from their religious matriarch and set out into the world to follow a path sewn with instinct and vague, apocryphal visions. So perhaps Briant would be called upon at some point?

Taalia didn't know. To be honest, she  hated  the idea that she could be getting her life in order, only for some incomprehensible, divine figure to blast her midn with visions of traveling and questing that might cost her her life. There was an element that of losing control that sat poorly with the Shepardess, and though she'd never dare equate the two, either in the privacy of her mind or in public within Bretonnia, she had been a slave to others before. Never again.

Smiling and offering a gracious nod,  "Thank you, Sir Raduard. I mean no disrespect, but we are foreigners to these lands, so some of your ways are different to ours. May I ask though, to carry some of this lands honour with us, what would be a universal decency between Tilea, Bretonnia and the Empire? Something that connects us all together?" 
MrAbdiel
 Sir Raduard considers this question, too, almost long enough to be thought simple because of it. But then he speaks.  "...What connects us all? Mm. A difficult question. We hold many gods in common, but we do not hold them commonly. The warrior in Tilea calls for Myrmidia; here, he calls for the Lady. In half the Empire, he calls for Sigmar and in the other half for the wolf-god whom Sigmar praised. I might say we all know Morr - but that is too grim a thing to bind people. Even Taal and Rhya are called other names in your country, I know. Perhaps not gods - especially if you care to throw your question slightly further and ask what the Kislevites have in common with us. They, and we, hold the Rat-man in contempt; but it has been may years since the Empire was willing to countenance that threat. But we all loathe the greenskin, I think. We all shun the northmen, and the ruinous powers. Perhaps it must be as simple as that - all mankind seeks to build up, in the face of those who would tear down. Even the elves and dwarves do not do much building, anymore - they grip the fragments of their empires and bid them hold fast. But you and I, who live a blink of what an elf would call a life, do things they do not. In the Empire, in Altdorf, they have a great temple to Sigmar. Dwarves laid the first stones, but men build it for four hundred years until it was complete - they labored entirely within a dream, all except the last ones. How many generations of masons and stonecutters went out, day after day, commitment their labor to a project that began before their fathers were born, and would not be completed until after their sons had died? There are works of similar grandeur in Remas, and Couronne, and Kislev. In Cathay, I am told there is a grand bastion wall built to keep the Hung at bay, and that it took even longer to build. Maybe Morr  is  the common decency of man, for Morr is not just king of death, but also king of dreams. And what kind of man does not delight to be be part of some grand undertaking, even a middle part? Or what woman would not take pride to play her role in such task beyond her life and the life of her daughters? Only the Northmen, who have forgotten how to make and know only how to destroy, and so have become like the orc." 

Skaven build, so you have seen; they build  things , but no skaven would commit his life to a project for some later generation of skaven to enjoy. The rats are incapable of committing to any design larger than the imagination of their leaders and the slaves they can force to realise it. Do the orcs build things? As far as you know, they just live in caves. You've seen something the dwarves built, in that great subterranean causeway; but how long do dwarves live anyway? How substantial an amount of such a great construction would they witness in their time? 
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 

Taalia found herself smiling while the Grail Knight provided a summary of...well, many things. He touched upon the idea that the Elves and the Dwarves both created works of immaculate beauty and craftsmanship, yet neither elder races, in all their long years, had advanced as rapidly as humanity. Was it a matter of intelligence? Not at all. Members of both species were renowned for their brilliance on particular topics, and both had produced art and machinery that was ahead of what mankind had yet devised...but not but  much . No, it seemed that mankinds limited lifespan, likely believed a curse by the longer-lived elves and dwarves, was actually a collective boon, a motivation that super-charged mens ambition to do  something , anything, with the scant few decades they existed on the material plane. This ambition could be ruinous, as witnessed through the annals of history, but so too could it be fortuitous and uplifting, as many were content with planting the tree whose shade they knew they would never rest in...but their descendants would, and they would remember them for it.

Pursing her lips, looking thoughtful and with a wry smile,  "ambition, but also self-sacrifice seems a universal trait we all share?"  the shepardess asked. Truth be told, Taalia wasn't a particularly philosophical girl. Well, she  could be , but more along the lines of practical, worldly things of physical consequence and immediate visibility.

 "We are ambitious, but self-sacrificing. We build and advance, but will hurl ourselves upon the gears to save those behind us?" 

But then she thought about the matter for another moment, listening to the words the Grail Knight had spoken.

 Men built it for four hundred years until it was complete...laboured entirely within a dream... 
 "The desire to be remembered? The elves live forever in flesh, but our immortality is within memory..."  she uttered, her eyes staring off as if struck by an epiphany, as she once again recalled how many thousands toiled and perished within the Skaven Under-Empire, the only proof of their existence residing within her skull.
MrAbdiel
 Raduard seems to appreciate that you are working through something, so he doesn't feel the need to impose his variation of the answer you seem to be experiencing in something deeper than articulation anyway. You feel Bella's hand softly touch your forearm - she seems to recognise you are going somewhere to, and makes that connection so that she is not far away. When you seem attentive again, the knight gives you a faint smile.

 "Self-sacrifice and ambition, perhaps. Those with only the former are prey for those with only the latter; but those with both can do wonders. Immortality in memory..? Perhaps this also - though I wonder how many of us are really remembered. Something like memory, at least. Something for which I am not sure there is a word - the desire to... have mattered to those who come after. Or to  feel  as though one would matter in some way to them, even unnamed as each brick in a great temple, or the four great-grandmothers we all have but so few of us can ever name. I am not certain I have given you a correct answer - these a great mysteries you contemplate. If you can discover their clear answers, perhaps you will live to see a world made richer for it." 

And then someone else is vying for his attention - some noblewoman or other asking about his travels, and he breaks gently from address with you and Bella with a look that has to substituted for a farewell.

Bella holds your arm as you move to the side, the pair of you bathed in the warm green glow of the stained glass enchantress above you.  "You are right - not so scary, I think. But strange, certainly. I wonder what kind of woman marries such men. They are almost... missing something human. Or... They've gained something others haven't." 
 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
You didn't recover an insanity point - but you can recover a temporary fate point for this brief and insightful contemplation of destiny.
 
 
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 

The shepardess nodded and offered a curtsey to the Grail Knight in the final seconds of their contact, as her means of providing a respectful gratitude before they parted ways.

Bella's hand still gently against Taalia's forearm, the taller girl turned her arm about and brought her own hand in softly grasping contact with the Tileans.

 "Sorry for getting all morose, heh"  she snickered quietly, having to lean down to speak closer to Bella's ear and kissing her friend affectionately upon the forehead. The soft, translucent viridian of the beautifully stained glass granting Taalia's paler features and hair a jaded filter in comparison to her friends more sun-kissed complexion, as the two gently moved out from the shrine.

 "They have been touched by the divine,"  she both spoke and contemplated.

 "Imagine if you met Rhya after years of searching for her? How would that change you, I wonder?"  her tone again dual purpose: playful, but genuine in contemplation.

 "A long time ago, someone once told me;  'Men have their own gods too' "  she allowed the words to sink in for a moment,  "and those men? They're living proof. And that is an encouraging thought." 

With time moving on and dusk soon drawing a purple-amber curtain across the horizon, Taalia would gently direct the pair back towards the marketplace, conscious of the weight of the token she carried in her purse.
MrAbdiel
  * * * * * 
 Happy Henly's Hollow  is a rather large tavern and eatery on the Pilgrim road. The Fay Enchantress once rested there, and the chair she sat it is set aside in a corner on an altar so it need never touch the ground again. The contrast of the somewhat plain wooden tavern chair, and the elaborately graven and polished wooden altar from the hands of a master woodworker, is stark. The legs of the chair are frayed and bare from shifty pilgrims waiting for the three permanently stationed men-at-arms to be inattentive so they can break off a splinter for themselves.

The tavern also has a unique privilege as a quasi-holy site: it is permitted to serve venison from the cuts donated by nobles and their household huntsmen. Game meats are out of the realm of access for peasants. Many of them only get chicken and mutton as an infrequent privilege. But while the local huntsmen do not stray into the forest of Loren, there are clusters of woodland in all other directions and the fey-protected great forest fruitfully dispenses migrating game to them. Thus there are plenty of hunters in service of Quenellan lords, and often when they take a deer (particularly with more than one shot, thus indicting their marksmanship to their lord) they give it to Happy Henly who sells the meat seasoned, fried, crumbed, stewed, and cooked in a great variety of ways and sold in tiny portions so the pilgrims can afford to have a bite of it along side their bread or lentils. Indeed, some of the Bilbalian pilgrims on the Shallyan path are here, and they seem confused or amused at how much fuss is being made about the meat... though most seem to find it mysterious enough to sample and enjoy.

Happy Henly himself is cheerful and engaging publican, a big bearded man with an incredible recall for names such that he seems to know everyone in the huge tavern personally  even those who are clearly pilgrims , and is able to keep accurate notation of their running tabs inside his gleaming bald head. He makes them pay up front, however, and so groups of peasants and pilgrims come in, plop their coins into his hands, and then eat and drink until he tells them to stop, or else they come to him and his ten year old son pays back their remaining balance from the big copper pot of mixed coins he preens over like a rosy-cheeked, lower-denomination leprechaun.

 "I bet venison is more special for peasants living close to the towns. Who would be able to stop some farmer with a bow out on the fringe of a fief from bagging and butchering a stag that wanders into his cabbages?" , Bella speculates to you quietly, before your turn at the front of the line to meet Henly and open your 'account'.

 "Ho there, wanderers!" , he says in immediate recognition of your foreign nature, rather than pretending not to notice. He has the same mild discomfort from your exposed-hair sensibilities, but he's a businessman of a sort, and doesn't fuss.  "Wintering in the city for the road north, maybe? What can I get for you, ma'amselles?" 
 
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 


Taalia stayed close to Bellla as the pair entered the large tavern with its colorful and eclectic clientele. Some of the Estalian travellers had filtered into here from the surrounding temples and market places, and Taalia offered a smile and a polite nod of gratitude if she were recognized by any that had witnessed her repair their damaged cart. Their enthusiasm and commerce added to the lively atmosphere, and more than once the shepardess found herself drawing a hand out to place on Bella's opposite shoulder, to ensure that she didn't lose her shorter friend in the crowd.

When they finally did manage to approach the eponymous fellow of the tavern, his prodigious memory hard at work and his suspicious-but-trying-to-be-polite expression, the tall foreign girl offered a pleasant smile and brought a hand up to offer an open-palm, gentle wave.

 "Bonjour, monsieur!"  Taalia spoke, her smoky voice audible over the noise of the inn.

 "I have heard you are a man to talk to for when one wants deals to be done..."  she continued, reaching into her purse to withdraw the smooth, pale wood coin she had received from the merchant. She also withdrew three silver coins and placed them in a neat stack upon the counter, shielded from prying eyes by her gloved hand. The sanded emblem was then placed upon them and the entire stack was gently presented forward to Monsieur Henly.

Tip and proof.
MrAbdiel
 Henly's eyes flash with recognition at the unusual coin. He smiles, sweeps the stack away, and drops them into the pot his son is guarding. The boy snatches up the wooden piece especially, looks up with big interrogating eyes at you and Bella, and then scampers through a little half-sized door into a backroom where you must assume the kitchens lie.  "Not pilgrims, then - very well, very well. But I think you may prefer to consider taking your repast after coming in the building's rear door. The venison is... particularly good, that way."  He leaves you with that enigmatic smile, and nothing to show for your exchange except that advice. Bella, ever the worry-wart, asks you lowly.

 "...You showed a man you possessed two priceless rings, and he gave you a worthless coin to be directed to a rear alley..? Taalia, are we being set up to be mugged?"  
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 


Bella was right. Immediately, Taalia felt the back of her neck prickle the way that it used to when she noticed several Skaven slaves peering maliciously at her in all those years past: trouble.

 "Monsieur?"  Taalia started, wearing a smile,  "we have travelled a long way and visited several shrines. We are strangers to your land and know few, and your comfortable tavern is cosy and inviting! I would prefer to be seated and dine on something hearty while enjoying  interesting conversation  from interested fellow travellers,"  she finished, wearing that smile and gesturing to an empty booth within the tavern. More importantly, it was public.
MrAbdiel
 Monsieur Henly peels off from another customer whom he had equipped with a mug of warm ale to receive your second round of query. Your senses are alert now, but you detect nothing in the tavern proper that suggests foul play. Folk are largely wrapped up in their own conversation and local gossip. No one is scoping you out to follow you, that you can detect.

And Henly himself looks perplexed at your follow up suggestion about dining inside. With focus on his face, you detect in him now the same uncertainty that is present in Bella - he is worrying that  you  mean to cause some kind of fuss, and that he is going to suffer for it. What you know for sure is that the wooden coin is gone - the child took it and scampered off, probably around the back to the entrance you have been directed to. If you had to guess, to tip off someone waiting there that you are on your way.

But as best you can read this man, and Hugo before him for that matter, you don't  think  they are dishonest men. You note behind and below the man, under the ale bench, is a small shrine featuring Taal and Rhya embracing. He seems polite, and reasonably pious.  But then, so should a man who intends to betray people to their destruction. You can not extract from the absense of threat the assurance of safety, but  perhaps  there is something less malicious at play.

 "I-... Well, ma'amselle, you are of course welcome to open a line of debit here and dine and drink with these travellers. I tell you both are very good. But I... cannot give back what you have given me." 

The circumspect nature of his discussion of the marker seems to discomfort him even obliquely; it seems to be something he is compelled not to regard or acknowledge directly.

Bella frowns a little, but she can not conjure an oracle out of the air any more than you can. She whispers.

  "What shall we do..? Forget about the rings and stay here... or perhaps sneak around carefully...? Maybe... I go ahead without the rings, and if someone menaces me, you... you attack?"   
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 


Taalia considered the man for a while, pursing her lips in thought. Bella's warnings rang in her head, and her time with the Skaven had equipped her with an antennae that was particularly attuned for hidden danger and threats. Yet no matter how much she aimed it in this mans direction, her instincts and experience came up with nothing that could reasonably be considered threatening. Though predators were want to camoflauge themselves so that they could hide with honeyed words or appear as friends, one had not survived as long as Taalia had in the Under-Empire by being so trusting. No no, one developed a sixth sense for danger, and it was not prompting her concern at this point.

After what seemed like a few long, awkward moments, Taalia nodded, her features softening.

 "Of course, Monsieur. I think perhaps hearty venison is better to our liking!"  she wore that beaming, winning smile of hers, offering a small bow-curtsey as she politely withdrew and went with Bella to head around 'out back'.

On the way, Taalia withdrew  Leonardo  from the holster on her back. Holding it out for Bella to take, she whispered  "wait ten meters or so away. If I'm not out in 20 minutes, then go and get Briant,"  she nodded, leaning over and kissing her friend upon the forehead.
MrAbdiel
 Bella takes  Leonardo  in hand, but frowns at your stipulations.

"Twenty minutes? B-but I don't have a clock! And that's a terribly long time - how much could happen to you, in such a span!"

But with a little soothing and approximation, she agrees and stands ten good paces back as you round the back of Happy Henly's Hollow. At once, you spot the door they're directing you toward. It's obvious, because it's guarded by two moustached men whose broad shoulders are heavy with mail beneath their cloaks. No swords on their hips - swords, you have learned, are not permitted for common-born Bretonnians to carry - but you see the long slim sheathes of straight daggers poking from beneath their cloaks and, if you're not mistaken, the white of a powderhorn on one, though the weapon that would require powder you cannot see. Henly's son is with them, speaking something you cannot make out from distance, but he points at you and nods a confirmation to the men before making a flat horizonal hand pressing down in the air that seems to you to indicate something like 'and a smaller one'. Then he's off, around the curve of the building and presumably back to his pot of pennies.

The burly door guards watch your approach. You see the posture of one of them shift slightly, the move of a hand, as he makes Bella moving beyond you. But they don't start anything yet; seemingly content to let you approach and make yourself known. 
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 


Taalia reassured her friend before turning and setting towards the back alley entrance. To be fair, it was a helluva sketchy dive. Entering through the back-door to a popular tavern to bargain some jewelry, using secret coins to gain entrance and sentences laced with innuendo and hidden meanings. The cloak and daggers dressing was entertaining, if not a tad worrisome. Nevertheless, Taalia approached, pistols visible on her thighs, mail across her torso, as she nodded once in greeting to the guards.

 "Bonjour, monsieur's...I was told that the servings of venison are far better through this way than what is served at the front of the tavern..." 
MrAbdiel
  "Right."  It's a taciturn answer from the one sparing you his attention, but he seems to have validated you already. He opens the door behind him revealing not another way into the eatery, but a room just big enough to accommodate a flight of wooden stairs down into some sub-level. You aren't mugged, at least - not here, anyway... 
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 


Taalia pursed her lips as she looked down that passage into the basement, her mien visibly skeptical and suspicious as she shifted her gaze to the guard and then back down the flight of stairs, and then back to the guard, as if he had some secret written on his face.

Looking once more down those stairs and into that basement, every instinct the girl had screamed at her to walk away. Was she seriously going to trot along down into a creepy basement,  alone , carrying hundreds of  ecu  worth of goods, with only one exit guarded by  their  goons? Was she really so far removed from her time with the Skaven that her survival instincts had become so dim?

 "Oh - va te faire foutre!"  she shook her head, turning on her bootheel.

 "Find some other gullible fool to rob in your creepy basement..."  she uttered over her shoulder, as she headed back towards Bella.

 "No deal. They wanted me to head down into their basement. Let's leave, I already got plenty from the topaz sale, we'll be fine."  She said to her friend,  quietly , gently putting a hand on her shoulder and guiding her away.

A part of her wanted to go back to the original dealer in the market and punch him on his fat face. But she knew whatever scheme he had going had likely paid off the right people, and so little would come from it except her incarceration.
MrAbdiel
  "Just as well,"  Bella agrees, returning Leonardo to you and casting a scouring glance over her shoulder at the guards by the closing door.  "I don't care for all this mystery. Sensible, trustworthy people do sensible, trustworthy things in the sunlight, not in dingey basements." 

You leave Happy Henly's Hollow behind you, snare a decent evening meal of peasant fare at another tavern. It's not as lavish as venison, but it's quite good. It's a plate of sliced and flied beets along with leafy greens that you identify as chard, a kind of narrow local onion, and if you're not mistaken, the leafy beet tops that you would have thrown away in Tilea. Bretonnian cooking atleast at this social stratum takes great liberties with butter which you would think might overpower the meal or make it feel greasy and unwelcome, but a principle skill of their craft is the  sautee  which appears to be  butterfry just enough in that everything you want to wilt wilts, and crisp crisps, without burning the butter.  The yellow and red of two different kinds of beet, along with the wilty green of the leaves (even the leafy bits of the beets which have been rendered perfectly edible and not unpleasant) make a nice visual contrast as well as a fair flavour. The wine poured into the cooking nicely contrasts the gooey goat cheese served to the side -  bûcheron  they call it, which is funny because it does resemble a sort of white round sheared off a cheese log. The Bretonnians seem to orbit their culinary tastes around butter like Tileans orbit theirs around olive oil, and how much one appreciates that difference will dictate their reaction to their diets.

Bella seems to like it, at least.  "It's really quite good. All that butter. I suppose though there must be an army of muscled Bretonnian milk maids somewhere, furiously churning butter day after day. It's not like you can just strap a horse to it and walk them in a circle around it like an olive press." 

After that, you're able to check in with Hamil and Lydia's family once more as it gets dark, only to find that Briant still hasn't checked in. It's only the day after that he arrives, gaily high in Cleménce's saddle and looking fairly content with himself. At the sound of the horse, young Adrien is the first outside to gaze up at the knight in fascination.

 "He's a huge horse, ser chevalier!"  he notes, as Briant slips off the saddle nimbly and begins fishing about in the saddle bags for a sack.
 "She is indeed,"  he answers and corrects charitably,  "and her name is Cleménce. You'll have to remember that, henceforth, since you're going to be in charge of feeding her." 

Young Adrien is baffled as Briant pulls a servant's livery from the sack, and lets it flop  down so the tabard reveals the embroidered gold of a pegasus on black fabric.
 "You're... making me a knight?! And giving me your horse?!" 
Briant balks.  "N-no, I'm taking you into my retinue." 
 "Like a squire?!" 
 "No, a squire is a noble boy on his way to becoming a knight. You can't-" 
 "Like a page?!" 
 "No, a page is a noble boy on his way to becoming a squire." 
Adrien's confusion brings him into a quantum, formless state of ambition.  "...So... What... will I be?" 
 "Well, I think most people will call you  'boy' , but I suppose you're technically a footman." 
 "A... footman."  He gazes at the livery offered in Briant's extended hand. For a moment, it seems to be even odds that he'll take this as a crushing repudiation of his fantasies, but he proves versatile of spirit enough to adapt after he has time to digest the moment.  "I'll be a footman!"  He snatches the livery and dashes back inside the novel, nearly bowling over his siblings and parents as they filter out.

This appears to be the final outcome of the situation. Briant has some family connections in Quenelles, but not so many that he can wholesale secure a family's wellbeing or the employment of one or more of their children from another duchy's distance. But by taking Adrien on as a footman, he need only establish with a local lending house an ongoing payment for the boy's services to go to the family, billable to Briant's family in Parravon. Adrien will learn skills in how to directly serve the noble class and especially a knight - a secure and rewarding profession for a poor boy - not to mention he'll be as close to knighthood and chivalry as his station permits. But there's also a grim symmetry that Briant appears aware of. Hamil had been willing to give up a child to the cold world and death to follow - the price he would pay in a loose and figurative sense for that act was his first born son. Adrien would accompany Briant to far places, some of them dangerous. He may not see his family for years at a time. Pathway to a better life though it may be, and redeemingly remunerative to the family though it may be, it is written in the shadow of Hamil's countenance that he understands some measure of this is punishment. He failed to be the shelter for the most vulnerable member of his family; now he would be powerless to protect his son out in the world. He would have to pray to the gods who had spared his daughter to spare his son, and live a life concurrent with someone seeking their favor. Perhaps Lydia, and all the other children, would never know what their father almost did. In not knowing, they are able to be more hopeful for Adrien's opportunity.

The boy emerges from the house wearing the livery. It's a little big, but he'll grow into it. Lydia bursts into tears which seem to you to be more happy and proud, than anything else. "Will I have my own sword, ser chevalier?", the boy asks.
 "Well, no. The lance and the sword are chevalier's weapons. But you'll carry an axe to start with, and once we've gotten you used to that, we'll see what else we can make dangerous in your hands." 
Adrien grins like a wolf cub. 'Footman' seems like it will be good enough after all... 
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 


The shepardess watched the exchange between Adrien and Briant, her little smirk indicative of an amusement she found out of the whole affair. She remembered being that lads age, though her circumstances were...ahem, well, he was certainly at a headstart. Being semi-squired was a pretty good start in life, Taalia knew that much. Though ignorant of most of Bretonnian history and the finer points of its decorum, she knew enough to remember several tales where footman whom had shown particular bravery or duty to their knight, had ended up being elevated to the coveted position of Chevalier themselves.

And though she hated to admit it, given the situation the boy found himself in and the convention for boys to follow in their fathers footsteps, it was about the best break the lad was going to get. Indeed, the most lucky boon their entire lineage had been bequeathed. Though his father would never know full peace as long as his son was serving a knight in distant lands, it was a restlessness that seemed remarkably light as a punishment when one considered the crime he had committed. Nevertheless, Taalia would keep her mouth shut. She spoke to the man with a cold politeness, and it would have been clear to him that, even if she had no hard evidence to prove it, she  knew , and did not approve. But she wasn't so righteous as to destroy his family's image of him.

It was now up to his son, Adrien, to wash the hidden shame from the family name and bring honor upon it. To that end he seemed in good hands, as Taalia trusted Briants judgement. He had proven more compassionate than one might think a knight to be, and he showed the boy a visible patience when indulging his excitable fantasies. Besides, Adrien would be a big lad when he was fully grown, Taalia could tell that much. He was already tall for his age and full across the shoulders, alert and clearly quick-thinking. With training in these formative years, he could become an outstanding warrior and, under Briant's guidance, a decently wise man.

Leaning over to Bella, Taalia whispered in Tilean  &lt;"Adrien will be a handsome, strapping lad in seven or so years. Think you could wait that long for a proposal? Think of the strong sons he'd give you, and beautiful daughters with chestnut hair!"&gt;  she snickered, giving her friend a gentle nudge with her elbow at what was clearly crude, hidden humor between the two foreign girls.

In several ways the boy reminded Taalia of Vittorio back home, a smile coming to her lips when his image entered her mind. He wasn't as tall, but farm-life would mould him into a strong boy, and he was just as excitable. Perhaps he didn't want to become a knight or show those hustling qualities, but then again his environment was quite different. He was learning to read, the farm was sculpting him physically and he had his fathers work ethic. He would go far in the environment Taalia had helped to generate in her wake, she knew that much, and she looked forward to the years to come when she'd return and find little Vittorio all grown up, likely surrounded by several mini-Vittorio's of his own.

 "Which reminds me, I need to write a letter back home. I do so from every major settlement we stop at,"  she said quietly and matter-of-factly to Bella, inviting her friend to request any inclusions of her own.

 "Hey, Footman Adrien,"  Taalia spoke towards the lad once he was free, catching his attention as he turned to face her. He did so right in time to watch Taalia move her right hand forward in a closed fist, her thumb between her fingers and a silver coin upon the flat surface made by the side of her index finger - a coin that was then flicked in his direction.

 "First lesson is to always keep your word, mon ami, oui?"  she asked with a friendly smirk, calling back to the agreement he had made with her a couple of days ago.
MrAbdiel
 
  &lt;"Adrien will be a handsome, strapping lad in seven or so years. Think you could wait that long for a proposal? Think of the strong sons he'd give you, and beautiful daughters with chestnut hair!"&gt;  

Bella lets out a somewhat unfeminine bark of a laugh -  Hah! , then covers her mouth with her hands, and the laughter at her  first  laugh comes out as a snort, which makes her laugh at the snort and snort at the snort, and she has to wheel away from the scene to compose herself, flapping her hand in the air behind her in the loosest, most inarticulate reassurance to the boy that she wasn't laughing at him. He seems not to have taken any offense. Indeed, he seems so full of imagination for his future, in his uniform with the coin you flicked to him a two handed grip in front of him, that it might float off the ground if left unattended.

However financially relieving this is for the family, it is a fairly sudden change. They get a couple of hours to have a meal together, say goodbyes, and so forth. He doesn't have much of a bag to pack - the sack Briant just gave him is about as fine a vessel as there is in the house - but his siblings who are old enough muster sentimental tokens to put in the bag for him, and the ones too young to know how to do that and to understand the significance of his departure merely give him hugs. His baby sisters, whose names will not be chosen for some time let alone known to him, can of course offer nothing but the implied promise of admiration and love in some future time.

You take this time to compose a round of letters, and Briant wrangles you a local couple of knights errant who are willing to take the message as far as the mountain gap, at least.

 "Past the mountains, I do not know - it must depend on whether the forces north and south of the gap have managed to scatter the greenskins. If they have, we intend to go to Miragliano, and from there we can engage a local courier to take your letters. If they have not, we will give ourselves to the effort there for a while - but I give you my word to pass the task along to someone trustworthy travelling into Estalia and around the long way." 

It's as good and reliable a courier as you can hope for under the present conditions. The knights themselves assure you they expect no payment for the task - but they suggest that two  ecu  will likely cover the services of whatever secondary service they will need to engage either to take your letters west around the mountains, or south through the gap.

A short shopping trip with the young footman is in order before it is time to go. It's funny watching the convoluted process. Briant declines to perform the transitions himself - he is a knight, and is not really supposed to do such things because money-matters are beneath him. It's part of the purpose of having an assistant like a footman. But the footman is a child who can't count to ten, much less grasp the way two hundred and forty pennies go into an  ecu , so he is vulnerable to exploitation in the bargaining process. But his master, the knight, is leaning against the shop doorframe nearby watching him try to drive a bargain he is convinced he can get but doesn't numerically understand, and the sweating storekeep is trying to not get ripped off, but also still make some money on the transaction. You have some opportunity to intervene, giving the boy general 'up' or 'down' indicators from the sidelines, and between the four parties involved everyone comes away reasonably happy. Adrien has never owned shoes before, let alone a new pair of road boots; and he keeps fiddling with his new belt, and the loop in which sits his sharp new hatchet. The round shield on his back, painted smartly with the unicorn motif of Quenelles, is so big on him he looks like some kind of school-age, peasant, footman turtle. To complete his panoply, Briant sends him into a clothier's store to buy a hat and cloak for himself. He emerges with a black cloak that drags along the ground (Bella immediately pins it up) and a yellow fez - a truncated, conical felt hat with a little black tassel. He seems very pleased with it, and points out that it matches the gold of the pegasus on his uniform.

And then it's time to go, while daylight still favours you; Bella driving the loaned wagon, you riding a loaned riding mare, and Adrien riding up on Cleménce while Briant leads the horse and gets the boy used to the saddle. His lefts are too short to reach the stirrups, so he'll have to ride in the wagon whenever the road is sketchy; but your little band hits the Pilgrim Road and strikes north, along the well-travelled path with the fey-haunted forest to your right hand, and the rolling country and farmland to your left.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
Gain the custom talent  Ear of Verena , for having overcome the Mystery of the Doubled Man, the Mystery of the Bound Lady, and the Mystery of the Abandoned Child.

  Ear of Verena:  You have become accustomed to sorting our truth from lies when speaking to the guilty and innocent alike. You gain a +20% bonus to any Perception checks to determine truth, falsehood, and omission. Additionally, if you have a bonus in the Speak Language skill in which the interrogation is taking place, you may apply that bonus as well. 

Now roll me a d100 for your first day on the road...
 
 
MrAbdiel
 The next two days of travel north are cold, but pleasantly uneventful. No ghosts or greenskins bar your way. The eerie forest of Loren is a constant companion to your right, rich with mystery and menace. Close enough that you might wander over that way to collect firewood simply enough rather than seek it more tiringly on the other side of the road, but Briant is very clear that even this, we do not do.  "Our covenant with the Fay is too sacred and crucial to test. We are forbidden to cut lumber, but we choose not to pick up sticks on this side of the road either. When the trees come alive to strangle us, we do not trust they will be sporting and listen to this or that quibble. The Fay have come to war with us twice in our history - once in our fault, once in theirs. They are not men with brittle tempers, but neither are they gods who see all things clearly. Better to walk a little further for the sticks." 

On the second day, Bella is fussing with Adrien's cloak. She has him standing on a stump (on the appropriate side of the Pilgrim road) so she can judge carefully where to mark the cloak so she can cut it and hem it so it doesn't drag and become filthy anymore, and the boy is squirming restlessly as she tries to be perfectionist. You sit with Briant, just out of earshot of them, watching a pot of water slowly come to boil on the morning fire, and watching Milo go to war with your foot, which you obligingly shift around to provide sport for him.

 "I think I would have killed him,"  Briant says.  "Hamil, the Muckraker, who left his child to die."  It seems Briant ultimately came to the same conclusion that you did, though perhaps a little later.  "I would have said, a man who leaves his child to die must lose his head, and I would have walked him out of the city gate and cut it off and then explained myself with confidence to the men of Quenelles. He would have pleaded that he has other children that need him, and I would have told him 'then they shall starve, and your head roll'. And I would have ridden on my way and tried not to think of the awful mess afterward."  He tilts his head a little, thinking, musing.  "My father told me many things, but my mother said 'you become the average of those friends in whose midst you dwell'."  He reaches over toward you without looking and gives your shoulder a somewhat awkward pat - heartfelt, but from the heart of a man who is not used to mixed-gender platonic shoulder touching.  "I think I am very glad to have met such a friend as you, Taalia Trollslayer." 

Briant leads you off the road on a branching path north west, before noon; and by the setting of the sun you are in  la Novogiorno .

 * * * * * 
 La Novogiorno , you later learn, is a town under the protection of Baron Matis Munro - a Baron being the lord of a fief that reports directly to the King, rather than to the Duchy in which it geographically resides. Why Baron Munro's barony was sheared off from Quenelles in antiquity is unknown even to Briant, but Bretonnian Baronies are apparently more prone to small eccentricities than the greater Duchies. And  La Novogiorno , you soon learn, is a somewhat eccentric town.

Baron Munro's great, great grandfather was a Grail Knight who spent some time in Araby and, while there, forged an unlikely and enduring friendship with a mercenary captain from Pugno, the eastmost Tilean township before one spills into the lawless and orc infested Border Princes. When the mercenary captain lamented that, upon returning home, he would not be returning to a baronial castle but a hardbitten, semi-arid little township under constant orcish threat, the Baron invited him to spend his retirement with his family in the Barony of Munro. He would be a peasant - nothing would change that. And there would still be the occasional orc - Massif Orcal dispenses its greenskin denizens not much less regularly than the Borderlands does.  "But" , legend says the Baron contended,  "you will much prefer the weather" . So they parted ways, and returned to the Old World, and after a few years the mercenary captain turned up in the Barony of Munro with his wife, and five children in tow - having managed to find bankruptcy back in Pugno once he finished paying off his troops their promised wages for the Araby campaign. When they discussed where he might settle, the captain demurred on joining any of the villages and thorps in the barony as it stood.  "I may come to enjoy the weather, but I do not care for Bretonnians" , he supposedly said. The Baron granted the captain a homestead, three dozen sheep, and a passel of land to farm in the manner of his choosing. The captain set up a shine to Karnos and Ishea in the very centre of his territory, marked and fenced his land, and got to farming. And over the next four generations, expatriates from Tilea who tired of the southern kingdoms for one reason or another drifted north through the mountains and hamlet of its own making, where the common language was Tilean but the trade language was Breton. Generations have intermarried with surrounding towns, but a stream of Tileans keeps trickling in so the town retains its ethnic array. There are orcs sometimes, and other threats - but what they do not have is war between one principality and another, or civil war as some cartel of merchants attempts to make a republic. The lords of Quenelles may spar with each other, but not with a baron, or else they offend the king. And the king makes no demands of them, because he is very far away and has his own problems, and the generational inheritance of the baronial title has come with a vow to honor the ancestral kindness towards the old captain's kinsmen. As far as you can see, the whole project has gone quite well.

Now it's quite a big town - as big as Paesa de Silo halfway between Bella Collina and Verezzo, perhaps bigger. The young Baron Matis Munro's castle is visible on a hill to the north-north-east. Great fields fan out beyond the town, recently harvested and left now to recover. Clusters of sheep and cattle occupy small pastures on the town's outskirts. But as you follow the road into town, your keen senses begin to gather familiar sensations - the smell of fragrant beef and the woodsmoke carrying it, and the sound of fiddles being arpeggiated by fiddlers preparing to play. And a cart pulled by a squat but energetic pony is racing down the road toward you. It's driven by a young man on the cusp of adulthood - with olive skin and black hair, as some Tileans have. There are two little dark eyed girls riding passenger in the cart, and their faces are painted fancifully with many colors. They likely have dark hair too, you think - but they are wearing wimples as women of this country do after a certain age, so you cannot be sure. Adrien is walking at the front of your little group in this safe place, leading Cleménce by the reigns as Briant watches; and the boy becomes the target of this giggling, colorful sprites. When the cart gets near it slows down to turn around, and the girls launch off the back to dash the remaining distance between their party and yours. They reach into pouches sown onto aprons, pull out handfuls of something, and fling them in a colorful burst against Adrien's chest.

  "Godetevi il clima!"   they squeal, before racing back to the cart, climbing and tumbling in, and heading at full pony-power back toward the town proper.

 "Huh?"  Adrien boggles, scooping up some of the missiles he has endured from the ground. They are little clusters of cloth, cut into petal shapes and stitched at one end to look like flowers, that have been dyed to a pale rainbow of variations, and that dye seems to dry leaving a chalky powder that puffs when the flowers strike. Adrien's livery is dotted with colorful impact marks that seem to dust off harmlessly when he brushes them.

 "They said 'enjoy the weather'" , Bella supplies, watching the cart tear away. She looks at you with excitement - it's the first time either of you have heard Tilean spoken without it being warped around a Breton or Ogrish accent in some time.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
This one's a bit of a free space. I've given you the town legend - Bella and Talia will likely pick that story up at some point in the night - but you're pulling into an after-harvest festival of a Tilean diaspora town. You can do as much, or as little, with this as you like - but Briant thought you two might like a touch of home, so he brought you here!
 
 
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 


Taalia enjoyed further travel through the beautiful, verdant countryside of Bretonnia. Though Tilea was a land of sun-kissed beauty, the realm of chivalry had a  green  quality to its dominion that spoke to something instinctual within the human, a place of green forestry and arable plains kissed by the gentle white caps of snow atop an infinitely fertile soil. She could see the appeal, the culture notwithstanding. She really could. When winter had moved on and spring blossomed around them, she could only imagine the earthen beauty that would surround them, and the temptation foreigners must have to establish farms and communities across such flourishing landscapes.

But, then came the cultural aspects. Or rather, the social ones. Whatever eden these lands might be, they were dominated by a caste system that kept man under plate-armored heel, so that any spark of enterprise brewing within the chest of the common man was swiftly eliminated as the threat it was to the established order. In many ways it made Taalia somewhat bitter, even angry, when her imagination took to flights of fantasy and speculated what the realm could be if it shared the republican virtues of Tilea, where a man could best author his own destiny and individual enterprise was not only encouraged, but often found profit and reward when servicing the needs of others. As much as the land spoke to her on a spiritual level, and though she knew many good people lived within the borders, Taalia knew it was that social system that would forever block any idea she had of settling here, even further north along the borders of the Empire, or the Wasteland. Serfs were really just a few steps above slaves, and she had long cast aside her chains.

When the group had stopped and Bella was fussing over Adrien, like a perfectionist mother preparing her brood for an important social event, Taalia watched from a distance and wore a smile while doing so. She shepardess knew nothing of tailoring outside of simple repair dewing, and so she had sat with Briant and chatted quietly while their little footman received his maternal attention.


  "I think I would have killed him,"  Briant says.  "Hamil, the Muckraker, who left his child to die."  It seems Briant ultimately came to the same conclusion that you did, though perhaps a little later.  "I would have said, a man who leaves his child to die must lose his head, and I would have walked him out of the city gate and cut it off and then explained myself with confidence to the men of Quenelles. He would have pleaded that he has other children that need him, and I would have told him 'then they shall starve, and your head roll'. And I would have ridden on my way and tried not to think of the awful mess afterward."  He tilts his head a little, thinking, musing.  "My father told me many things, but my mother said 'you become the average of those friends in whose midst you dwell'."  He reaches over toward you without looking and gives your shoulder a somewhat awkward pat - heartfelt, but from the heart of a man who is not used to mixed-gender platonic shoulder touching.  "I think I am very glad to have met such a friend as you, Taalia Trollslayer."  

Taalia smiled appreciatively, clearly taking the compliment as it was intended, particularly as it crossed the platonic barrier between man and woman in this realm. Well, any realm really.

 "Has Bella told you where I came from?"  she offered quietly, before gesturing up to the tri-claw scar across her cheek,  "how I got these? I have more. Many more. But for a long, long time, I was in the lap of desperation. I've seen what it does to people. A muckraker isn't a profession of wealth and fame. Perhaps in his heart of hearts he thought he was making the difficult decision that would preserve the rest of his family and avoid starving ruin,"  she shrugged.

 "We all like to think we will do the good thing right up until the end. But the world isn't that kind." 

For a brief moment the shepardess spared a thought back to whatever summoning spectacle she had bore witness to six or seven years ago. She would have only been around twelve, perhaps, maybe thirteen. She could still remember the face of that skaven slave, the way its abdomen had burst forth when she had forced it to ingest a piece of warpstone during a struggle. As vile and disgusting as they were, the Skaven were sentient creatures, and most people travelled throughout life without slaying anything that would fit that classification. Yet, she was a killer before she was even a teenager. Now, the two situations were not comparable, not in the slighest, but it did serve to illustrate a point: the world was an unjust place.

But, Taalia smiled, " I'm glad Bella's gentle presence has tempered you,"  she jested in good humor,  "I don't think and we could have asked for a better escort throughout the realm,"  she returned with sincerity. She then gestured over to Adrien, her lips arching again almost maternally,  "this is the better outcome,"  she nodded.


 oOo 

It was an oddly beautiful thing to hear native Tilean spoke again, and when the spectacle of boys driving carts and girls dismounting to hurl coloured ribbons at Adrien before scurry off in their escape wagon, like some friendly drive-by, Taalia laughed softly, covering her mouth with her gloved hand as she looked over at Bella, and then to the confused Adrien.

 "Voglio una grande ciotola di spaghetti con aglio e olio d'oliva e un Chianti!"  she beamed back at Bella, leaning over to kiss her friend upon the forehead and wrap her arm around her shoulder to impart a firm hug, before focusing back on the road.

Giggling once again at the sight of Adrien, so confused, dazzled with colored dust and bedecked with little ribbons as his senses slowly returned to him, Taalia called out to him gently, her smile wide.

 "Stay close to Bella and I - we can't have our handsome little footman stolen by the girls of the village, oui?"  she laughed in cheerful jest.

 "Adrien, Adrien, I'll buy you some beef ragu - délicieux!"  she gave a  chefs-kiss!  gesture his way.
MrAbdiel
 Adrien is still a little baffled by the flowers - the circuits in his brain that will later become fascinated by the mystery of the fairer sex are right now sparking, incomplete things that boggle him - but he is happy to hear about food!

 "Délicieux!" , he parrots, miming your chef-kiss.

As it turns out, the festival is very food oriented - quiet indulgent in that matter, even. There are many beef dishes, including a whole spitroast beast crisping over a fine fire as its spit-turners pour spoonfuls of molten herb butter onto its every crevice. Tables of Tilean fare, especially pasta dishes derived from the recent wheat harvest, are being populated by an small army of peasant women dipping in and out of the nearby houses whose kitchens are in constant action. A notable addition is the cauldron of  sketti-oum , whom you may linguistically imagine was once called the spaghetti man before a small lexical drift, lubricated by drunk revellers and children with imperfect diction.  Sketti-oum  is dressed like some storybook savage - a big man wearing short britches underneath a skirt made of hay, but otherwise bearing his hairy barrel chest. He has a great curly beard and long hair let to splay and sway, and a wooden mask with a hawkish style that covers his upper face between nose and forehead with allowance for vision. He stirs a great big cauldron of spaghetti and sauce which seems a little like a violation of the way of things, since Ariana and the Madre Angeletta and Bella and everyone else you know would not have enough water left in the sauce to keep it on heat like this. The result is a somewhat sloppier, thinner sauce that splashes and speckles the eater if you drop a forkful back in the bowl. But this mess seems to be part of the whole fun of it.  Sketti-oum  despises children, and only serves his precious spaghetti to adults, forcing children to band together and concoct outlandish fabrications to distract him.

 "Sketti-oum! There is a cow on the roof!"
"Sketti-oum! There is a spider on your head!"
"Sketti-oum! There is a goblin under the rigatoni dish!" 
 Sketti-oum , of course, is an indulgently credulous guardian who puts up very little resistance, and always seems to be baffled and distracted long enough for the children to have pinched a splattering plateful of red sauce and pasta, before coming roaring back to shake his fists at their mischief. The ground all around his cauldron is a tableaux of plates dropped in the heist's exciting extraction phase, and then partially recovered from the ground by tutting parents in all but the most desolate of cases.

It would seem that this is part of the game too, since the plates left to one side for the children to 'steal' for this purpose are perfectly flat discs with no concave to speak of, and you watch as one ambitious lad overloads his plate and then makes too sharp of a corner in his escape without tilting his dish to cope with the inertial drift. The whole lump of slippery  sketti  pounces off the plate and splats into patch of grass ruggedly growing in spite of the foot traffic - the bounty tragically lost. It is reclaimed by a ridiculous looking little dog that seems to be no bigger than a full grown cat, with chubby proportions, a squashed little snout, and oversized, batlike ears. Bella posits a theory that the dog is the mastermind of the entire game, which holds a great deal of explanatory power.

There are games, and music, and festive life that is not unlike what you experienced in Bella Colina, but not so similar that it is not plain that the affair is a compounded mash of traditions from across Tilea as well as a few pulled in from Quenelles. There is an archery competition later, to be conducted with flaming arrows to be better seen in the nighttime; as well as a seperate, second 'dwarven archery' competition slated for later than that, which has a good chance to involve quaffing wine and shooting longbows in rapid succession.

But before you can indulge in much of this there is an obstruction that is immediately plain to your group - Sir Briant.

Sir Briant is uncommonly kind to commoners as you have observed, conversational and respectful without disregarding his own station. But he is still a nobleman. He is not local, not even from this barony or its surrounding duchy, but his obvious caste mismatch means that all of the merry-making within twenty feet of him or so at a time grinds to a halt as peasants check that their wimples are tied, and that the blotched colors from flower-pelting on their tunics is not mistaken for a breach of the sumptuary laws restricting certain colors. You and Bella are immediately welcomed as from the old country, and even Adrien is clearly only a servant of a noble; but Briant does not belong to this world. He knows it, and you catch some disappointment in his face which he quickly walls up behind a mien of benign good will.

 "I had better pay my respects at the Baron's castle before it gets too piteously dark to get back - I'll rejoin you in a couple of hours. I should like to see the archers Munro can muster, drunk or dry. Adrien - do not let the women become too caught up in dancing and ragu before you have secured lodging for the night, or else we shall be camping in the cold again."  The young knight bargains a torch from one of the villagers, and heads off up the road toward the highset castle to announce his passage through the barony. As he does, the tension around him is immediately lifted.

 "Knacker me madre,"  breathes one spectator as he runs a hand through his hair in relief,  "I thought he was going to hang  Sketti-Oum  for wearing a skirt, for a moment." 
 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
The Fine-Weather Harvest Festival is upon you! You may:

- Eat and drink most leisurefully (+20% Consume Alcohol)
- Sign up for one, or both, archery competitions. Bows and arrows are provided.
- Try to help Adrien finding somewhere to sleep for the night (Gossip +20% - none of the other penalties you've been recently enjoying)
- Engage in some manner of tomfoolery of your own design, perhaps making up some quirk of this festival.
- Try to pick up the local dances (+0% Perform (Dancer))
- Attempt to start a rousing chorus of Funiculì, Funiculà (+20% Perform (Sing))
 
 
MrAbdiel
 There is enough bilingualism in the town that Adrien's quest would not have been totally forlorn without your help, but you and Bella follow him about as he knocks on doors looking for someone home willing to put up some travellers for the night. He is fearless in this, and near to beyond deterrence as so many houses prove empty with their occupants at the festival. There is a local tavern with some rooms to rent, but they are occupied by travellers from out of town already. Adrien could, if he thought to, demand they be kicked out so his lord could rest in comfort - but the idea simply doesn't occur to him. The modicum of power he has been granted in being a knight's footman has not been fully realized in his imagination, but he seems reasonably likely to resist its intoxication as he grow into it.

At the disappointment at the tavern, he looks longingly over at the spaghetti-shenanigans the other children are having fun with, and then down at his new shoes - uncomfortable on feet accustomed to wearing none at all. This obstacle is taking the shine off his new mission, and you can almost see into his soul in the downcast eyes - he is thinking about how shoes, and an outfit, can transform him from a poor child surrounded by other children into something else, which he is not sure he is good at being. You and Bella provide the necessary encouragement.

 "Not to worry - maybe we try a different plan, my good footman. Perhaps instead of asking the houses, we ask the people?" 

And with a little effort together, there are results. You make the acquaintance of farmer named Enzo, a Quenellan fellow who moved to the town to marry a Tobaran expatriate named Gemma.

 "Well, we've a silo that's still empty - we didn't finish it until just this week, after the harvest was over. It's not exactly furnished, but it's dry and secure. Normally I'd offer travellers a meal, but..."  He gestures all round.  "If you want to put up there, and stop any drunks from stumbling in and vomiting in my nice new silo, I'd consider myself well repaid." 

You're able to quarter your horses and cart at the tavern's stables for the moment, to take to the directed silo with you later on. Thus this task is complete, and Adrien is left, for the moment, without orders.

 "Look - do you see? I see someone in need of assistance."  Bella directs Adrien's attention to a group of three young locals, perhaps four or five years at average, holding clean plates and clearly conspiring to get their share of spaghetti. But without someone tall enough to reach the over the pot, or someone especially mischevious, the have so far gone without (though their ensauced faces suggest not without something to eat completely).

Adrien, who has so far not indulged in the feast, scratches at his collar thoughtfully.  "I'd better help them..."  And off he darts, for a little while surrounded, as he has been his whole life, by smaller children in need of his cunning and valor, giving you and Bella time to wheel to indulge with appropriate restraint in your fair share of the faire's fair fare.

You ingratiate yourselves quickly - if your Tilean bona fides were in question because of your unusual appearance, Bella's are enough to supply the shortfall, and you spend an hour or so sitting at big round tables of chattering swarms of local maids and matrons who erupt into great squalls of group laughter and burst into song at the slightest provocation.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
Make a -10 Willpower test to remove an IP. Now that I've decided to do this occasionally, I will feel more at liberty to inflict them... &gt;:)
 


A little over an hour later, you muster with a gaggle of other hopefuls on someone's temporarilly cleared pasture to launch blazing arrows down range. Obviously flaming arrows can't be fired at conventional buttes or else they'd catch fire right away - you're loaned a bow and invited in sequence to launch arcing fire toward a number of wooden bathtubs filled with water at the far end of the pasture. The arrows that thunk into the wood of the right tub get a point; those that manage to sink the arrow into the water and dousing the arrow get three. Some of the women take part, though it's mostly men who seem particuarly proud of their skills. They use longbows, while you use a conventional hunting bow. It's funny, because you are taller than most of them but their bows are taller than yours - still, the targets aren't so far away that you'd absolutely need a longbow, and you're not at all used to that kind of draw resistance. You shoot well, and in the first few rounds, bad luck and bad discipline winnows out most of the participants until a final round with four shooters - you,  Sketti-Oum , one of the louder of the singing maidens you met at the tables (named Welma), and a hooded gentleman that makes one wonder if he has something to hide. But he can shoot passably, and that's all that matters for the moment.

 "Good luck in the final round,"  belts out the caller,  "for the winner shall very soon receive the grand prize!" 

With such mysterious promises, who would not be enticed?

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
You'll take four aimed shots for the final prize. A successful shot gives 1 pt, a shot that clears the TN by 20 points or more, it's 3pts. Most points in this round wins!

Sketti-Oum:   vs49  - (1d100)[ 60 ] 
Sketti-Oum:   vs49  - (1d100)[ 85 ] 
Sketti-Oum:   vs49  - (1d100)[ 12 ]  - 3pts
Sketti-Oum:   vs49  - (1d100)[ 86 ] 

Welma:   vs54  - (1d100)[ 20 ]  - 3 pts
Welma:   vs54  - (1d100)[ 81 ] 
Welma:   vs54  - (1d100)[ 86 ] 
Welma:   vs54  - (1d100)[ 61 ] 

Hoodie:   vs50  - (1d100)[ 48 ]  - 1 pt
Hoodie:   vs50  - (1d100)[ 87 ] 
Hoodie:   vs50  - (1d100)[ 85 ] 
Hoodie:   vs50  - (1d100)[ 64 ] 

EDIT: What a terrible crop of shots! Everyone's hitting the Chianti a bit to early methinks.
 
 
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 


Taalia had followed along with Adrien as an almost big-sister like figure. Heck, she almost  looked  related to him, given their height, builds and fairer colored hair...though the shepardess' hetereochromia marked her as distinct enough that a scrutinising eye might doubt any sanguine relation. Nevertheless, Taalia stayed behind the lad by a good five or so feet each time, watching and observing his methods of 'bargaining' with the locals. She didn't want to intrude, but rather would just remain on standby to ensure the boy wasn't swindled. Afterall, this was to be one of his jobs in service to Briant. A knight would not sully his elevated processions with anything as sordid as 'negotiatng' prices for a room, certainly not if he could help it! And so when the time came that they had settled upon a silo, Taalia stood with hands upon her hips and rubber-necked inspection of their abode.

 "Well, little Master Adrien - these are the quarters you have secured?"  she pondred, her tone most friendly, but carrying a soft teasing element to them that he would come to recognise in due time.

But it was no use, for the lad was already distracted. Taalia could see that his gaze had drifted over to the other children and a spike of sympathy blossomed in her chest at the sight of it. Doubtless this was the boys first  real  job, and likely the furthest away from home he had ever been. Among the creature comforts he had left behind was likely a small group of friends that now carried on without him, unlikely to ever again see the energetic lad whom once towered over them. One way or another, that boy was gone from their lives, and he wasn't coming back. The day had passed already that had been the last time in which they'd all played together, and none of them had even known it.

 "Look - do you see? I see someone in need of assistance."   Bella spoke up, and Taalia guessed that she had come to similar conclusions.


 Adrien, who has so far not indulged in the feast, scratches at his collar thoughtfully.  "I'd better help them..."  And off he darts, for a little while surrounded, as he has been his whole life, by smaller children in need of his cunning and valor, giving you and Bella time to wheel to indulge with appropriate restraint in your fair share of the faire's fair fare. 

Taalia smiled as she watched the lad hurry off to lend his devious cunning and physicality to the plight of the younger children. She spared a look at Bella, both young women exchanging knowing looks before turning to enjoy the sight of the kids going through that introductory phase. Taalia had seen so many perish, worked and brutalised by the rats, to see them like this, in a kinder setting where their natural inclinations could flourish?

Taalia stayed to watch for a little longer.

 oOo 
The Chianti and ragu was delicious, that much was certain. The taste of beef-imbibed, pappardelle pasta, with sliced and cooked mushrooms and garlic, the red wine of chianti on the side! Taalia loved it. In fact she loved it so mch at one point she had to lean back and unfasten her belt a little, her usually flat stomach bulging slightly and drawing a some friendly mockery from the older women around her. But, Taalia threw back as good as she got, but never in a way that would escalate. She had learned from the social customs and mores of the Tilean communual gatherings how a womans rank was usually decided by her age, with the elder ladies occupying particular heights that allowed them to say things and guide conversations in ways Taalia knew would be social suicide to resist. Indeed, it was this cordial familiarity that had allowed the towering, foreign girl to ingratiate herself into the established benches, as the shepardess's height, her clear physicality, scars, two different colored eyes and white-blonde hair made her look more likely to be jumping off the front of a Norscan longship swinging an axe around her head, rather than traveling from the old country with one of its blessed daughters as her best friend.

And ah - Bella. How she fit like a glove! Watching her shorter, dark-haired friend slide so easily back into a natural setting had been fun in and of itself, but Taalia's proximity to her also legitimized herself in the eyes of the Tilean-Bretonnian expats. Bella's fluid command of Tilean was on display as she told half a story with her hand movements and gestures alone, regaling the group with where they had come from,  how  they had traveled and where, the sights they'd seen, the dangers they'd face and the friends gained and lost along the way. Taalia didn't intervene, but instead remained next to her, leaning back, tummy bulging and smiling along with the tales, as their storytelling soon melded into joined singing, with Taalia's smoky, contralto voice backing up Bella's mezzo-soprano.

But, soon came the archery competition!

 "Oh - the competition, Bella, I wanted to try in that!"  Taalia beamed, almost immobile in her chair as her friend looked over at her and smirked - reaching forward to poke her bloated tummy.

 "Ah! No! Stop - don't! Haha - help me up!" 

Bella just snickered and poked her again,  "when did you escape the sty, hmm?"  she teased, Taalia weakly slapping her hands away,  "Oh - stop! Haha, no, don't!" 

Eventually Bella had her fun and relented, assisting her bigger friend up to her feet so that Taalia could waddle over to staging ground in all her slovenly glory, doing her belt back up as she moved and wheezing from the surprisingly tight sensation gripping around her waist.

But, she proved to be an excellent aracher.

Temporary fat girl or not, Taalia had years of practice with the bow. It was the first weapon she'd ever learned to use when she had clawed her way to the surface, and she had employed it against the Troll, whose death had bestowed bestowed her namesake. She also employed and improved her skill with regular hunting for the hart, as venison was a delicious meat with which she had perfected several hearty recipe's that could fill the bellies and spirits of the boys she had employed on her farm. So when the tall girl with her strong shoulders drew her hunting bowstring back with impressive ease, focused, aimed and let loose an arrow that landed and sizzled out in the tub, it was clear she was a contender.

It also helped that her competition weren't exactly the vanguard of the Kings finest lowbowmen. Perhaps they were competent archers when of sound mind, but this late into the day, when bountiful food and wine occupied all their time since the sun had risen upon their village? No. No they were not, as demonstrated when even the mysterious, hooded figure swayed and cursed under his breath as he sent another shot wide of the target, the flaming arrow thudding out harmlessly in a patch of green vegetation that wouldn't catch fire.

Then it was Taalia's turn, and she too had a quarter of her mind submerged beneath the high-energy ragu and olive oil and garlic spaghetti, chianti and cognac. Waddling up to the starting position with the happy, tipsy, content face of a village drunk, the towering young woman swayed on the spot for several seconds before drawing that hunting bow string back, the weapon creaking softly as she did so in a fluid and easy motion, her beautifully sculptured muscles along her shoulders and traps outlined by her shirt as she aimed...aimed...aimed...loose!

The fiery missile sailed through the air, arched in the dusk sky and sizzled down to earth, striking the central water of her target and announcing her accuracy with a plume of black smoke.

Gasps and claps. She'd done it! With her first attempt she was at least  even  with the others, and she still had three arrows left.

Another, notched, draw, Taalia swaying, aimed, let loose - it arched and sailed upwards and over and...landed  next  to the tub. Nothing.

 "Pfft!"  Taalia blew her lips, waving her hand dismissively, to the snickers of the crowd.

Then the third attempt.  Thud!  the arrow struck the rim of the tub, oscilating on the spot as excess energy sprang through the projectile as the crowd all cheered and clapped. She'd won. The rest was just gravy.

And the rest is what they got - one more arrow arching sailing through the air to  Thud!  strike the rimming of the cauldron, as Taalia turned around to face the crowd.

She held up her hands, one still gripping her bow, in a  'Eh? eh?'  gesture of how great she was, her tipsy, half-drunken face wearing that checked-out smile as she swayed around in a clumsy little circular parade before one of the organisers joined her to press a wriggling little piglet into her arms.

 "By..Ve...hic! Venera...you want me to eat it now?" 

No, it was a prize.

However, Taalia had learned something during the earlier socialisation and search for a room in this town: she had learned which family was the 'most in need'. That family would soon be receiving the little sow as a gift from the tall foreign woman, with assurances to have her studded by a boar when she came of age, so that she could produce many little piglets to sell for a princely sum every year.

Trust her, she knew what she was talking about.

Why? Well, she can't have a little piglet on the road, can she? No where for it to go! And it would just squeal and eat and who knows what danger such a succulent little meal on trotters could attract. No no, much better she went to a sedentary family who could benefit from her production.

That the family would call their new money-making little sow Vert bleu, or 'Green blue', after Taalia's two different colored eyes, well, children were such delights sometimes.

Bella snickered in the background while Taalia blanched, before forcing a smile.
MrAbdiel
 The receiving family are recent arrivals from Pavona - not as recent as you, but they made the journey two years ago after a brief territorial skirmish between Remas and Pavona left their village battered and their home in ruins. Living on a provincial border did not provide the security they wanted for their three children, and rumors that Pavona and Remas would commit to a larger conflict in the near future convinced them to go a little further afield. The husband, Milo (who bears no resemblance at all to your cat) was a stonemason who enjoyed the idea of 'simple' farming instead of his heavy trade - but his inartful freshman management of his barley plot has lead to two bad yields and difficult times. Receiving  Vert Bleu  in a random act of kindness is  an act of fortune that falls upon him like a cool rain at the end of a hot day. He clutches the snoozy piglet to himself with both hands like he is afraid it will float off into the sky if he releases it.

 "Gods bless you, Taalia-Trollslayer. We'll not forget your kindness!" 

He carries the porcine prize carefully off into the crowd, looking to show it off to his wife.

 "What a decent thing of you to do!"  The hooded stranger compliments, his voice giving him away at once to you and Bella.

 "Briant? Oh, Briant. How scandelous!"  Bella laughs, peering under his hood at his shadowed countenance now that such a leer isn't an imposition on a stranger. Leans away, scowling dramatically.

 "Scandal? No scandal. I'm just a humble pilgrim, who is worse at archery than he remembers." 

It's an elegant enough solution to the problem of his fun-suppressing status aura. You expect it would be damaging - perhaps genuinely scandalous, despite Bella joking - for a knight to feign a lower status to carouse like this. But who is going to say so? And not being known in the town, the hood is probably superfluous anyway - just dressing down into peasant garb and acting the part might do. Bella soon pesters him off to join her in one of the local dances whipping up, and he can hardly spurn her. He even seems capable of keeping up, for the most part!

 "Are they going to get married?" 

Adrien has manifested back at your side here on the sidelines, watching the pair dance. The boy has managed to acquire a long stick of some kind of buttery pastry bread, crusted with sugar. He offers it toward you, to tear off a piece, and smiles with a little face that is... less than perfectly cleaned of sketti-sauce.

 
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 

By the time the entrepreneurial farmer had received his much needed boo from fate in the form of the little sow piglet Taalia had granted him, the shepardess was sobering gup. She had not been particularly drunk, but rather just slightly...buzzed. Her eyes were more alert, her mind more switched on. And so when Milo offered his astonished thanks and gently, but securely, held the little treasure trove in his arms, Taalia gently waved her hand in dismissal.

 "Fortune gave me my start,"  she said, remembering back to that locked chest she had located in the woods and retrieved with help from Gaulfredo (that he wasn't a bandit who would have slit her throat and claimed the mystery prize for himself was another stroke of luck in itself).

 "If you prosper, you can be another's good luck. Be generous with others!"  she beamed.

What she had  not  expected, was Briant's unveiling - his return!

 "Gah!"  she yelped softly, jumping almost as she covered her mouth with her palm.

 "Bria...what are you doing?"  she went into a hushed whisper, her face turning a slight shade of blushing pink as she had to stop herself from giggling at the situation. Seeing the usually stoic and well-dressed knight...well...'slumming' it in commoners realia while disguising his features. It wasn't something she had been prepared for! But, for a brief second she remembered the mans disappointment at the trepidation and underlying fear the commoners had exhibited earlier in the day when he had moved past them while bedecked in his armor, sheathed sword upon his hip and the reins of a visibly mighty steed gripped with one gauntlet-plated hand. She herself had undergone a similar self-reflection upon...well, not  rejection , but certainly apprehension of the Tilean locals at the sight of this towering, skinny and clearly foreign girl who didn't speak a lick of their language nor understood any of their customs and decorum. Even today, Taalia would blush slightly when she remembered how she had kissed Cestie upon the cheek, believing herself to be following a custom of greeting, only to later learn that such ovations were not the sort that played out between girls of her age and men of Cestie's particularly advanced state of seniority.

So in this capacity, Taalia understood Briant's actions. She would have done anything in those days to receive an immediate welcome. It was never a pleasant state of affairs to feel alone in a crowd.


 "Are they going to get married?"

Adrien has manifested back at your side here on the sidelines, watching the pair dance. The boy has managed to acquire a long stick of some kind of buttery pastry bread, crusted with sugar. He offers it toward you, to tear off a piece, and smiles with a little face that is... less than perfectly cleaned of sketti-sauce. 

Taalia blinked. Adriens words pulled her back into the present as she watched Briant and Bella together in the dancing circle, before the lads question quickly dispelled any romantic notions that may have been accruing.

 "No, they are not,"  Taalia spoke down to the boy, before lowering herself to one knee. Adrien was tall for his age, but such prodigious upwards growth meant little compared to Taalia's unnatural elevation that stood above all but a handful of men within the realm.

 "Have you thought of your duties as a footman, Master Adrien?"  she asked, gently placing a hand on the boys shoulder, relying on her feminine face, smoky voice and her femaleness around kids to occupy a position of gentle, maternal authority.

 "Knights live and die by their honour, do they not? As his footman, you are sworn to protect Briant - this includes protecting his reputation, yes? Briant is merely enjoying the charms of a foreign girl, while nobly escorting us to the north of Bretonnia. Nothing more. Do you understand?" 

Under other circumstances, Taalia's words could have been weighed with menace and looming threats. But to Adrien, she almost sounded pleading, explanatory even. Smiling warmly, she leaned forward to kiss the boy on his forehead.

 "Protect Briant's secrets and his honour, Master Adrien, and do not speak a word of this. Others may seek to harm your Knight in ways that do not involve swords." 

She knew the last sentence would largely fly over the boys head, but it was important to say it nonetheless. The shepardess then looked back at the pair, Bella and Briant. In another land, a more just land, they could have, possibly, maybe...they would make a wonderful pairing. But here?

 You're both playing a dangerous game , Taalia thought to herself.
MrAbdiel
 Warmed by success, pasta, and southern liquors, you sit and watch Bella and 'peasant' Briant wheel and spin for a bit. Typically in your travels through the nation, Bella has covered her hair somewhat and layered pretence over herself in accomodation of local custom while Briant walked unimpeded. Here, Briant is the one draped in pretence and Bella is free to act out the dress-swishing, hip-swivelling culture of her homeland. It looks good - but you know at all times, at least one of them has a layer of pretence to permit the fantasy.


  "No, they are not. Have you thought of your duties as a footman, Master Adrien? Knights live and die by their honour, do they not? As his footman, you are sworn to protect Briant - this includes protecting his reputation, yes? Briant is merely enjoying the charms of a foreign girl, while nobly escorting us to the north of Bretonnia. Nothing more. Do you understand? Protect Briant's secrets and his honour, Master Adrien, and do not speak a word of this. Others may seek to harm your Knight in ways that do not involve swords."  

You can see the micro-adjustment of the boy's posture as the gravity in your words emerges. He nods a little, but you suspect his understanding of this matter of secrecy and dalliance and non-sword-harms is rudimentary because of his age. But he has a little more awareness now; perhaps it will snap into place over time. His smile is diminished as he goes back to peeling fluffy slices of butter-bread from his treat... but he has been thrust into the tumult of the real and complex world, now. He must become accustom to smiling a little less.

The 'dwarven archery' competition is, indeed, fantastically dangerous. There are a dozen straw-goblins (you can tell by the noses) lashed to posts in the firing field, and six competitors who are already somewhat tipsy standing at stations facing away from the field, back toward a table covered in cups of wine. At the call to begin, the men race back to the table, drain a cup, and then back to their starting point where they toss the cup in a bucket and 'purchase' a tarred arrow with their libation. Then they light the arrow on a torch and send it whistling down range, missing pretty badly in their haste. Then they drop the bow, rush back for another cup to drain, and repeat the process. No innocents up end up shot, which is good; and ten of the competitors are eliminated either by stumbling and falling in the run back or forth, or by veering off to the side to throw up. Two are left standing and tottering when all twelve of the strawmen are blazing and the bows are put aside, and they flop onto the ground laughing and groaning in the cheering accolades of the crowd. A judge hustles out to count the arrows sticking out of the burning effigies according to their fletching to see who has made the best showing of marksmanship. The winner is given a large basket of bread and a jug of wine, as well as a pair of fine leather vambraces. They are perched on top of his chest as he lies deliriously in the mud, seeming to half comprehend his success but also to be half in a dream.

You can imagine Nogrom throwing his hands up and raving that archery and wine have nothing to do with dwarven anything - but atleast they are burning likenesses of the hated  grobi . About that, any dwarf would be pleased.

 * * * * * 
The silo proves adequate, and the next day you leave La Novogiorgo behind, your bags loaded with homestyle breads and cured ham and olive oil. Briant had snuck off in the morning to make his way back to wherever he had stowed his panoply, and Sir Briant had returned shortly after, with no one bothering to elicit suspicion of the antics in the groggy post-feast morning, and once again you are a band of four clip-clopping your way up the pilgrim road. Two nights later, you Bella wakes during her watch, with a shushing finger to your lips and invites you to look out at the hills, away from the fire. It's at a distance where your night vision is not sufficient, but against the glow of the night sky you can make out a band of lithe, elfish figures moving with ghostly grace; briefly stencilled against the night sky before slipping behind a hill again. Two of them carry a long bough with a slain doe dangling from it. With their eerie fleet of foot, they slip across the pilgrim road and off toward forest of Loren from which they must have once emerged.  "So quiet,"  Bella whispers to you in amazement.  "I heard the deer offer a sound when they killed it in a lull in the wind, otherwise I would have not noticed them at all." 

One of the cloaked figures pauses on the road to look back at your camp, where the low fire must make your watching clear. It stoops and does something over the road, and then dashes after its fellows crossing the empty border between road and forest.

 "What... was that? A.. trap? Or a mark..?"  The figures are gone now, and the night wind offers no information. You could investigate the road, certainly. What's the worst that might happen? 
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 


Taalia had visibly taken on an almost maternal disposition towards Adrien, which wasn't unusual, given her age. Though the true figure of her maturity was impossibly to accurately gauge down to the day, in general it could be assumed that she was late eighteen, early nineteen. It would be about this time, had she not been stolen away from her homeland, that she would most likely have been led down the aisle herself, with her first tot to develop and follow in the ensuing months. Instead, she had experienced a very different life-path, but that had not deleting both instincts and inclinations that the older Briant and Bella would likely discern when observing the tall shepardess showing Adrien both sympathetic kindness and education. Whenever the day was done, camp was made and the cooking pots brought forthwith, Taalia would have Adrien alongside herself and Bella so that he would learn the necessary skills for preparing hearty and rewardingly delicious meals with the barest of materials available. So too was she the first line of tutelage for the use of his shield and axe, with the shepardess imparting upon the lad the importance of footwork, stance, focus and coordination of weapon and board, before Briant would take over for most advanced lessons.

Besides, Taalia knew the boy would be putting on a brave front. It had not even been a week since departing his family around which he had grown up. She knew that the emotional and mental realisation that he would not see them for years would soon impress upon him a melancholy with which she was intimately familiar. She had had to endure that alone, at the frozen roof of the world and surrounded by killers and raiders. Fate had seen fit to grant her presence to the boy, to ensure he was did not have to face that realisation on his own.

When Bella awoke her friend, Taalia had been expecting some sneaking, stealth-based raid. As such, when her shorter bae quietly brought her out of slumber, Taalia had half sat up quickly, knife in hand and pointed at her, before realising half a second what was going on and offering an apologetic look and tucking the weapon away. She was glad that she had, for when she followed Bella outside to see what she saw, the shepardess' eyes narrowed and widened slightly. Already she could remember the elven bounty hunter back in Tilea that had, whether she had cared to or not, saved her from the burning pyre. Her testimony had been the final, clinching argument that had absolved her in most reasonable peoples minds, and without it...well...Taalia might still be among the living, but here? Doubtful.

 "What was that...?"  Taalia whispered softly, noticing the Wood Elf performing some... thing , she couldn't tell. A boobytrap? Doubtful. Why? If they wanted to no witnesses, then they had a whole hunting party, awake, alert and tested for the task. Given the stories she had heard of the Fay folk in this realm, the shepardess guessed that what had been left behind was a warning, a mark or sigil that menaced any curiosity she might possess, to keep her at bay and ensure she did not follow them into the woods where she would test their limited patience with her human meddling.

A minute passed.

Then another.

And another.

Finally,  "...wait here,"  Taalia whispered to Bella, getting up slowly from their hidden position.

Slowly, quietly, her position crouched, Taalia moved over in the cloak of night to investigate what was left by the Elves - what they had  wanted  her to see.
MrAbdiel
 Bella covers you as you begin your skulking - you hear the quiet but distinctive cranking of Cestié's crossbow as Bella prepares, should she be required, to make war on anything who puts you in threat. It seems not to be required.

There, resting on the well trod road where the elf had knelt for that moment. It looks like a fruit - but not one you've ever seen, or heard described either edible or as some toxic herb the Madre Angeletta thought to turn you away from. It's about the size of your hands clasped together, with a smooth exterior skin that seems to have a texture like soft leather. The moonlight gives you very little of its color, but it seems to be a fair shade that could be ripe. It has a shape like a great big fat kidney bean but one end tapering a little more sharply than the other; an obese, fruity comma that represents some vegetable or berry or something harvested from trees that do not grow in Bretonnia, or Tilea, or anywhere you know. This tells you nothing about whether or not it is poison or trap; but you know it seems to have been left here, quite intentionally, after your observation was noted. 
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 


Taalia narrowed her eyes in confusion.

A fruit?

It looked more like a turgid wineskin.

 "Wha..."  she mouthed quietly to herself, clasping the organic object in the palm of both hands, joined together at the knuckle, her attention so focused that the surrounding world seemed to slip away for a few moments, before she finally snapped herself back to reality.

Returning to the camp, Taalia held the item up in the palm of her hand.

 "...we should plant it."  she stated, visibly confused, but thinking this was the best option.

After all, the last time fate had granted her beneficial items, the chest and its expensive contents, she had sold them for funds that had built her namesake in southern Tilea. She hadn't immediately used the new disposable income in a night of drunken revelry.
MrAbdiel
  “What..? Why would they… Is it some kind of magical fey fruit..? Perhaps they want us to eat it, or… resist eating it..?” 

Bella becomes fascinated by this strange token, gently turning it over in her fingers, sniffing at it, puzzling…

 “It has some give, like a… like a ripe plum? And a little sweet zest to the smell, a little citrus or.. softer. I don’t know. Let’s see it in the sunlight tomorrow.” 

In the morning, you are joined by Adrien and Briant, sitting around in a little circle gazing at the mystery item. Its skin is quite bright in color, closer to lemon-yellow than orange; but it seems to smoothly grade to a slightly less ripe looking green at the narrower end, and has a rosy pink blush at the other end where it has been twisted from a stem.

Milo gives it a little sniff, but then loses interest. You can surmise it is neither fish nor fowl, at least.

 “If we intend to plant it.. we ought to dig the seeds out and dry them. If it rots then perhaps we will lose the seeds, too.”  This is Bella’s current assessment.

 “I don’t think the fey would leave a fruit for us if it was poison or harmful. You said they brought the deer down on the far side of the road? Perhaps they were.. buying it. Or just acknowledging that you saw them.”  Briant rubs his little moustache as he tilts his head.

 “My mama says if someone gives you a vegetable it’s rude not to eat it even if you don’t like vegetables. It’s disrespectful to the farmer. Even if it’s a little bruisy or gross.”  Adrien’s advice may be self-serving; you get the impression he hasn’t had much liberty to turn down free food. 
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 

Taalia listened to the others, thought Briant's suggestion was the most compelling to her. In her mind, the elves 'paying' or 'purchasing' game from the humans in their land made a degree of sense, particularly when considering the unpredictability with which they defended their own. But so to was she unsure  what  they intended the group of quite young humans to do with the fruit. Eat it? Eat parts of it and dry out the seeds? Plant the whole thing? Something else?

Humanity had been dealing with the Wood Elves for centuries, millenia even, and still were at a lost for words as to the breadth of their mechanisms or paths of their ambitions. So what hope did his little group have to ascertain the proper response to such a gift, if it even was as such? Bella, Briant and Taalia barely had a combined total of sixty living years among them. For a moment, the shepardess wished that Madre Angeletta was here with them, her decades of experience on offer to counsel them as to the wisest course of action. After all - what if they did plant the seeds, or take some with them, and the Elves, in all of their incomprehensibility, considered this an insult?

But she also remembered the treeman when they had first entered the prior city, and the paternal way it had knelt down to foster the care of a little sapling. Surely ensuring a new generation of foliage and trees came into being would buy them mercy for whatever ignorance they revealed?

 "Perhaps Briant is right,"  Taalia said, staring at the most unusual of fruits.

 "The way the Elves see it...they moved into 'our' lands, and have now fairly purchased their game. We can partake in the fruit, while cutting forth the seeds to dry and keep for planting? We can disseminate some here, along the border, and the rest we carry with us?" 
MrAbdiel
 This seems to be the best plan anyone can think of, and Bella does the honors with a sharp knife. Quickly, she runs into trouble; trying to slice it cleanly in half, and after some messy experimentation it seems like right move is to slice off the sides of the fruit, exposing a golden flesh interior that is soft, juicy, and vulnerable to being eaten out of the cupped skin like a shallow dish with the aid of a spoon. It has not seeds, but a single large seed like a giant stone fruit.

 
 Spoiler: The Mystery Fruit 
 

You can decide if Taalia likes mangos or not!
 
 
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 


The fruit was delicious. Strips of the orangey, rich yellow tissue were cut off and enjoyed, with Taalia's eyes lightning up at the sweet flavour.

 "Delizioso..."  she commented winsomely, turning her head to face Bella.

 "...Aggiungere dei peperoni rossi...corianda...magari uno scalogno...un po' di zucchero e olio d'oliva?"  she spoke to her friend.

Not being greedy, Taalia made sure Adrien had some, as did Briant. When all was said and done, they had the remaining seed at the centre of the fruit, as Taalia held it up between a thumb and index finger for inspection.

 "Just one seed?"  she observed curiously.

Before they departed, the shepardess invite Adrien to assist her with planting it. Off the road, somewhere water would run, half a foot into the fertile soil and cover it over.

 "Remember this place, Si?"  she told the lad,  "Come by it every few years and see how it grows!" 
MrAbdiel
 Briant and Bella enjoy the fruit-flesh - the only drawback is the juices that need washing from faces and hands. And Adrien performs the intuitive task of gnawing on the seed to get the remnant fruit off of it, coming away picking little orange fibres out of his teeth but returning a somewhat cleaned seed with a wispy orange fringe. Bella schemes with you about potential uses to make some kind of sauce of marinade with it in future, but she's puzzled by the seed itself.

 "I've never seen anything like it. I suppose it's a ... pit, rather than a seed, in as much there's a difference. But it's huge!" 

You take a little time to plant it by the side of the Pilgrim Road, and Adrien  spends a while squinting out at landmarks under Briant's instruction to memorize the location.

 "If it grows, maybe we can plant more of them. A whole field of fey-fruit!" , the boy dreams aloud. Briant smiles with the corner of his mouth.
 "If it does, I shall take you to submit the first harvest to the king directly." 

The scenario has the ring of a charming fable - the peasant boy bringing a new and magical fruit to the court of a king. But that will have to wait - the seed does not grow with supernatural speed, and so ultimately you leave it behind, speculating as to what might become of it.

 * * * * * 
It's days later as you near the border of Parravon that you have your next encounter of note. The land has become hilly, with the interior mountain cluster, Massif Orcal, stretching up in the west of you, and the familiar mystery of the forest of Loren on the right. The mounded land makes it hard to see  the Pilgrim road's precise path ahead as it winds between the lumpen earth, and great swathes of tall grass reach up in patchy adornment upon them.

Your ears hear it before anyone else. It's far off - the sound carried on the wind, weaving between the hills. It's a sound you've heard once before, in the field near Bella Collina. Because it was all around you.

You've been in plenty of fights; some of them have been called  battles  generously. But a real  battle  has a different texture - the clashing chorus of so many voices crying out in desperation, in fear, in rage. No gunfire this time - but with the unwelcome sound of orcish bellowing amidst.

Somewhere beyond these hills, a battle between men and orcs is unfolding. 
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 

The days travel had taken Taalia deeper into the beautiful realm of Bretonnia, those verdant fields and rich woodlands forever grasping her attention. Tilea was itself possessed an inspiring landscape, but here things were more... green ? That was the best way she had to describe it, as inarticulate as it sounded. Vineyards were

In Tilea, the land felt wilder, more rugged. The steep slopes of the mountain passes with their dramatic peaks rose against the horizon. Terracotta-roofed farmhouses perched on hillsides where they overlooked groves of olive trees and rows of grapevines that seem to stretch endlessly under a warm sun. Life in the Tilean countryside felt vibrant, a little chaotic, as if the land itself was buzzing with history and passion. Small towns had clustered together, their piazzas filled with laughter and the clinking of glasses at open-air trattorias where people gather to share food, wine, and stories.

The Bretonnian countryside, by contrast, was a more tranquil, orderly scene. Here, the landscape unfolded in wide, verdant plains and gentle hills. Less rugged, but no less captivating. The architecture was noticeably softer, with pastel-hued buildings capped with lavender shutters, their gardens spilling over with roses and sunflowers for all to adore. The air was perfumed with the scent of lavender fields that swayed in the breeze, while the pace of life was slower, more refined. Bretonnian villagers, though suspicious of outsiders and deeply fearful of scornful attention from passing nobility, lingered at cafes, savouring each sip of their wine with quiet appreciation, while the distant sound of chapel bells chimed softly in the background.

Yet in both lands, whether in the sun-drenched fields of Tilea or the lavender-draped hills of Bretonnia, there was a sense of something eternal, a connection to the earth and to time itself. The rhythm of life followed the seasons, and no matter where one wandered, Taalia felt the heart of the countryside beats with a quiet, steady pulse, inviting her to slow down and savor the beauty of each moment. It was a difficult mentality for her to impress herself upon, given how her formative years developed beneath the lash of Skaven who themselves were products of an anxiety-ridden society. But, nevertheless, though she could never fully be  of  the regions, she could pass through and feel a kinship with them that transcended geography.

Which made her detection of battle all the more distressing.

This wasn't a small-unit battle. This wasn't a skirmish with a few dozen men on either side. No, no no no, Taalia  knew  what this sounded like. She had marched in lock-step in a regiment, against gunpowder and steel.

This was a  battle .

Eyes widening, Taalia sat up straight in her saddle before anyone else, her fantastically keen sense of hearing alerting her before anyone else. Drawing up her right hand to hold everyone at bay, the taller shepardess looked to the horizon, tilting her head back and forth in short gestures, as if trying to attain a more position from which her excellent ears could be even more perspective.

 "Bella, you and Adrien find a place to hide, or continue on to town - whichever is safer..."  she stated.

She didn't ask, she didn't command - Taalia simply  stated . And her countenence left no room for interpretation. She was  not  fooling around, A hardness was across her face, a concern and a worry visible only to those who knew her best - in this case, her friend that she was sending away into the provision of safety.

 "Adrien,"  she stated, hetereochromia eyes still focused on the hilly horizon,  "protect her; you two are to hide or get to our destation, which-ever is safer." 

Should Bella protest, as was predictable given her nature, Taalia's response came from a stone-faced effigy that was entertaining  no  defiance. This was unusual. Even when Bella had followed her into the swamps in the north of Tilea, Taalia had not been  this  assertive.

 "There are thousands of orcs ahead. Please do as I ask. If there is no pathway to our destination, then go back to where we came - we will meet you in either!"  was all she said.

 &lt;" He  depends upon you,"&gt;  she spoke in Tilean as she gestured with a look to Adrien, her eyes still on Bella. An uncharitable interpretation could consider this a rather dirty trick - saddling Bella with ensuring 'the kid' was looked after, thus anchoring her with his safety and ensuring she couldn't wade any further into potential danger. But, a more charitable eye would see that this was the only way the boy would be preserved against the depredations of an  actual  battle between thousands. He would be a footman one day, but a 11 to 12 year old boy had no place before the savagery of the orcs, and any adult with half a brain would know that.

 "Briant, your people fight the orcs - you and I, let's gain a vantage point!"  she gestured to the Knight and to the rolling hills ahead, suggesting that the two of them go ahead to see what was happening.
MrAbdiel
 Bella meets your glare with one of her own. She understands all of it - the danger this suggests you are intending to go into, attempting to spare her, putting Adrien in her care and what this represents both in its  dirty trick  incarnation and its  best practise  variant. There is frightful fire in her dark eyes - if you didn't know she loved you, you would swear she hated you. But this time, for now, she consents to being left behind. All of the asterisks in that compliance - that this only lasts until she worries too much and can find some suitable alternative for Adrien's safety and that if you think you're just going to leave her behind and then ride off and die, then you've got another think coming - is implied.

 "Come on, Adrien. Let's ... let's double back off the road here, behind these trees. It'll be okay." 

Adrien had been doing some of the driving of the cart down the Pilgrim Road; but here, with urgency in place, Bella delicately seizes control and the wide eyed little footman watches over his shoulder as they trundle away from you and Briant.

Briant seems to agree with this part of the plan atleast, though he gives you a look that has some resemblance to the one you just gave Bella.

 "...Alright. Let's get a look. But don't think about tearing off into battle in the saddle - that a fine palfrey under you, but she's not bred or trained for war. She'll liable to spook and dump you on the ground if an orc comes at her, or if she takes an arrow. Hyah!" 

You and the young knight veer off the road through the winding of a few small hills before the one foremost responsible for blocking your horizon. As you ascend the back of it, you quickly find you are not the first to do so.

But before that, you see the battle. North west of you, playing out over a plain between these hills and the far mountains is a sprawling conflict between Bretonnian chivalry in all its multicoloured panoply, and the greenskin menace in its chaotic but uniform brutality. The battle is not unimaginably large, but it's the largest you've seen by an order of magnitude - a banner force of a few hundred peasant men at arms with that number again in armoured knights and a handful of yeomen light horsemen. Arrayed against them are perhaps fewer than a thousand orcs, but interspersed in their horde is more than that number again in goblins so that for every roaring porcine bulwark there is a skeevy, hunkering offsider or two keeping up. There is a grinding main line of contact perpendicular to the mountain pass through which the horde is spilling. A long line of spearmen at the heart of the formations struggle and bow back against the greenskin press, halberdiers at the wings stabbing out and preventing the overflow from lapping around the spearmen and breaking the central formation. Behind them, in a somewhat modest gully out of the eyeline of the battle proper, ranks of bowmen draw and fire in series sending arcing hails of arrows up and over the enemy mass into the goblin archers on the far side. With smaller bows, the greenskin archers respond by volleying into the press of the spearmen.

The pressure of the greenskin numbers causes the spear line to flex slowly backward, and as the human lines inch back, the greenskins begin billowing out around both sides of the combat and threatening to wrap up the halberdiers. As the greenskin flanks bloat, before that full threat can manifest, the knights drive in; organized into wedge formations of forty or so knights, each formation stabbing many ranks deep into the orc and goblin lines, trampling and lancing and causing terrible damage. Beyond the charge's damage, the principle effect is the mayhem it causes in the greenskin ranks - transformed from a sea of hooting warriors to many isolated pockets of fighters surrounded by steel-skinned warriors striking down at them, the flanks buckle and retreat back into the press trying to escape the mountain pass. Those orcs and goblins that manage to slip these lines are hunted by the yeomen - peasant horsemen with demilances, who prevent those escapees from reforming behind their lines.

The clash is terrible - all war  is  - and so far the wheeling, equine terrorism of the knights is providing sufficient disruption to the enemy force that the battle has not grown out of control. But the numbers can only be allayed by tactics and terrain so much, and even from a short observation you can see the human lines stretching as the orcs climb over their dead, shed the panic of a moment before, and regroup as soon as they are once again in their throng. Adding to this complication, barely a speck even to your sharp eyes, a lone orc figure leaps and gyrates on a high outcrop of rock. You feel something - something halfway between an acrid breeze on your neck and a half-remembered dream finding its parallel in reality - and then you witness a stillborn, profane miracle. In the air above the spearmen, perhaps two hundred feet over their heads, a knot of green light forms and shapes itself into a gargantuan orcish foot, stomping down at the ground as your heel might descend on a cluster of ants. But before it can impact, you feel that bizarre feeling again, and the foot unravels into green smoke that splashes harmlessly on the ranks it intended to crush.

 
 Spoiler: The Prophetess Philomène 
 
 


The source of this dispersal is clear once you've crested the hill. Just beyond you by twenty feet, as the hill slopes down toward the distant battlefield, stands a woman in a white and blue dress, and a corsetted blouse the sleeves of which are delicately embroidered with silver thread such that they glitter like chainmail. She has a wimple on her head as many Bretonnian women do, but hers is loose and clearly more for style than cultural restriction - her golden hair spills around and out from it. A fragile looking silver want is in one of her hands as she sweeps it about in the air, seemingly dragging and distorting the lazy beams of sunlight into patterns that nibble at your memory but find no counterpart. To one side of her, a cavalier's lance is embedded in the earth by its point, standing up straight like a banner post. To the other side, a horse more perfect and elegant than any you have ever seen stands patiently, harnessed in colours matching the woman. Most prominently, a single golden horn rises out from the crown of its head. And you are quite sure the beast's dark, intelligent eyes are looking at  you , not Briant or your own steeds.

The damsel casts a glance over her shoulder to the pair of you, and smiles - a lovely smile indeed, though her brow is beaded with sweat from the effort of decomposing the orcish magic in motion. She seems younger than you, or Bella; but not by much.

 "Excellente; vous êtes ici maintenant." 

Briant looks baffled at this turn of events. His normal rule, not to ride while ladies stand, seems to be suspended in a battle situation, but he does not seem to have expected to be expected.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
That's a fair bit of descript, so I figure I'll give you a chance to react!
 
 
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 


Taalia knew that look from Bella, as it was one she had received several times. Under normal circumstances it was a gaze that she would dread, or one that would snap her out of some pigheaded pathway that she thought was right - only for Bella's insight to grant her reflection that would right her course.

But under these circumstances? No. Bella would receive no such respite from her towering friend.

This was danger,  incredible  danger. Bella had instincts that flourished under particular circumstances, but so did Taalia, and this was one of them. She had not survived as long as she had beneath the lashes of the Skaven without developing and retaining a keenly attuned antennae for hidden lethality and menace. Furthermore, Taalia's sense of self-preservation was strong, but it was not so mighty as to overcome her fear of seeing those she loved and care about come to harm. Were one fired in their direction, Taalia would happily place herself between a bullet and her Tilean friend, the value of her own life found wanting compared to that of someone who accepted and cared about her.

Was it a rather paternalistic approach? An amusing idea, given both of them being women...and Taalia actually being the  younger  of the two. Yes, it was. But Taalia didn't care. When she herself had a partner, then she could be the one sent away out of danger, but for now, the shepardess' protective instincts were greater.

But speaking of protective instincts...

When both she and Briant emerged atop that stone-ridden hillside, dozens of meters above the typical surface level of the realm, Taalia's eyes widened at the sight before them. She had seen masses of fighting men before, or rather, fighting rat-men, but never had she seen so many joined together in lockstep and united against a common foe that came charging towards them. Though approximately a mile bridged teh gap between them, the Shepardess winced and grimmaced in silent pain as she could only watch the battle unfolding before her, each many falling felt in her heart, even if for a moment, contrasting against the simple statistic that he could be among such a throng of men.

However, more than that, Taalia, when she shook the sentimentality from her mind, watched how a battle was conducted. The formed ranks, the arrangement of different weapon types, the anvil of the peasant spearmen holding up the funneled orc numbers for the hammer of the knights to strike them, the employment of terrain...there was a detached, clinical science at play here that Taalia's deductive mind couldn't help but seized, as mental images conjured in the back of her skull of third and fourth ranks of men armed with blunderbusses disrupting the greenskin charge and killing scores at a time, or bowmen equipped with firearms smashing volley after volley of gunpowder-impacting rakes of lead shot into the orcs ranks or, most lethal still, how devastating just a few well-placed mortar rounds would are right now.

That was, until the orc shaman made its presence known.

Out of instinct, Taalia withdrew her firearm, as if she could shoot the green bastard from here and end the menace he posed to such densely packed formations of men. But she knew she couldn't. All she could do is watch in horror as the eldritch energies it summoned coalesced into a single, powerful blow garishly shaped like an orcs disgusting foot that would surge down towards the Bretonnian peasants and crush dozens beneath its dimensions...until such foul workings de-materialised before her, the spell fizzling out into nothingness, and the image of the Enchantress before her now capturing Taalia's attention.

How had she been so blind? The shepardess' hetereocrhomia eyes widened at how close the spellcaster and her deformed steed had been, that horned-thing looking  at her  with the summit of equestrian curiosity nestled behind its large eyes as it took her in.

What in the name of...?

Taalia looked over at Briant, as if searching for direction. She could almost  sense  the webs of something otherworldly being strew about their surroundings, like a tapestry that lurked behind everything as an unseen second layer. But still, the shepardess gripped her long-range weapon in her hands as if ready to blast the closest orc, despite knowing such hideous beasts were too far away for her to accurately do so.

 "Briant...?"  Taalia whisper-asked out of the corner of her mouth.
MrAbdiel
 The icy shock gripping Briant's body and defrosts at your whisper, and with a look first to you and then the damsel, he clears his throat.

 "My lady..?  I will certainly serve if-"  he asks, though the young woman cannot spare much more visual attention to the pair of you. Her gaze is forward again, on the battle beyond, and the fluttering, luminous something in the air before her that her hand gestures shape and weave like... like Arianna making pasta - stretching, folding, stretching, folding, each sequence adding threads and complexity to the bundle you cannot quite see with your eyes. She cuts him off.

 "Forgive me, chevalier, for my curtness - but I speak to your companion most of all. I must require her from you, if you, and she, would see our fortunes turn favoured. But the lance is for you - go forth, son of Parravon. Your countrymen may welcome your ardor." 

This is quite a presumption, but she makes it, and Briant immediately yields to it. Strangely, in this deeply patriarchal land, this woman and those like her seem to command obedience; and with a lightness of tone and embodied grace instead of sternness or threat.

The young knight gives you a look that suggests he is no more informed on this confluence of fates than you are, but stirs his steed forward so he can pull the lance from the ground and steady its weight upright. He has not carried a lance since you've seen him - perhaps it was lost in the same mountaintop battle where his pegasus fell - but he takes it up at the damsel's invitation and looks back at you one more time.

 "Taalia - stay with the Lady. Protect her. Please." 

Briant's petition to you, by contrast to the one he just received, is almost boneless in spirit. He doesn't like leaving you alone in such a place, he doesn't presume you will jump when he commands, and he doesn't understand why the Bretonnian sorceress has apparently anticipated both of you - him to ride into the fire of battle, you to remain here. But he is more humble than many knights, and he does not have an inflated sense of his own right to understand the world. The way to do good has been laid clear to him, deadly as it may be; and he spurs Clemencé into a gallop down the hill. He races toward the battle, where he may die, leaving you on your slimmer riding horse with the stranger, and the unicorn. Eyes on the battle, she addresses you over her shoulder - her words strangely insightful, but oddly imprecise in a specific matter that only raises more questions.

 "You are from the southern realms, yes? Tilea perhaps? Your name is Cestié? I shall require your excellent eyes here very shortly, if you would care to pour wrath upon the greenskins. Will you help me?"  
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 

It was unusual seeing Briant so...obedient. So deferent. Though humbler than most knights and of good character, he had not heeded the wishes of even Lord Donallo so hastily. Yet this girl, who seemed around Taalia's own age, fair of hair and features, seemed able to beckon him to service with unquestioning haste.

Truly this was a strange land.

Returning the look that Briant had shot her, hoping she would see him again and that he wouldn't get himself killed like a damn fool, Taalia turned back to peer at that golden waterfall that was the mane of the damsel. Watching magical wonders performed before her was impressive, yes, Taalia didn't deny it...but after what she had witnessed in the bowels of the earth, summoned by the Skaven, well...she had been desensitised to many shocking spectacles in life, it would seem.

Still, when the woman spoke of Cestie's name, Taalia halted in her assumptions. Had she been completely inaccurate about Taalia's origins and her path to get here, the shepardess would have blown her off as just a magically gifted trickster. And though she was inaccurate in direction, she was not so in  content  - and that widened the girls eyes, parting her mouth.

 "N...no, I am not Cestie..."  she announced, having dismounted and approaching on foot. Her words hung in the air with the threat to dispel the Damsels concentration with a knife of self-doubt, but they were quickly followed.

 "...I am from the north, but I found freedom in Tilea. I  travelled  here with Signore Cestie upon his flying machine...and any enemy of man is an enemy of mine." 

It was an agreement: Taalia would assist.
MrAbdiel
 The damsel tilts her head slightly - acknowledging the deviation in that detail, though clearly not shocked by it - though she can hardly afford to dwell on it. She barely has time to remark.  "Do you say? Strange. An odd connection, but if your eye is the one I require, from the sake of your shared journey, then I will not quibble." 

Strange - if Cestié had been here, and she had called on him for his 'excellent eyes', she would have been even  more  wrong and disappointed. Cestié spectacles were a feature of his face, and likewise for most of his family. Visionary inventor he might have been; strong of vision he was not.

And the battle is at the far extremes of even  your  vision. You watch as a flash of green light erupts along the orc line and its warriors, and the human centre begins to buckle alarmingly. The damsel reacts swiftly - seizing the heart of the spectral knot she has been weaving, tearing it out with one hand so the whole glittering mess dissipates, and the profane boon of the orc shaman is snuffed out at once. The battle stabilizes. You see Briant reach the yeomen circling in the back lines, and blood the borrowed lance on a scampering goblin from a pack they are chasing; then you lose him to the movement and frenzy.

The damsel sighs with the ethereal effort of her spellcasting.  "Do you see the orc? Their shaman, on the rock? Soon, he will lose patience losing his spells to me. He will cast to kill me - but I cannot see him and know the moment. Watch him, ma'amselle. Soon he will point at me - not with his staff or stick, but with two fingers. It is vital you tell me when." 

Unfortunately, though you can see the elevated orc hopping about, even your excellent vision can't make out details of hand gestures...




 
 Spoiler: OOC: No need to roll for this one. 
The telescope you found in the goblin camp when you first came to the surface - the one Cestié helped you open - you ended up selling. The return on that sale was instrumental in your elevation from escapee to woman of wealth and self-possession.


 
 Originally Posted by Memory... 
  The next day you pack up camp, and it's up Monte Iago you go. There is indeed an old trail beaten through the side of the mountain; a little overgrown, but obviously seeing some use; and it's no real trouble to zigzag up the switch backs toward the top of the mountain. That is to say, it's only as difficult as hiking up a mountain normally is; which is not trivial, but perfectly doable for a strong young woman and a spritely gentleman who apparently knows the way well. From the top of even this comparably low mountain, the view is exceptional; and you've never seen anything like it. The lumpy sprawl of hills rolling out at the foot of the mountain surges far into the distance; the trees which you walked through, each an individual thing, seem to possess a collective shape from up here, as if they had been poured out on the land from somewhere, thick at the middle of the woodland, thinning to the edges. Through the telescope, you can see even more. You can make out the land being plowed, which you walked by a day ago. You can make out the distant shape of Gaulfredo's barn; and well north of it, the crowding of boxy shapes that must be Bella Collina. You can see the dozens of other farmsteads and fields below, and through the telescope, more beyond the road toward the lowland; and far far away, at the hazy blue edge of the horizon, not the rumpled edges of hills or jagged mountains guarding the horizon, but a perfectly flat line that must be the sea. Cestie points out some other things. North, past Bella Collina, far enough away that you cannot tell the shapes apart, is another settlement. "This is Paesa di Silo. Four hundred people live there, and near to it - that is 'town' when we talk about going to town. All the villages around bring their grain crops to be siloed there, and run their animals there to the saleyards. Beyond that - just a shape on the north horizon - is the city Verezzo. That is where you will find a chemist; and just about anything else you could want; including someone to buy your telescope. And if you choose to sell it -  well, you can borrow mine anytime you like ."  
 

But Cestié's own spyglass... is a familiar, but almost forgettable weight in one of the pouches at your hip.
 
 
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 

Taalia looked stunned for a moment, the entirety of the events dawning on her. Even spotting Briant down among the Yeoman, his lance already bloodied from contact with the enemy, left her in an almost trance like daze for several seconds as it took her brain to catch up to what she was witnessing.  Being  in a battle, as she had many times, shocked one into action and left no room for lethargy. Those who were seized by it for too long were swiftly eliminated from the gene pool.

Striding forward, shaking the wonder from her bones, Taalia patted at her pockets, pouches and satchels until the familiar presence caught her fingers: the telescope.

Getting down onto one knee, she withdrew the copper tube and extended its telescopic innards to form the complete item: a smaller lens on one end, the expanded iris on the other. Drawing the smaller up to her right eye and closing her other, Taalia tracked the battle back and forth for several moments, before drawing its enhanced vision up to the lone, squat, green image of the orc shaman - her target.

Quietly, she waited, lips pursed, eyes keen and waiting.
MrAbdiel
 It doesn't take long. You sweep the magnifying lenses over the distant conflict, focusing it into view. The men-at-arms at the heart of the battle are in gambesons, padded armor, and shields. It is the forest of spears infront of them doing most of the defensive work, and the orcs infront spent as much time hacking at the spears to break them as at the men. You spot the champion of that line shouting to his fellows, and a not-unsophisticated changeover of spearmen from the front to the back, putting fresher troops into the fray while the battered and exhausted ones are pulled back. On the right flank, one orc - maybe the biggest you've ever seen - makes a personal dent through the halberdiers, and holds the greenskin line when a lance of knights crash into and around him. His axe (generously described so, considering it seems to have no more art to it than sharpened stove door on a stick) thumps into the front of a knight's destrier and sends rider and horse to the ground. The horse must certainly be killed at once by such a blow, and another strike goes down behind the your blocked view in what must be a deathblow to the toppled rider. Another unhorsed knight - this one with a dragon styled ornamentation on his helm, and his body limmed with that intangible quality you detected in the grail knights you met - advances on the orc champion. He must have shouted something, because the orc shouts something back; and the lines around even in the midst of the melee shift to accommodate the fighters facing off directly.

But you cannot linger on that clash - you watch the orc shaman attempt to shoot two great green blasts of fire from his nostrils into the archers who have put two arrows in his broad chest, but this spell too the damsel is able to unmake. Then comes the foretold moment - the shaman, his face mostly obscured in an obscene tribal mask, looks around in animated frustration and seems to locate his distant adversary. He raises a hand to the sky, and the sparse clouds boom, thicken, and tint to green; and then he points a fist - with index and little fingers forked forward - in your direction... 
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 

Taalia grimaced now that her vision was closer to the mayhem and carnage of the battle, though not as much as one might expect from a girl of her age. She had, after all, seen death many, many times in the bowels of the Skaven Under Empire. So much so that she had inflicted it herself on the rat-men, and on goblins, trolls, mutants and pirates after emerging onto the surface.

But, perhaps it was a sign that her mind had not become so iced over to the sight of death that she pursed her lips and sighed softly, shaking her head in swift mourning for the knight that fell to the brutish orc that led its fellows - no time for that! The shepardess quickly located her target, a heavy-set, dark green-skinned orc whose tribal attire matched his propensities, two arrows already thudded into his chest...as he raised his pointed fingers in their direction.

 "Now - Damsel; he points as such towards us!"  Taalia quickly announced, raising her own right hand and mimicking the gesture made by the orc, so that there could be no mistake.
MrAbdiel
 Both damsel and unicorn stir at your announcement, and just in time.

   "Zog'ra!"   

An orcish voice booms from above you, and for a moment you fear that you have offended some monstrous orc almost as profane and despicable as the god of the ratmen. An instant later, your mind maps the movement of the shaman's jaw to the orc word from above, which is the barest possible comfort. The shaman has made his invocation to the sky, and the sky has repeated it down on your heads in herald of what comes after - a colossal green foot, the sole pitted and calloused and scabbed, plunging down upon your hill from directly above. The air seems to scream as tie magical construct displaces it, and you know at once that it is too big, too fast, for you to throw yourself aside from the point of impact.

The unicorn responds quickest of all. Rearing up, kicking its forehooves in the air, it lets out an echoing equine cry that carries more intelligence and intention than any mundane horse could muster. Golden light glimmers upon its body, flashes up to a single gleam at the tip of its horn, and then the great green foot ruptures into magical fragments that rain down around you, diverted away but smashing into the earth like the stones of an avalanche and bursting finally into green sparks.

A whimsical peel of musical laughter from the damsel cuts through the apocalyptic moment, and she whips her hands around in a counter clockwise motion that drags the spell remnants of the orc casting up into a spiralling wind.

 "Ah! Wonderful! Wonderful! The orc had been snarling the Winds to himself - but now he has most generously supplied them!" 

To the unicorn, this seems to be very much a normal outcome. To the poor palfrey you rode in on, this is simply too much; it rears and screams, turns, and gallops back down the hill away from the battle at full speed, jerking away from a tuft of long grass and veering around before carrying on.

That suspicious course correction is important, because it draws your eyes to the grasses - and the beady, red eyes of a belly-crawling goblin prowling up the hillside under cover of the vegetation... 
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 


Taalia could only stare up at that descending, semi-translucent emerald, long-nailed foot descending towards her in all its crushing menace. It was hard to think that her journey would end here with such an ignominious curtain call, but, if there was one thing she had learned about this existence, it's that life could be cruel.

But it could also be forgiving.

As the shepardess felt a part of her short life flash before her eyes, the glass-like image of the dominating her vision and capturing the light of the sky to sear it through a bottle-green prism to shine its sickly, unripe hue across the fair-skinned girl, mixing with one of her eyes and leaving her lone blue orb to peer up at the Foot or Orkecless that abruptly cracked, splintered, shattered into falling pieces. Taalia stared, wide-eyed, as the unmaking influence of the Damsel spared herself and those around her a violent, crushing end beneath the magics of a disgusting orc, of all creatures. Like falling fragments of a frozen waterfall, crags of putrid green sparks and eldritch manifestations fell about the shepardess as she danced on the spot and twirled with her arms about her in a reflexive attempt to protect her from impending death as the strings of emerald sparks dissipated into the ether.

The elation burst through her nervous system and drew a smile across her face, illuminating her with a moment of happiness...even though her horse had turned tail and fled. Poor thing, she knew it would only spook under such circumstances, as primal instinct overcame its mind and barrelled it off into whatever direction seemed safest. But as Taalia watched with a pained expression as her rented horse fled, her eyes quickly widened in shock as she realised that one of the beady-red-eyed goblins had managed to sneak up  this close  to them without anyone noticing.

 "Damsel - Goblins!"  Taalia shouted over her shoulder, eyes still on that goblin. Not wanting to shake the woman from her concentration, she quickly added  "I'll cover you!" 

It was the best she could do.

Without thinking twice, the shepardess sheathed her firearm and drew one of her pistols, pointed it at the hideous little beast and  Crack-boom!  a blast of smoke and fire.

Her second pistol, just in case, drawn up and directed -  Crack-boom! .
MrAbdiel
 The first shot punches into the grass beside the goblin and, based on his grunt of pain, catches him in the leg. He staggers to his feet trying to gain some mobility, but the next shot  shpacks  into his head just above the edge of the left brow ridge. You're unsure if it's a killshot or not, but the greenskin spins and flops back to the ground, lying still.

Their surprise gone, the rest of them spring up from their crawling positions and let out a screaming chorus of fanatical savagery. Twenty of them (or nineteen now), with a variety of mismatched hand weapons and knives; rough leather jerkins, and tatty black leggings with daubed-on stripes of paint in vibrant purple that looks like some kind of unit marking. They have peaked black hoods that might serve well in the dark, but in the daylight their dirty green flesh is better blending with the grass - but it wasn't enough. At the fore of the pack, storming now over the goblin you've slain, are are trio of goblins in a champion's ensemble - a musician with an obnoxiously tootling bone flute, a standard bearer now lofting a pole with a flapping cow-hide flag topped with a battered knight's helm, and the champion himself, who stands head and shoulders above the other goblins and boasts a two handed, stained maul.

At your warning, the damsel looks over her shoulder at the assault. She spares one hand from her present casting and flicks her wrist toward and past you, and a tremendous forest of curling briars bursts from the ground in the midst of the goblin charge and breaks the unit in two - twelve of the greenskins picking awkwardly, bleedingly through the web of thorns and seven (including the command group) carrying on toward you!

 
 Spoiler: Initiative! 


X: Taalia
4: Goblin 1 (Champion)
4: Goblin 2 (Musician)
4: Goblin 3 (Standard Bearer)
4: Goblin 4
4: Goblin 5
4: Goblin 6
4: Goblin 7
3: Goblin 8
3: Goblin 9
3: Goblin 10
3: Goblin 11
 3: Goblin 12 (Headshot, Unconcious) 
3: Goblin 13
3: Goblin 14
3: Goblin 15
3: Goblin 16
3: Goblin 17
3: Goblin 18
3: Goblin 19
3: Goblin 20
1: Philoméne
1: Unicorn

Combat begins in earnest! Goblins 8-20 are caught in a patch of murderous thorns, and will have to choose between standing very still or moving slowly and being badly slashed. Goblins 1-7 are continuing their charge toward Taalia. They are in range and will charge on their turn. It's Taalia's go!
 
 
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 



The shepardess' eyes widened when what she thought was a single goblin...was actually much more than that. Taalia's skin crawled when she watched the carpet of green, ugly faces lurch up onto their feed, red-little dots for eyes within hoods and crooked, fang-filled grins. Though pathetic as an individual, the goblin had power in numbers - and numerical superiority is certainly what they possessed.

The shepardess wasn't ashamed to admit that for half a second, she considered fleeing. There was no way she could win this fight, with just herself and the rhino-horse thing, and a distracted damsel of Bretonnia against twenty goblins! Well, 19 now. And one among them who actually looked competently menacing. But as time seemed to slow down to await her ultimate decision, Taalia risked a microsecond consideration over her shoulder, to the men in the valley, selling their lives dearly against the green tide to keep them at bay, and the sword of annihilation hanging above them in the form of the Shaman, whose malevolent power had already been demonstrated several times. Between the Bretonnians and the primitive orcs vile magics was a single barrier: the damsel. If she fell, they fell.

And who stood between the damsel and the goblins?

Taalia did.

Maybe that's why she had been preserved from the pits of the Under Empire? Perhaps there was no great journey to Nuln in store, nor a great adventure beyond. This was it. This is where it ended. She had helped bring prosperity to a town, reunite a family, free a region of its demon-possessed Lady and now, her story ended buying the lives of thousands of men in the valley below and sparing a region of hundreds of thousands the burning, iron fist of the ork.

It was better than what most could hope for.

Flicking her lips, accepting it, Taalia withdrew  Leonardo , aimed it at the mass and pulled the trigger.
MrAbdiel
 Boom! A hail of lead shot spits out at the rushing goblins, a bulwark of humanity between the greenskins and the damsel who seems to have spared you all the aid she can in her present contest. The goblin champion and musician manage to juke aside as you squeeze the trigger, but shrapnel blasts one of the pursuing goblins tumbling backward. Gratifyingly, the standard bearer also takes a hit, and he drops screaming to the ground clutching his groin, the banner falling with him.

Careful footwork puts you out of their immediate range to charge, and the remainder of goblins who aren't snarled in the thorns are forced to run desperately up the hill to bring their weapons to bear on you. They are stumbling and disorganized when they reach you, awkwardly trying to regain the advantage. But there are six of them, and one of you. Fortunately, you are not long alone - the damsel's elegant and fierce steed takes to defence of the position as well, and charges down to meet the combat as well. One goblin barely turns its body aside from an impaling blow to be only raked by the horn, but now by bulk alone you do not feel outnumbered!

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 

9: Taalia

GOBLINS IN THE THE MELEE
3: Goblin 1 - (Champion)  (Uninjured) 
3: Goblin 3 - (Musician)  (Uninjured) 
3: Goblin 5 -  (Uninjured) 
3: Goblin 6 -  (Uninjured) 
3: Goblin 7 -  (Uninjured) 
3: Goblin 8 -  (5 wounds taken. Lightly Wounded) 

GOBLINS APPROACHING
3: Goblin 2 - (Standard Bearer)  (Critically injured) 
3: Goblin 4 -  (Critically injured) 
3: Goblin 9 -  (8 Wounds Taken, Heavy)  
3: Goblin 10 -  (5 Wounds Taken, Heavy) 
3: Goblin 11 -  (8 Wounds Taken, Heavy)  
 3: Goblin 12 -  (Headshot, Unconcious)  
3: Goblin 13 -  (2 Wounds Taken, Light) 
3: Goblin 14 -  (6 Wounds Taken, Heavy) 
3: Goblin 15 -  (4 Wounds Taken, Light) 
3: Goblin 16 -  (5 Wounds Taken, Heavy) 
3: Goblin 17 -  (Critically injured) 

GOBLINS STUCK IN THE THORNS
 3: Goblin 18 -  (Critically injured, Helpless and Bleeding)  
3: Goblin 19 -  (Critically injured) 
3: Goblin 20 -  (Critically injured, stunned for  (1d10)[ 5 ] ) 

ALLIES
1: Philoméne
1: Unicorn

Alright, since you forced the enemy to RUN to get to grips with you and they are sufficiently persuaded lingering at range is a bad idea, you have +20 to hit any of the ones in melee, who ran and made it to the melee. The rest, scattered down the slope, are either shredded from forcing through the thorns or have lead shot in their bodies and are suffering. You groinshot the standard bearer, so the standard is presently down, which means the goblins are more likely to flake off and run individually. Another will pick it up later, but it may make the difference!

Finally, fighting with the unicorn in melee provides a large enough ally that the enemy is not considered to be outnumbering you. Not without manoeuvring you away from it first.
 
 
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 



Taalia moved with a practiced confidence forged by dozens of battles since emerging onto the surface. Her footwork took her back up the hill, her gun blasted its lead shot that raked the ranks and smoke billowed out in a plume. When the chattering, ugly green carpet of black-hooded goblins heaved themselves up to the top of the hill, Taalia was waiting for them, flanked by the unicorn whose nostrils flared with a visceral anger and disgust in much the same way its hooves and horns flashed out with stabbing and crushing power.

The shepardess' features were mostly behind the black, bulls-headed circular shield she carried upon her and which she used as cover to swiftly whisper a quick prayer to Myrmidia. In her right hand shimmered  Daybreak . The beautifully simple weapon came about in practiced thrusts and opportune slashes, finding green, mottled flesh where it could and chewing deep into the tissue, its owner remaining steely-eyed and resolute to guard the Damsel behind her.
MrAbdiel
 Daybreak spikes out so swiftly and lightly from your wrist toward the goblin staggering back from the unicorn's blow that for a moment you don't register any impact at all, and a split second of panic makes you question your senses. The goblin, too, seems confused; but then a great flood of blood from its pierced heart gushes down its front and it sinks to its knees and dies, weirdly peaceful in its collapse. The backhand blow is similarly fruitful - slicing off another goblin's dagger hand brought up hoping to parry. It shrieks in pain, then grins with wild malice and raises up its jagged curved blade in its primary hand to reply, before the unicorn's flashing hooves strike it first in the chest to knock it over, and then stomp down squarely on its face to flatten its rotten brains against the hillside. The majestic create wheels about, creating a field of threat with its horn and lashing hooves as skillfully as a swordsman might with a rapier, and the goblin blades hunting for it sing by and find no purchase. One of the remaining lesser goblins tries his luck against you, as well - but you evade it with easy steps. Are these the same creatures who nearly killed you on the road to Bella Collina, when you fought back to back with grieving Gaulfredo swinging his grain flail, without a common word to share between you?

You have grown in health and skill, though the goblin champion seems to have some of their old menace in him. He's brawnier than the lessers, a champion of his kind certainly. With disgust, you recognise the shrivelled tokens work on a string around his neck are noses - some goblin, some plainly human. He's quick and wily, and sends two slashing blows your way with strength behind them...

Nearby on the hill, the slashed and delayed goblins pick their way out of the thorns looking badly bedraggled. Their groinshot bannerman struggles and fails to stand, and none of his kin snatch the banner away and carry it forth. As a consequence, the more critically injured goblins remain with the bannerman, wary of getting lethally involved. Indeed, even the greater mass of stragglers are hesitant - they do not want to rush in clumsily, so they move up more carefully and prepare for a charge...

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 

Taalia needs to make two defenses, both against the goblin champion. First hit is for 9, second is for 8.

If she successfully parries and scores a hit in return, you can make me a super-special, free intimidate roll.

9: Taalia

GOBLINS IN THE THE MELEE
3: Goblin 1 - (Champion)  (Uninjured) 
3: Goblin 3 - (Musician)  (Uninjured) 
3: Goblin 6 -  (Uninjured) 
3: Goblin 7 -  (Uninjured) 


GOBLINS PREPARING TO CHARGE
3: Goblin 9 -  (8 Wounds Taken, Heavy)  
3: Goblin 10 -  (5 Wounds Taken, Heavy) 
3: Goblin 11 -  (8 Wounds Taken, Heavy)  
3: Goblin 13 -  (2 Wounds Taken, Light) 
3: Goblin 14 -  (6 Wounds Taken, Heavy) 
3: Goblin 15 -  (4 Wounds Taken, Light) 
3: Goblin 16 -  (5 Wounds Taken, Heavy) 

GOBLINS APPROACHING
3: Goblin 2 - (Standard Bearer, still down)  (Critically injured) 
3: Goblin 4 -  (Critically injured) 
3: Goblin 17 -  (Critically injured) 

GOBLINS STUCK IN THE THORNS

3: Goblin 19 -  (Critically injured) 
3: Goblin 20 -  (Critically injured, stunned for [4]) 

DEAD OR DISABLED GOBLINS
 3: Goblin 8 -  (Heartstruck, Dead)  
 3: Goblin 18 -  (Critically injured, Helpless and Bleeding)  
 3: Goblin 12 -  (Headshot, Unconcious)  
 3: Goblin 5 -  (Maimed and Stomped, Dead)  

ALLIES
1: Philoméne
1: Unicorn
 
 
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 


Concussive forces slammed against Taalia's shields as he rears rung with the sounds of battle. Though half her height and cowardly in nature, the goblins spewed forth a wall of hideous, crooked-teeth snearing faces, with beady red-yes eager to cut the human down so that they could get to the prize beyond her - the Damsel. But, they would not have an easy time of it. Though chronologically only a couple of years, the shepardess had come a long, long way since being the skinny, terrified girl in the woods, armed with nothing but rags, a pitiful throwing knife and the motivation of having nothing left to lose. Even now, brinigng her beautiful sword about in an arc and to slam-pierce through a goblins chest, Taalia could feel the pangs of an arm penetrating wound from that pick through the bicep she had once received.

But now?

Her sneer was small, but present. Her weapon slicing about and cleaving through flesh and bone to separate a goblin from its hand and barricading it from any future chicanery that could come forth-with, a spurting fountain of black-red blood spluttering out from the freshly hewn stump.

It was fitting that an Elven-made weapon would smite from the earth such enemies.

Then the champion came upon her.

Bigger by a head and shoulders, his mettle was more visible, worn like an aura, his weapon slashing out and stabbing. But Taalia wasn't that girl in the woods anymore. She had survived a dozen battles, and  Daybreak  in her hand cast aside one blow, and her body pivoted on the spot to narrowly avoid another, before her own weapon hissed its response...
MrAbdiel
  Daybreak  produces a curl of scarlet that spins away from the goblin champion. He's a scarred and battered creature, used to wounds and suffering inflicted and absorbed, and puts up his defence at once. But as you put up your own guard, you track his beady eyes scanning the length of your weapon, and you see his countenance drain of the lunatic greenskin craving for combat and fill with fear. Recognition, perhaps, more than simple fear of death? But with a cowardly two step, he slips back behind the wave of his charging fellows and then out of the combat entirely. The mangled little remnant unit, seeing him break away, moves to flee with him, and the standard bearer abandons the unit's symbol entirely on the ground.

Three goblins remain in the melee from the first wave, including a flush-faced-flautist who is slowly realising his tootling is the only thing holding the offensive together; but another seven throw themselves howling and jabbering into your midst. They are raked and bled by the thorns, but still eager to fight, and two of them manage to land hits upon you ...

 
 Spoiler: OOC: Hits 
Goblin 13 hits Taalia's head for 5 (pending defense)
Goblin 15 hits Taalia's head for 7 (pending defense)
 


... and a third slips around the left side of you while your defenses are stretched for an opportunist stab, but is foiled when a crossbow bolt nails its arm to its chest and sends it wheezing, dead into the grass. Emerging around the curl of the hill they fled to earlier come your incorrigible allies. Adrien clutches the reins and keeps the nervous horses trundling steady through the dip between hills, his little face set with the gravity of his task, his tongue sticking out the left corner of his mouth. You see Bella drop Cestíe's discharged crossbow into the wagon behind her and take up her sling from where it rests around her neck. Gratifyingly, the goblins that are fleeing are not fleeing toward the wagon, and the goblins committed to combat with you and the unicorn (the majestic beast finally marred by a goblin blade carving a bloody line across its pristine flank), but here they are all the same: two more peasants risking their lives to bring their small measure of war to the perfidious greenskin.

The damsel seems to be unwilling, or unable, to offer any more assistance. Her focus is entirely on her casting, drawing the transmuted winds from the shaman's shattered spell up and up, vanishing them into the sky.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
Taalia's up! I invite you to roll defenses for those two hits, even if they don't beat your soak, just because getting donked in the head and saved by a helmet is a frightening, character building experience.
 
 
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 


Taalia kept her shield close and her eyes attentive. She had to focus on the larger gobling before her - she had to! But in this wild melee, she knew she only had the unicorn to protect one of her flanks, The screaching of the goblins was a hideous ring in her ear alongside the twanging clash of steel on shields. A sea of beady red eyes stared hungrily at her, desprate to see her pierced and stabbed and slashed and hacked with those crooked, rusty weapons, but the girl turned most aside.

Except one.

She parried one incoming stab. SHe angled her shield to deflect another. But when she went to use her footwork to cast aside another, she misjudged the angle and the broad-coated, coroded sword caught her in the side of the head. Metal did not kiss or graze her skin, as the steel helmet she had bought back in Tilea undoubtedly preserved her life for days to come, but the concussive form rang through her skull and blurred her vision, for only but a moment, but in a fight this desperate, one moment was all it would take before her attacker would seize its opportunity. But it's chance never came. Swift death sliced into its chest in the form of a crossbow bolt, and without looking up, Taalia immediately knew where it had come from.

Or more precisely,  who .

Knowing she couldn't risk looking around yet. She flashed an eye towards the direction of the bolt and received her confirmation - damnit Bella!  And  the kid was here too! When will she ever learn this was no pla -

A goblins screeching thrust snapped the shepardess out of her micro-daydream, the weapon clattering off her shield as the tall human thrusted  Daybreak  forward into the hideous things chest...
MrAbdiel
 The goblin before you is run through, and it tips over onto the ground with a wail. It gurgles and clutches at its wound - and rather than give it a chance to strike your ankles out of spite, you kick it smartly in the temple, blacking it out so it bleeds out in oblivion. The grand equine warrior besides you does heroic work - for a creature without hands to wield a weapon and without a predator's claws, it understands the threat its bulk implies, and uses it wheeling about to prevent the goblins from surrounding you both. Still, you hear it whinny in pain and outrage - the suffering of something ancient and beautiful - as another goblin draws blood on it, staining more perfect white gory crimson. It pays back what it is dealt with a thrust of the horn that pierces and staggers one of the goblins, but the most of them seem to have settled on their strategy of the moment: dragging  you  down.

Reckless, screaming, wild, they give away pretense of defense and come at you.  If only they were clumsy in their recklessness - but the greenskins have a terrible, natural proficiency for violence and their blows are fierce and many. Bella sends a sling bullet in that bloods one of the unscatched goblin, but it's too committed to your end, now, to peel off after her...

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
GOBLINS IN THE THE MELEE
9: Taalia!

3: Goblin 3 - (Musician)  (Uninjured) 
3: Goblin 6 -  (1 Wounds Taken, Light) 
3: Goblin 7 -  (Uninjured) 
3: Goblin 9 -  (8 Wounds Taken, Heavy)  
3: Goblin 10 -  (5 Wounds Taken, Heavy) 
3: Goblin 11 -  (8 Wounds Taken, Heavy) 
3: Goblin 13 -  (7 Wounds Taken, Heavy) 
3: Goblin 14 -  (6 Wounds Taken, Heavy) 

GOBLINS STUCK IN THE THORNS
3: Goblin 20 -  (Critically injured, stunned for [2]) 

GOBLINS FLED
 3: Goblin 1 - (Champion)  (10 Wounds Taken, Heavy)  
3: Goblin 2 - (Standard Bearer, standard abandoned)  (Critically injured) 
3: Goblin 4 -  (Critically injured) 
3: Goblin 17 -  (Critically injured)  

DEAD OR DISABLED GOBLINS
 3: Goblin 19 -  (Dead in thorns)  
 3: Goblin 8 -  (Heartstruck, Dead)  
 3: Goblin 18 -  (Critically injured, Helpless and Bleeding)  
 3: Goblin 12 -  (Headshot, Unconcious)  
 3: Goblin 5 -  (Maimed and Stomped, Dead)  
 3: Goblin 16 -  (Bella-Shot, Dead)  
 3: Goblin 15 -  (Stabbed to death!)  

ALLIES
1: Philoméne
1: Unicorn  (10 wounds taken, lightly injured) 
1: Bella and Adrien War Wagon

Goblins all-out attacked this turn, so they cannot defend. Your many defenses have been presented to you in the OOC. But they're below half strength now, with the champion and his lads fleeing the field. They'll start testing to rout any turn you pick one off.
 
 
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 


Standing alone against a torrent of Goblins was a brave thing. Heroic even. Though lacking the power and mass of their bigger, meaner orcish cousins, they were nevertheless a threat when visited upon one in greater numbers. One orc choppa, or half a dozen stabbing, rusty spears - that was the question. And the answer turned out to be one orc choppa, as Taalia hissed and grimaced her teeth as stabbing, slashing spear-heads and crooked swords pierced through her defences and armor to stab and slash at her body.

 "Ahhh!"  Taalia hissed under her breath as the shoddy steel found its mark, penetrating skin and piercing tissue - but not without response.

Keeping the Unicorn at her flank, knowing she was outnumbered but also heeding her importance in guarding the damsel and, by extension, thousands of men in the valley below, Taalia slashed out again;  Daybreak  spearing out towards the nearest goblin, its red-sheened image hungry for further goblinoid blood...
MrAbdiel
 You howl out your defiance, and lash out with Daybreak at the goblins swarming you. Through the forest of enemy weapons, it's hard to make a strike - hard to even raise your sword without exposing your armpit to strikes. Then the goblin boneflute changes tune. You dare to hope they are sounding retreat, but the goblins respond by some known drill to the notes and the pressure of the combat swings away from you to your equine ally. Two goblins remain to test you - one bleeding from the thorns, the other fresh and unharmed, and they keep you from interfering. But four pitch themselves at the unicorn, and the majestic creature's luck seems to have run out. One manages to strike a hobbling blow to the right front knee, and with a cry of pain, the unicorn's agility is lost. Staggering on three hooves, it cannot avoid a second brutal blow into its gut, carving a deep long gouge from which riotously bright blood splashes, and it sags sideways to the ground under the weight of its weakness.

Another of the goblins is poised over the beast to deliver a killing blow -

 
 Spoiler: Memory of Bartolemi... 

  One goes to the bag, produces the fishing line, and starts foraging around the camp for bait. Two gather sticks from clusters they've already accumulated nearby; and the fourth tears a couple of pages from the book in the bag, wadding them up and tossing them in the fire pit before he starts building the fire. The first drama erupts when, apparently unilaterally, the one with the spear decides to stab the horse through the neck. The creature screams and kicks; but as a domesticated creature, it is utterly at the mercy of its captors - something you cannot help but sympathise with. As it strains against its tether and then sinks down in shock to die, the goblins gather in a rambunctious group to begin bullying the killer. This, it seems, was not the plan; and they slap and shove and rebuke him until he is cringing and whining in a tone that suggests a protest of innocence. Finally, the one with the pick takes a small, sharp knife from a ragged boot and forces it into the speargoblin's hands; standing punitively sentinel over the stabber while, apparently as punishment, he begins to roughly butcher the beast...  
 


 - only for a smooth stone to strike it in the side of the neck with such force that you hear the bones crunch and it slouches back in a rough, still pile. With your own battle to fight, you turn aside the diminished onslaught coming your way, feint towards the injured one, and then manage for the first time to pull off one of the moves Donallo showed you - a stepping blow from a thrusting feint at one foe into an upward slash at another, unseaming the goblin from nave to nose, bisecting the jaw and part of the skill, killing it instantly.

Now there are there are not eight, but six goblins left to fight - and this finally seems to be too few. Your last opponent breaks and disengages. The musician, now exposed to your potential wrath, drops his flute as if startled but the sudden appearance of personal danger and runs. Then they're all running, scattering around and away, and you are standing on the hill unbowed; a dying unicorn to your right, a damsel of the Lady to your rear and left, with tears running down her cheeks as she holds her palms in appeal to the cloud-churned sky, and the bright woven suggestion of her spell's thread in the air spins up and vanishes in wink of light.

Bella has dismounted as is running toward you, shortsword drawn, her home-sewn bag of medicine and bandages in the other. She has the cold, neutral mien that nurses and priests learn to adopt before they know how bad a wound is; and you are bleeding from the arm, and the side.

Adrien has dismounted from the cart too. He has Bella's staff with a dagger lashed to its end like a crude spear and, without any battlefield hesitation at all, starts running up on the goblins strewn in the grass and thorns and giving them a few extra perforations to make sure they're dead; such mangled opponents proving no challenge for his meagre skills.

 "Taalia! Taalia, are you- oh..!"  Bella pauses, close enough now to see the superficiality of your wounds, and the murderous seriousness of those on the mythical horse shuddering out its last breaths nearby. She seems not to have even noticed the damsel at all.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
Hurrah! Combat is over - Taalia is victorious, with a couple of scars to take from the event. We're still in turn-by-turn time, though, because the unicorn took a 6pt crit to the chest and is now helpless with a 20% chance to bleed to death each turn. The goblins have disengaged and fled.

All the rolls are in the roll thread. Isn't it crazy how we're here again, mangled horse, wounded Taalia, slain goblins..? I meant there to be  some  allusion, but not all this.
 
 
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 


Taalia carried more wounds and injuries upon her person, more than most humans alive could boast of - and she wasn't even 20 years old. At her stature and age, she stood among the sneering carpet of hideous green, snaggletoothed-faces, bringing her shield about to deflect and block, angling her body where she could, but ultimately relying on  Daybreak  to finally silence the vicious horde. And silence it it did.

She bisected one of the hideous creatures before her; from ghastly face to naval. The 3'5"" creautre, green-hued and disgusting, felt half apart and fell backwards in a fountain of gore as that beautifully elven-crafted weapon left its body and claimed another minion of evil for whatever deities its maker imparted upon it. Taalia, meanwhile, felt her blood running hot from a deep wound on her right arm and her vision garnering a soft, bluring frame to its image - but such impedients were quickly forgotten as she watched the unicorn take a vicious blade to the flank of its majestic body.

Eyes wide, goblins fleeing, the sounds of battle rescinding from her person, Taalia  wanted  to pursue the goblins. She wanted to run after them and keep pace s that she could swat and smack their ugly head from their shoulders. But she knew something far greater needed her help right now, and so she dashed herself over to the whining, downed unicorn.

Injured thought she was, hot red blood running down her arm through her mail armor, clothing and down across her fingers, Taalia yanked the bag of supplies from Bella's helping hands in a manner that might have seemed rude if the two girls had not known each other. Instead, the white-blonde haired girl got to work, yanking out ribbons of linen bandages and yards of stitching to to patch up as best she could the beautiful animal that had, undoubtedly, preserved her own life and, more importantly, that of its Damsel master.
MrAbdiel
  "Tiens bon, mon bon guerrier..." , the damsel whispers as she trusts her companion to your care.

You have done a non-trivial variety of medical work on humans and animals. You were fortunate enough not to have to perform any amputations after the Third Battle of Bella Collina. You pulled a bullet from young Viletta's shoulder that she took guiding her father's dogs into battle; stitched up Gaulfredo from his battle wounds taken frightfully beside you in the shield line. You remember Polo, who went into that battle with one hand badly injured and hidden by his shield only to have the other hand pierced in the combat. Madre Angeletta's wisdom is broad and deep, but not technical enough to have saved the gawky clerk's hands from being wrecked by their injuries - you manage that with what you had gleaned working with Antonuccia. And you remember the man Renato, the lonely tavern drunk whose acquaintance you never made until his head was skimmed by a cannonball in the battle. Andreuccio's fire magic saved his life, though not much could be done for the man's face. War is cruel, and it does not stop being cruel when it is over.

Trying to save the unicorn's life is another thing. It is not more gruesome than seeing a man gutted so, but there is a  volume  of blood to deal with here that would have signalled the end of any effort to save a man's life. You and Bella pack the wound with all the bandages. They aren't enough.

 "Adrien!"  Bella calls to the boy, who just carefully executed a moaning goblin snagged in the supernatural field of thorns, and he comes running at once.  "Adrien, we need more cloth! Clothes, or towels, from the wagon!" 

To his credit, the boy makes a quick executive decision to fulfil the command. Rapidly, he dumps the shield off his back (the unicorn crest of Quenelles landing face up) and yanks his tabard from over his is head, to offer to the task. Black cotton with gold embroidery of the Paravon pegasus icon - it's clean enough. Not sterile by surgical standards, but more valuable to stop a bleed-out than anything that could be gleaned by the delay of running to the wagon and back. You and Bella wad it up and stuff it into the wound, and press together on it to try to staunch the lifeblood fleeing the creature's body. It may be beyond the capacity of any surgeon to save a creature from such a wound - but if the Damsel has magic to spare and healing is in her power (ghyran, the jade wind, has much healing and that must be what was used a moment ago to create the thorns, you reason), then perhaps stopping the bloodloss will be a sufficient deed. You and Bella spend a long minute up to the elbows in unicorn blood, Adrien jabbing goblin corpses nearby, the growl and din of the distant battle raging on.

Then a bright spot in the clouds mustered first by the orc's casting appears, and draws your eyes. But not monstrous green, this time; cool, ethereal blue.

 "Oui, oui... Maintenant, monstres, vous obtenez ce qui vous est dû..." 

You have not seen much magic, but this is certainly the greatest display of it you have ever seen. The whole field from the battle all the way to your hill flashes silvery blue as a great celestial mass - what you are forced to describe in your thoughts as a small falling star - punches through the clouds leaving a great trail of smoking ice in the air. It plunges towards the battlefield in what looks first to be a disastrous course of annihilation for everyone involved, before the damsel, thrashes her upper body to one side, hands long raised sweeping down and left, hair flying as if she were caught in the throes of some ecstatic dance. Incredibly, the star seems to yield to her direction - you see its downward plunge bend and steer toward the orc mass before it slams into the ground and rakes punishingly through their numbers. The sound is loud here, and must be thunderous nearer to the impact. Even without the lenses of Cestíe's spyglass, you can see the furrow of the impact has cracked loose the spar of stone the shaman had stood upon and the greenskin spellcaster tumbles down from his perch into obscurity below. Even more impactful is the toll taken on the orc force - crammed into the bottleneck of the mountain pass, pinned there by the valiant men at arms and knights, the spell has smashed fully two thirds of the orcs. A great cloud of dust, sparks, and glittering icy vapor rises from where the warhost was massed before - but you cannot imagine after such an impact that there would be much left of those orcs beneath the falling star. Bone chips and blood speckles, hammered into churched rock and earth.

You feel a ripple through the earth as the shockwave reaches you, and see many of the men in the fighting have been thrown to the ground by the impact, dissolving the battle lines completely into confusion - but a moment later the orcs are fleeing and broken, and the men are scrambling to their feet and screaming with wild delight to chase, and the knights and mounted yeomen go from wheeling and lancing formations of soldiers to vengeful, individual hunters chasing the surviving greenskins back into the mountains.

The battle is won.

In the distant field amidst the bodies and blood, you see the first of a small convoy of wagons trundle out now that the field is safe enough - drawn by white draft horses, driven by women, whom you take to be Shallyans. They are at once about attending the injured and the dying while the tired warriors help their fallen companions and kill the fallen, but not slain orcs. And now, with that great magical deed done, the damsel is able to kneel exhausted by you and Bella, to stroke the suffering unicorn's neck, and to work a little more magic -  closing her eyes and firming her sweat-beaded brow, driving curative magic into her companion. Through your hands, you feel the magic working - it scintillates on your skin, and you watch as the unicorn's wounds shift from catastrophic to merely serious; and you suspect you saved the creature's life as much as the damsel has.

 "You fought very bravely, and very well,"  the damsel says. For a moment you think she is still consoling the beast, but she is talking to you, while Bella carefully bags the bloodied tabard for her most dynamic cleaning effort ever, later on.  "I expect the young chevalier will be very proud. And perhaps your Cestié, wherever he flies."
  
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 


Taalia watched, wide-eyed and gobsmacked, as the heavens themselves seemed to split open and send forth its wrath to smite the wicked greenskin hordes from the planet in a grisly display of divine power. Her blonde-white hair fluttered behind her head as those heterochromia eyes watched on, open and large before the impact was felt through the earth itself and reverberated up through the mountainous hillsides to where they resided, every nerve in her body registering some residual oscillation from the meteoric impact. The orc shaman too felt and beheld the display of eldritch power, though Taalia doubted he enjoyed it as much, as she watched his beastly, ugly form topple down into the dust-strewn maw of churning broken stone and splinters of rock, doubtless to be seen again.

SUch was her capitvation, the Taalia had to almost snap herself into the present, as the Damsel was now kneeling beside both she and Bella, what few motes remained of her mental energy to metaphorically swing across the chasm to rescue her magical companion from the grim reach of death.

And Taalia and Bella had both helped. Adrien had too, with his quick thinking to provide his tabard, aptly brandishing the icon of a unicorns triumphant head. The shepardess doubted whatever seamstress that had created that now-life-saving piece of cloth, that it would be used to rescue the life of the very animal it glorified.

 "N..no, I...just did what anyone would do, mademoiselle..."  Taalia finally spoke, her own wound so far having gone untreated as the red blossom seeped across her right arm and flank, her own life-force having mixed with that of the unicorn as she had rushed to save its life.

 "Si...sir Briant..is he..."  the shepardess blinked and shook her head. Now that the adrenaline was rescinding, her own blood loss was returning to demand its due and rob her of her faculties.

 "...is he, ok..a...?"  she swallowed, exhaled, shaking and blinking her eyes hard to stay away and conscious, her skin getting paler.

 "Damn...I...think..."  she exhaled, and rolled her shoulders to loosen her male. She wore several layers of clothing. A white, thin shirt against her skin. Above that, the padded lining of her mail. Above that, the knitted steel. And above that, a nice, light tunic. When she pushed the top three layers off, it became clear she was bleeding from a cut underneath her right, well-muscled arm and flank, the her image more pale, her athletic, sleek and strong form now clung to by her white undershirt.

 "Be...Bella...ge..get one of my bottle of spirits from the Wagon, and apply it...before it gets infected..." 
MrAbdiel
  "Hey, hey! Hey, sit there, and don't fall asleep, okay!"  Bella demands of you, as the severity of your wounds catch up to you. Adrien is already running for the bottle you mentioned before Bella can delegate, and she sets about tending your wounds now that the unicorn, laying exhausted in the grass just beside you, is made stable. Your friend seems to be making no fuss at all about anything else right now - neither the comet, nor Briant's unknown fate, nor the astonishing use of healing by magic she has just witnessed on the magical creature.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
Bella Heal Check on ya. It's in her career and she's learned enough from you, by now.   vs67  - (1d100)[ 54 ]  for  (1d10)[ 6 ]  wounds of recovery if passed. Otherwise, wounds are treated and bandaged but you won't recover right away.
 

 "She will be well," the Damsel assures the distracted Bella; "it is the battle fatigue taking her, only. She fought like the lioness. As did you, I should note; two little lionesses." She gives a cryptic little smile, though she herself is obviously worn down from her efforts - but then rubs the unicorn's nose once more with one hand and rises to her feet. "Forgive me for not tending your wounds myself, brave Tilean; I must conserve my magics for those on the field who are badly cloven and may yet be saved. If I see your knight of Parravon, I will send him back to you." 

And she gracefully descends to hill toward the battlefield, moving once she reaches level ground at the gentle jog that her gown and general elegance permits. One of the Yeomen peels away from his unit and rides to her, dismounts to surrender his horse to her, and then follows back to the battlefield on foot.

 * * * * * 
You rest, while Bella takes care of your wounds. In the distance, the host of Bretonnians reform into hunting parties to keep the orcs on the run, to chase them into the mountains where they cannot follow. The Shallyans and the Damsel ply their trade; those they cannot help will later be loaded into carts for the Morrites to offer their final consolations. A great victory, all told; a great destruction against the hated Greenskins, and a relatively small butchers bill for the sons of men. Life goes on.

Bella doesn't apologise for coming after you, though she has never developed a taste for your displeasure. She and Adrien had concealed themselves not far away and fretted a while; then your horse came bolting by, riderless, and they feared the worst. Given that, she made the executive decision that, if the unseen enemy had overcome you and Briant, it would soon overtake them in their hiding place anyway. But if there was some difference they could make, she could not live with herself to hide behind a hill while her best friend and ... and her other friend perished.

After ten minutes of rest or so, the unicorn pulls itself to its hooves and, limping to protect its wounded leg and not to stress its badly injured stomach, makes its way down the hill and back down away from the battlefield, behind a curl of hill. A few minutes later, the unicorn returns - with your palfrey trailing, and Milo yowling mournfully from a saddlebag. Adrien hurries down to seize the horses reins, and the unicorn even permits the boy to pat its nose before it turns away and limps slowly across the field towards its distant partner.

A little while after that, you spy Clemencé's dark bulk trotting back toward the hill with Briant in the saddle. He looks a little battered, not no worse of than you after his part in the battle. After a brief chance to express hedging concerns about each other, your party is reunited. He's glad Bella is safe - wary of her decision to get involved, though not willing to scold her - and very much impressed at your vanquishing of the goblins.  "I arrived well after the battle had begun, but I fought beside Lord Saspereaux the Red and his companions, with whom I was already acquainted. But we had every advantage - you made your stand against a small horde. If they had any artistry at all, I would say you should keep that banner. To force an enemy unit to abandon its colours is a great deed - to do so essentially alone is the stuff of great tales. Alas, it's a rag of hide and bound sticks. If only such creatures were capable of making worthy trophies. Still, I will vouch for the tale of the deed if ever asked, Taalia Goblin-Slayer." 

It's a less impressive title that the one you earned hunting the troll, but not without some value. Trolls are odious beasts, tough and dangerous and awful; but they are not on their own a fragment of the blight the greenskins are. The ale-soaked grumbles Nogrom has had about the hated  grobi , the greatest enemies of the dwarves for all the holds they have driven them from, paint the goblins as all in all as much of a menace to the world as the larger orcs.

But Briant lavishes Adrien with the most praise. He did everything that might be asked of him. He did what he was told; when Bella wanted to go back toward the battle, he did not let her go alone. He held the reins when she asked, and he killed a few crippled goblins to boot. Now that it's clear you've all survived, the boy is almost vibrating with excitement. The goblins, the unicorn, the damsel - most importantly, the knights riding about in the distance, bringing war to the hated greenskin.
 
"Are we going to follow them into the mountains? Kill them all once and for all?" 

Briant smiles at the enthusiasm, but shakes his head.  "No. No, we would have been dishonoured not to offer our aid in the moment, but we are bound onward to Parravon."
 
 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
Gain 200XP for the Battle of Molian's Gap.

You and Bella both gain these two Talents:

 Lioness of Quenelles : ???

 Unicorn Blood Baptism : ???

From the slain goblins, after discarding all the unsellable and useless trash, you can loot:

1 Crappy Goblin Banner, topped with a mangled Bretonnian helm.
1 Pair of battered but serviceable high boots with wide buttoned cuffs.
1 Greasy bag containing 2 black snake skins
1 Set of Weather Worn identification papers for 'Wilbert Rudlinson', a barber-surgeon from Nuln.
1 Phial of urine coloured fluid, possibly a cure-all!
12 silver, 11 copper
77 humanoid teeth
 
 
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 

Taalia breathed in deep, drawn out breathes, easing herself as her complex remained pale and unhealthy looking. It was clear from the massive dark red saturation across the right side of her shirt that she had been cut deep, though thankfully no major arteries were hit. Instead, she just lost a lot of blood, but the application of bandages and coagulating herbs helped stymie the  bleeding. If Briant had been trying to avoid looking at Taalia's exposed hair before, he would have been positively staring in another direction entirely, as Taalia's shirt had to be removed and bandages wrapped around her waist, sternum and her right bicep. Adrien, naturally, had been sent away, so that the shepardess had some privacy, with only the Damsel and Unicorn baring witness to her moments of indecency until the blood was washed off, the bleeding ceased and bandages applied.

But also, as if Bella needed any reminder, it exposed Taalia's  other  scars, such as the lashes across her back from a whip and claw-marks on her flat stomach. Taalia was going to have a lot of aches and pains in thirty years time - if she even lived that long!

Once that was finished she donned a new shirt, while her mail armor and its blood-stained inner padded lining also needed to be washed. This time, Taalia wore a pretty, sky-blue affair that accentuated her collarbone and neck, while contrasting nicely with her beige, explorers pants and fine quality riding boots she wore. IT also, with her white-blonde hair, gave her an appearance of almost a elemental of air, like a cloud giantess descended from the skies to walk among the mortals.

Speaking of - Taalia remained pale. Standing to her feet, she was visibly wobbly as she almost toppled over with her first attempt, before steadying herself with her smaller friends help.
 
"Lioness..."  she smile-chuckled at the flattery, weakly trying to wave one of her hands as if to politely refuse such an offer.

 "I....if you fell...mademoiselle...the men...down there, w...would fall...if the...they fell...the whole region...would burn...I just did..wh...what I had to..." 

BUt at the mention of Cestie and others looking on from whatever came after death, and doing so approvingly, Taalia smiled bashfully,  "thank...thank you..." .

When the Damsel was busy with other affairs and Taalia was hobbling about with Bella's assistance, the tall shepardess whispered to her companion:

 "Y...you know...I'd like to go...t..to at least...once place...where I don't get stabbed..."  as she snicker-laughed, then coughed and spluttered, that embarrassed blush returning.

When Briant was free, Taalia gave him a wave and a tired looking smile, thankful that he had returned safe and sound. Adrien too received a kiss on his forehead, as Taalia stood by and directed him about going through the goblins possessions, like some hobbled grandmother encouraging her descendent offspring. The blood loss was significant, that much was visible, as she was remiss of her usual vitality. Instead, Taalia looked tired and exhausted, pale. She shuffled slowly, raised her arms with lethargy and often slurred her words as if she were drunk. For her, to even move blasted a furnace through her body from her side and arm, but she knew it would dull, in time.

It was cute in a way though, she thought to herself, watching Adriens energy and surge of competence. He darted back and forth between the ugly little green creatures, fallen as they were, skewering any he thought might still have a mote of life within them. It was good that he was this brave before such ghastly monsters, as she knew how unnerving the sight of them could be to the uninitiated. One day, though, it would be orcs, and they were a more savage encounter.

And, heaven forbid, the Skaven.

When the boy had rounded up the salvageable material, Taalia gazed upon the collection with a tired-but-happy smile, her eyes droopy-wide as if she were under the influence of some ether.

 "Well - what a help...for...your parents and siblin..siblings, back home!"  she declared, holding those silver in the palm of her bare hand, as she drew a little pouch from the boy and poured the coins within it.

 "We'll...write a l...letter back to them, have a messenger deliver it, along with thi...this!"  she gently shook the coin purse, a handsome little sum indeed for a peasant family.

 "Yo..ou were very brave!"  she smiled, giving him a hug and a kiss upon the forehead, before letting him scurry off.


 
 "I arrived well after the battle had begun, but I fought beside Lord Saspereaux the Red and his companions, with whom I was already acquainted. But we had every advantage - you made your stand against a small horde. If they had any artistry at all, I would say you should keep that banner. To force an enemy unit to abandon its colours is a great deed - to do so essentially alone is the stuff of great tales. Alas, it's a rag of hide and bound sticks. If only such creatures were capable of making worthy trophies. Still, I will vouch for the tale of the deed if ever asked, Taalia Goblin-Slayer." 

 


Taalia smiled and giggled, clearly light headed as she held the banner up and nodded.

 "It i...is a bit of a rag, isn't it?"  she confirmed with a chuckle, before looking back at it.

 "Bu..but we shoul...keep it anyway...a trophy fo..for today, and a token that...there's a few...thousand less disgusting greenskins in the world!" 

Finally, should the unicorn draw itself close to Taalia once again, the shepardess would affectionately stroke it's broad, muscular neck a couple of times. She would smile and nod at the creature, given they had almost died together.
MrAbdiel
 You load the smelly goblin banner into the wagon with everything else. After the battle, there's no great hurry from your party to get underway. Everyone could use the rest (except Adrien, who seems capable of entertaining himself zooming about the area, playing with Milo, feeding the horses.)

The damsel and the unicorn do return to your hill once, before it is time to part ways.  You learn her name is Philomène. The unicorn is Akirathel, and he permits you your tender moment of caress upon his neck. His big, intelligent eyes suggest the respect is mutual. It's hard to tell from their equine faces, but you think the other horses look at Akirathel as humans might if a feather-winged angel had stepped out of myth and on to the battlefield. But perhaps they're just a little spooked in general, from all the action.

Before they part to go, Adrien asks Philomène - quite spontaneously, and without all the formality that Briant puts on - the question that is on his mind.

 "Ma'amselle - can I be a knight of the Lady?" 

Briant cringes at this; at some combination of discomfort for the peasant lad's unawareness of how awestruck he should be just to be in the damsel's presense, and his own failure to intercept a question that seems likely to disenchant the spirited lad. But Philomène seems willing to humor the boy, and she sits down, and invites him to perch in her lap, and answers his question with the obliquity that is the privilege of her mysterious order.

 "Imagine for me, Adrien. Imagine there is a shepherdess of Carcassonne; a very poor shepherdess, for she minds other people's sheep and not her own. She has only one - a little lamb that is very precious to her. She lets it eat from her plate, and sleep in her bed, and it follows her everywhere she goes." 
 "And one day, the greenskins come raiding from the mountains, and they scatter throughout the land doing dark deeds. And a cruel and awful goblin comes along. He is too pitiful to snatch up the shepherdess, so he snatches up the little lamb and begins carrying it away up the road toward the mountains. The little shepherdess is distraught, but she can not fight the goblin herself, and so she follows it down the street, day and night calling for help." 
 "And then comes a questing knight, sword on his shoulder, racing down the road on his mighty steed. And the girl calls to him - 'won't you help me, good chevalier? Will you not save my little lamb?' But the questing knight rides by, for he is seeking the grail with all its glory and wisdom. The Lady has not called him to deliver the lamb, and so he does not stop, and he rides by and does not help her." 
 "And then comes a highwayman - a bandit! A man who cares not for grails or glory, riding down the road also. And the shepherdess calls out to him - 'won't you help me, highwayman? Will you not save my little lamb?' But the highwayman rides by, for he knows the young girl cannot reward effort with gold or silver. And standing not to profit, he rides by also and does not help her." 
 "And then comes a lowly old pilgrim, wandering from Brionne intent to take the great road..."  she gestures with one hand to the Pilgrim Road off to the east of you all, now,  "and he has no horse at all. Just a staff on his shoulder and the clothes on his back. And the girl cried out to him - 'won't you help me, old pilgrim? Will you not save my little lamb?' And the old pilgrim stretched out his old legs, and gave chase to the goblin, and whacked it about the backside until it could only drop the lamb and flee." 

Adrien listens, spellbound, but beginning to look a little concerned - like he is being tested, and is unsure if he will pass.

 "Now tell me, young footman - of these three travellers, which do you think the little shepherdess was most pleased to meet? Which of them would she remember in her prayers, that night?" 

Adrien hesitates. He looks back over his shoulder at Briant for some kind of cue, but the knight gives him a shrug, refusing to inject himself into the parable and forcing Adrien to work through it himself. After a pause, he replies with hestiation.

 "The old pilgrim?" 

Philomène smiles.  "Of course. Wouldn't you be? Anyone would be most grateful for the one who gave them aid. Some men are called to knighthood and glory. Some men are called, but refuse. But the call is given not for its own sake, but to transform the men with power from selfish men into  good  men. You may not be called to be a knight, young footman. But you have the makings of a good man, which is a more precious and important thing. It is what knights dream of becoming." 

The parable has the kind of heft that Adrien will have to think about for the next five years. He nods and, when invited, hops up to his feet and begins the long, long task of mulling over what he has been told.

Philomène bids you farewell, and walks with Akirathel down to her mysterious business with the regrouping host on the field beyond.

You camp that night by a steam, watching the evening meal cook on the fire while Bella and Adrien wash all the bloodied garments. Strangely, the unicorn blood seems to leave the boy's tabard, and everything else it touched, even cleaner than they began. A little needle and thread action and Bella has repaired the penetrations in your garments too; and whatever petty charm in the magical blood seems to have mingled sufficiently that neither your blood nor the goblin blood has left lasting stains on your items. You keep regular watches in case the goblins who fled come back - but they do not, and you are afforded a hot meal, good company, and the sleep that belongs to the weary warrior who has fought evil and survived.

 * * * * *

 
 Parravon  
A few days travel later, you say goodbye to Quenelles. Once you cross over the river Grismerie (another ferry ride, unfortunately, but this time you catch a fish and there's no little dogs to snatch them away) you're in the Duchy of Parravon, Briant's native land. The Grey Mountains sprawl up high on the eastern horizon like the very spine of the world, but your immediate path takes you first through the forest - the forest of Loren.

 "On this side of the river, the pilgrim road ceases to mark the border of the Fay realm. They concede to us a certain amount of the forest - but if you travel far enough south east into the wood from here, you will run into a line of trees where the trunks all stand in a line and the branches have braided into a fence. Even a blind man would not wander over the border by accident. First, we pass through the village Basílle; then we will come out the other side of the wood and be on the mountain road to Castle Parravon." 

The forest of Loren is...  more  than the forests you've traversed, both in Tilea and elsewhere in Bretonnia. The trees are taller and older; the moss clustered around the roots thicker; the mushrooms larger and juicier. The wildlife seems less fearful, and almost conspiratorial in their way; dragonflies and wood doves and slinking stotes all holding secrets to which you are not permitted. You do see some familiar friends, here - the little black sparrows that met you when you emerged into the sun, and who once nested in the dowels of the flying machine, are here also. Maybe not the exact same pair - how could you ever tell? But they tweet away musically on a branch, watching your wagon and riders trundle through on a winding path just wide enough to permit you going by.

It's all very beautiful - but you can see Bella's enthusiasm for the journey diminishing mile by mile since you crossed the river. After this village, you are on to Parravon; where Briant will pare off to be married, and you and Bella will head north towards Axebite pass, breaking your gallant little fellowship. Briant may feel similarly dismayed, but he conceals his feelings as befits a man of Bretonnia, rather than a young woman of Tilea.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
 That's probably enough for a post! Also, give me... A Perception Test (Hearing) here in the forest, as an AK: Magic test. The first one's a +0, but the second one is a long-shot, at -30%.
 
 
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 


Taalia watched in silence as the Damsel, Philomène, sat Adrien upon her knee and gave him the Birds and the Bees talk to Bretonnian society. At least that's how the shepardess saw it. She didn't interject, she knew it wasn't her place. She was a foreigner to these lands, and though their society was distasteful to her in many ways, she bore no ill will, having, indeed, even risked herself for them and seen the best in their heroes. She hoped change would come to their society, but she knew it would not grow from any words she spouted off. Indeed, after their relatively good treatment of her, she would seem as nothing more than an ingrate.

Still, she could see the story for what it was; a fairytale. A fairytale meant to make the boy content with his station in this social order into which he had been born, regardless of merit of desire. The Skaven believed as such; masters on top, slaves at the bottom. Still, it was a story that was sophisticated in its ways and its intentions, and Taalia could tell that the lad would take quite a while to ponder of it. At his age there was still so much of the world left to know, learn and understand, so that philosophical puzzle would take some time to fully settle.

Nevertheless, the boy had been blessed. So soon since leaving home as the future footman of a knight and noble, he had witnessed a successful battle, met a unicorn and received a favourable lesson from one of the famed enchantresses of Bretonnia! A blessed start, one might say.

As the days went on and Taalia's wounds recovered, the shepardess mostly sat in the cart, allowing her to peer around at the beautiful nature of the verdant Bretonnian landscape as they made their way further north. Thus, when they bid farewell to Quenelles, she gave a look to hidden look in Bella's direction, and then to Briant. She knew what this meant for the two of them. She had tried, tried, tried to warn the girl against their dangerous little tryst, knowing it would have to one day end. Taalia didn't begrudge her, she understood how the heart moved. Even now, the shepardess would smirk and snicker remember how  she  had once been jealous of all the male attention the beautiful Tilean girl had drawn upon her back in their small town. Now? Now she knew it would be a source of a big problem heading their way. She just didn't yet know what form it would take.

Thus, as the group entered through the beautiful elven woods towards the population centres of Pavaron, a cloud was forming on the horizon, a sombre, grim curtain that only Taalia could apparently see.
MrAbdiel
 Briant and Bella do not address this inevitability - not with each other, not with you. They just drift a little, as the journey goes on; less cute with each other, less mutually submitting to their own infatuation. It's the kind of pain that, like the resetting of a dislocated joint, is best not looked in the eye.

Bella manages to use her sling to nail a rabbit the size of medium-small dog, and you keep watch while it's being roasted for a late afternoon meal, you keep watch around the camp. Milo is big enough to follow you around rather than riding in a pocket, and after the recent separation anxiety inflicted upon him by the runaway horse, he is very possessive of your presence, enough to almost be underfoot. You're in the process of teaching him the most important trick - run and hide until the noise dies down - which is thankfully a trick cats learn quickly. But you and the cat notice at same time a nearby rustle, and curiosity and caution drive you to investigate what turns out to be...

Nothing. An empty poplar tree, its branches almost denuded of leaves in the winter season, with no creature scuffling up or down it to make the noise you expect. And you almost walk away, before you notice the watching you around its trunk - a wide, golden yellow eye in a sliver of visible face of the same hue as the poplar's bark. You make contact with the eye, and a quiet moment passes in which you may pretend you didn't notice, or hold the gaze... 
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 


Taalia smiled down at Milo whenever the young cat hugged close to her boots as she slowly patrolled the perimeter of their camp. Typically, the white-and-orange feline had been getting closer to Adrien, the boy and "teenage" feline having an affinity of sorts that had given the kitty another source of pats and affection. But out here, while the birds were chirping in the towering pines and the dusk sky peeking through the umbrage with purple-amber fingers, Milo rubbed his flank against his owners feet whenever Taalia paused to peer about her surroundings. Looking down at the cat again, the shepardess leaned down to scoop him up in a gloved hand and drew him all the way up to her elevated height, kissing him upon his forehead and nuzzling her face against his.

 "I know, I know, those mean old goblins spooked the horse...you must have been so frightened!" 

When that curious sound echoed through the trees, however, Taalia stiffened a little out of reflex. Kissing her cat again upon his furry head before placing him down on the ground, she wrapped her hands around her firearm and, cautiously, moved to inspect.

What she did  not  expect to see was whatever... that  was!

Taalia's gazed moved on. This was not a conscious, rational decision, but one animated from 10 years as a slave and not drawing attention from the unknown when you could help it.

The shepardess' eyes drifted away, pretending she had seen nothing; as she turned, her muscles springing down to coils and ready to react if she heard noise and footsteps charging at her, as she started to move back towards the camp....
MrAbdiel
 No charging comes; no suffering for withdrawing. Milo offers mumbly grown of apprehension before bounding after you, but whatever and whomever was observing you seems happy enough to observe and not interrupt your movement.

Whether or not that changes your assessment of the level of danger you are in, the matter seems to be in your hands - to call the watcher out by greeting or warning them; or else to decide there's enough mystery in your life, and leave them be. You haven't gotten this far by inviting trouble, after all. 
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 


Play it cool, no sudden movements....Taalia told herself mentally, quietly, the dusk forest surrounding her in its beauty, and hidden, unknown menace.

Slowly, she walked back towards the camp area and towards the tent where her excellent hearing detected the voices of her two companions in soft conversation. Maintaining her charade of normalcy, Taalia approached, knelt, opened the portal to the little shelter and moved inside.

 "We're being watched,"  Taalia announced with an oddly calm voice.

She then proceeded to describe what she saw to Briant, praying to Verenna that he knew what it was.
MrAbdiel
 Bella reacts quickly and quietly - finding her sling and a slingbullet, quietly loading, dark eyes worried and darting about for your reported watcher. Briant, a man of this realm even more than the other provinces you have been though, is a little more reserved. He lets one hand slide to the hilt of his sword on its belt beside him on the ground by the fire, while the other hand reaches over by command of his fledgling paternal instincts to settle on Adrien's shoulder to steady the boy from leaping to his feet.

 "Watched? By what?" 

After hearing your description, he remains wary but unalarmed.

 "...It does not sound like a man or beast. Fay, likely. We stay on our side of the wall, but they go where they will. You are a novelty passing through these woods, Taalia. There are knights and peasants who travel through here in armour, but no women - and no women in mail with a sword on her belt. Likely they are curious. But such beings will make themselves known, if they want to." 

You wait a little longer, tense and cautious, but no attackers or interlocuters reveal themselves. After a few minutes Bella gasps, and it makes you flinch, but she's only abandoning her sling to get back to the now partially charred rabbit, which is overcooked on one side but not cooked through on the other. It seems, if you wish to entertain the observers curiosity with palaver, you will need to do so on its terms - alone.

 
 Spoiler 
OOC: Like the Basement of Danger back in Quenelles, this is a risk you can take or not. I have become perfectly  zen  in keeping or putting aside little sub-scenarios I have created for such moments, so you may choose how cautious Taalia chooses to live. If not, and Taalia chooses to hang out in camp, that's also fine! We will just move along to the next stage of the journey!
 
 
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 

Every instinct in Taalia's body screamed at her to just hold put within the tent and wait the night out. After all, if the Fey were out there, what possible other danger could lurk nearby? Any orcs, goblins or other cretins of destructive impulses would be dealt with and seen off in no time. Indeed - she should consider their presence a blessing! Much as the remora fastened its mouth to the body of menacing, predatory sharks to frighten away any would be assassins to its life, Taalia and co could rest easy knowing that if the Fey were in the woods nearby, then she, Bella, Briant and Adrien were safe.

...however.

The shepardess also felt a nagging. A deep-seated, tugging nagging that implored her to step outside and at least put on a show of patrolling the camp grounds - otherwise the Fey would figure out that she had witnessed them...and what then? She had heard how touch and capricious they could be, and all manner of scenario's flew through her mind that made no sense to her but whose square-peg could fit into the circular opening of Fey logic.

 'Maybe I'd best let them think we had not seen them..."  Taalia uttered, pursing her lips.

 "Whatever you hear, do  not  leave this tent; under  any  circumstances..."  she beckoned, before her tall, mailed figure gently pushed back out of the tent flap-opening and into the beautifully serene, forested night sky, her figure exhaling, gripping her firearm in hands, and going back about her casual perimeter patrol, which mostly consisted of leaning against a stump or other brace, and staring up at the stars of endlessly deep foliage about her.
MrAbdiel
 Milo yowls for you, struggling in Adrien's restraint, as you stalk off into the trees nearby; but the feline is restrained, and you go alone. Returning to where you were seen, you find nothing gazing from behind that same tree.

...But waiting a little longer, your eyes catch the gleam of evening light slicing through the leaves, reflected off a golden exotic eye; and there your watcher is behind a different one. When you do not retreat, when you it becomes clear you are neither hostile nor intimidated, she steps a little out from the tree, leaving only one hand resting against the pale bark. She is tall, you see now - taller than you by a little, willowy and graceful in her shape. She seems like an elf to your eyes, but the elves you have seen are... closer to human than this one. This one's skin is that paper-white of the bark of the poplars and, most tellingly, she is naked, unlike most elves. Naked, but not quite nude - unclothed, but neither her upper or lower body feature the critical details that sexual characteristics need in woman and she-beast alike. If this is a fey, perhaps they take children because they can have none of their own: this woman, beautiful though she is, has breasts with nowhere for a child to latch, and no bodily suggestion of a way that child might be conceived in the first place. It's as if she were carved from the wood, lovingly rendered in detailed form, but the craftsman had shied away from completing it to the point where he might run into trouble at more prudish galleries.

  "Who are you?"   the woman asks, in a whisper than only reaches your ears because of their keenness. 
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 

Taalia held her breath as she watched the sliver of the forest almost peel away from their foliage surroundings, as if she were split off via osmosis. To call the... thing  a 'woman', in the traditional sense was a mistake, though her physical characteristics and, perhaps, her personality were feminine in nature. Despite that, what Taalia would consider as qualifies to that class of beings was somewhat rudimentary on this creature, as they stood before her in both nudity and veiled in their own clothing of fair, smooth bark.

Was it a 'fey' ? An elf?

It couldn't be an elf. Immediately, the shepardess' mind went back to the bounty hunter whose testimony had been the clinching argument that had set her free from the Tower of Verazzo, a mysterious and unearthly creature in appearance, but eerily human as well in proportions, gender dimorphism and motes of attitude.

But, perhaps Briant was right. Maybe these creatures of the forest were just curious about her, given her rather... unique  appearance. Her height was one in a few million for women. She had travelled all through Verazzo and not seen another woman reaching her elevation, though she could count on one hand the number who had come close. By Verena, even men - only a couple had could look her evenly in the eye, and just a single one had spired past.

That in itself was quite unusual. The elves were tall. Their females were as tall as human men on average. With her white-blonde hair and different colored eyes, perhaps they thought she herself counted an ancestor among the fair folk? If she really did come from a trade-heavy nation further north, maybe it wasn't out of the realm of possibility, some elven sailor, young and on his first voyage, with coin in his hand and eager to see the short, bubbly, broader-hipped human women that looked upon him with such fascination? He was a long way from home, it's not like his future elven maiden-wife would ever know?

Pfft, unlikely, Taalia thought to herself, amused at how far her imagination had travelled in his rapid flight of fantasy. She had a  gun  in her hands, firearms. She wore mail armour. Every little thing added up to create, as Briant had told her, a curiosity that was unlikely anything they had seen in a long time. Plus...she remembered, her elven-made sword on her hip.

First of all, Taalia lowered the end of her firearm to face downward at the ground, clearly indicating she did not intend to use it. It was as close to sheathing a sword as she could manage.

She also kept her eyes lower, not making eye contact as her nerves at her in caution and apprehension.

  "My name is Taalia...I am from foreign lands...we are just passing through...does our passage offend you?"   she mimicked the creatures soft voice. Her last question could have been interpreted in many ways, but it came down to tone: she was low-key asking for permission to continue. Having now met the residents of teh forest, she felt inclined to show respect to the perimeter of their domain and request acquiescence.
MrAbdiel
  "No offense, here, if none sought..." 

Your interlocuter stoops a little, as if trying to find your eyeline while you deflect your gaze downward. She seems to have accepted your suggestion that you mean no harm - she pays no heed to your weapons, though she continues to speak in that whisper as if it's all she has to use in her voice.

 "From foreign lands, passing through...? Why do you go, Girl-of-Taal? Why do you flee your soil?"  
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 


Taalia felt a nervous twitch run along her back, past some of her scars. It was a form of uncertainty one felt when trying not to offend, or to ride that narrow social corridor. If it was a Skaven then the answer would be simple - raise firearm, boom. But with the fey? She had heard how capricious and touchy they could be; one second cordial and curious, the next shoving a spear into your belly because you had unwittingly offended some incomprehensible item of decorum that they held sacred.

  "From foreign lands, passing through...? Why do you go, Girl-of-Taal? Why do you flee your soil?"  

How much truth to reveal?

Not making direct eye contact, Taalia pursed her lips before answering.

 "...returning to my soil..."  she uttered,  "...I was taken from there when I was very young...I escaped, and people of the south were kind to me...now I travel north, where I believe I am from..." 
MrAbdiel
  "Born north... taken south... By whom? By the rats..?"
 

This is a stunning deduction, and your only possible conclusion is that this creature is either asking you questions to which she already knows the answers, or she has managed to recognise some tiny fleck of the Queekish accent that you have been quite sure you eradicated from your diction.

 "Such a life, for one so young. Will you tell me a story, of your travels..? An adventure, beyond these trees..?"  
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 

The tall, fair-skinned girl looked stunned for a moment at the fey's guess, visibly surprised, her bottom lip slightly agape as she blinked.

 "How did you...know?"  she asked, puzzled, swallowing softly as the otherworldly creature asked her for a story from one of the lands she had travelled through.

But what story? What would suit such a creature? Surely she wouldn't be interested in the utilisation of sheep and pigs for husbandry-based agriculture. Taalia also doubted that it would find tales of her ambushes by mutants upon travel roads, wading into gladiatorial arena's or battles with the orcs to be particularly engaging.

What might they find interesting?

The unicorn?

Again, Taalia had no guarantee of knowledge. What if there was some unknown feud between her kind and the horn-headed equines that she would unwittingly wade into? No, too risky.

Then she thought of it.

 "There was...in the north of Tilea...near the mountains..."  she started, as the shepardess started to retell the story of the haunted villa, and the man whose spirit she, Bella and Cercie had finally freed from who-knew-how long torment of spiritual entrapment within the decaying halls of his living lifes tragedy.
MrAbdiel
 Your singular audience member doesn't answer when you ask how she knew that quirk of your history; but she does listen with rapt intensity when you tell about the haunted mansion in the Trantine hills. Avoiding her gaze, peripherally, you think you notice the movement of her eyes. When you describe firing your weapon and having now effect on the spirit, her attention tracks briefly to your firearms. When you mention the old bronze xiphos with enough magical glimmer to menace the ghost, her gaze finds it stowed in the leather wrap you've used to sheath it for quick access on your person. The climax - where the deranged spirit at war with its own skeleton are reunited - does not strike her with the wonderment it might a more mundane listener. Perhaps she doesn't understand. Perhaps matters of spirits disembodied and reunited are less fantastical to her, than to you. But she seems pleased by your telling. And she offers one of her own.

 "There once was a girl, who dwelled in the north; and terrible rats came up from the ground, and took her to the south. And when she finally escaped, she was a woman grown, and did not know where she came from, and how to get home. She had gained many scars, and reasons to be suspicious - but also she had grown in strength, and wisdom. But then, in an unusual forest where she camped in her journey back north, she met a stranger; and the young woman elected to trust the stranger..." 

She holds out her hand, palm up... and waits for you to deliver your hand into hers. 
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 


Taalia felt a part of her blood fill with ice, as if one were being told their individual doom in this world and towards which they were racing, with no hope of escaping what fate had in store for them.

But she also felt an odd... calm  about the fey as well. A curiosity remiss of malice or cruelty, one that seemed genuinely interested and whom simply wanted to learn, as they were as fascinated with her as she was with them. Along these lines, Taalia had a rather excellently honed antennae for danger and sinister intent...yet it could detect no such intention to harm her, or desire to see ill befall her.

The human looked visibly conflicted, pursing her lips considering the hand before her, before she slowly, with cautious apprehension, reached her own out. Coincidently, it was the same with which she had mixed her own blood with that of the unicorn when she had mended the magical creature of its wounds not even a week ago.
MrAbdiel
 The stranger smiles - though even that smile has a skewiff quality that makes the tint of it uncertain between mischief and benevolence.  "...The woman elected to trust the stranger. And the stranger showed her... a special trick." 

Slim fingers slight upon the back of your hand, then your wrist, and she turns your hand over to face the palm up and guides you to cup your fingers. Her other hand reaches to the side, and splashes through a snow-melt puddle in the elbow of a bough of the poplar beside. She drizzles the meltwater into your palm forming a tiny pool on your skin. And then she drops a poplar seed into the puddle - a tiny seed with fine white hair-like fibres that, you imagine, catch on the wind and fly when it blows. It spins lazily as the little fibres take on water, and then comes to rest, sunk from the surface, sitting on your skin.

Her hand departs from your skin, and then returns, this time pushing lightly from one side of your hand to turn you, as if by the handle of your stuff arm, a quarter to one side; then lets you alone again.

And after a moment of diligently avoiding her eyes, watching the seed... it pops up from its rest, inexplicably buoyant again, settling to the bottom again after a lazy quarter turn the opposite way, so that in each case of its undisturbed rest, it is pointing just the same  north. 
 "And once she knew the trick, something had changed. She was no longer drifting, with no certainty of where she came from; because she knew how to find home. And once she knew where her home was, she was finally, truly,  free ..." 

A spike of cold wind running off the mountains slices through the trees, sharp and fresh enough to make you blink and flinch. The stranger is gone, now; it's just you, and the trees, and loose flurry of poplar seeds riding the mountain wind up, beyond the forest canopy, into the sky. 
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 


Taalia stood in that clearing, her eyes wide, her mouth slightly agape, baffled by what she had just witnessed, or how to process it. It was such a simple thing, really, cupping her hand and taking on some water with a popular seed, only for it to point  north . But not just general north, a very specific direction north: home.

 "Thank - "  is all the shepardess managed to let out before the cold, sudden sheet of wind announced the fey's departure.

 "...you." 

Mystified and trying to take it all in, Taalia eventually smiled as she stared at the little seed in her still-cupped hands. Gently, she knelt down and placed it within the ground, planting the seed and returning it to the earth so that it may fulfil its purpose. Standing up, looking around the clearing once more and inhaling that fresh, cold air that fanned out across her lungs. Taking one last look around the clearing, the girl swallowed and nodded.

 "Thank you." 

Returning to the camp, she doubted she would encounter any other problems throughout her watch, as she leaned against a tree and stared up at the blanket of winking diamonds in the clear, night sky.
MrAbdiel
 You sense that this trick is in  you , rather than the seed; and so planting it before you go serves as an intuitively cyclical gesture. Did she  bestow  this small ability upon you? Is it, in some way, tied to something you already had - the skaven incarceration, or the unicorn blood, or some other quality apparently visible to the stranger and not to you? You can only guess. But you are not bothered for the remainder of your evening camped in the woods; and the sleep is about as untroubled as it has ever been since that first night in Gaulfredo's barn, with Rocco's unconditionally adoring presence warming you, and the distant music of crickets and nightbirds tinkling marvellously in your cave-adapted ears.

 * * * * * 
Basílle is a pleasant village in the northern edge of the Forest of Loren, and one of the more interesting human habitations you've witnessed. The locals are loath to clear trees in a forest which, while ceded in part to them, is still nebulously sacred to the Lady; so they have mostly built around the trees, and in the odd, irregular cluster of trees has died and not grown back.

 "The orcs do make it here, sometimes. The little cleared patches are where their obnoxious magic or brutes has killed a tree,"  Briant explains,  "but otherwise, they make use of what space is available."
 

The familiar, whimsical snuffling and grunting of pigs is about you here as you wander between the trees and the huts built against them; many, perhaps most, have a pig or several in their small fenced yards. Without room to raise herds, pigs and chickens are the creatures to be farmed here. But the village's most interesting features are off the ground entirely. Above you, between the boughs and trunks of the great trees, a grand system of robe bridges, ladders, pullies, and ingeniously built platforms creates a whole second layer to the village. There are whole buildings up there made from light bundled sticks and shingled with bark and clay.

Some appear to be permanent habitations and a few are places of commerce, but most are hardwood platforms radiating in partial or full circles around a tree's trunk. Most have a slanted, bowl-like wall at their edge and plug-style windows. Their purpose seems clear enough to you, and Briant doesn't need to tell you. You imagine a band of orcs raiding through here, looking for humans to slay, finding none; setting about snatching up the pigs and wrecking the buildings, only to be pelted with arrows from the treebound fortifications, unable to follow on account of all the ladders having been pulled up behind the clever peasants. This elevated layer of the village hosts an unusually diffuse orchard. The locals seem to have grafted branches from fruit trees into the trunks of the local towering timbers, and it yields well. You spy peaches and pears, walnuts and sundry other crops being farmed in their small batches, far above where they might be destroyed in a greenskin rampage even if they do manage to get the hogs. Between pigs and chickens, the local fruits, and an extremely robust community of foraging foresters, the village is able to feed itself comfortably and make produce to spare.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
Another village, another opportunity - you can pass right through without taking much notice if you like, but you might as well give me a Gossip roll to gather some potential points of interest here. Penalties for being foreign and a woman wearing armour, bonuses for travelling with a knight of Parravon - call it base +10.

If anything in the description is interesting to you independently, you can of course send Taalia to investigate that without prompting. Briant and Adrien will mind the horses and the wagon, if you wish to drag Bella into mischeif.
 
 
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 


Taalia spent the rest of the night with her back leaned against one of the spiring pines of the forest, the chill wind kissing at her cheeks as she just stared up at the pristine night above. She was just one of millions on this world, each with their own trials and tribulations, ups and, sadly, mostly downs. But peering up at the diamond filled cosmos, she shepardess felt unique among them all for just a few moments. Perhaps the trick with the seed was innate, or it had developed within her from exposure to the warpstone within the Skaven workshops or the blood of unicorn mixing with her own. Whatever the case, she had it, and she solidfied the belief that, one day, however far away, one day she would walk back onto the apple orchard of her birth. One day, she would be home.

 oOo 

Taalia's smile had remained bright and wide the moment their little cotorie had entered the tree-house town built around the branches. Not only did the engineering feat itself stand as testimony to their creativity and ability, but it also spoke to the adaptability of man in otherwise difficult situations. To avoid offfending the fickle and unpredictable fey, instead of cutting down trees and risking unknown wrath, the Bretons of this corner of the realm had constructed their entire town across the powerful trunks of the woods themselves.

 "Bella - look!"  the taller, white-haired blonde pointed with visible enthusiasm, her mouth arching in a child-like grin as the sight of it all. For a moment, Taalia could only think of the wide, sun-kissed fields of Tilea where she emerged, and the great open spaces of agriculture that had been seized from the forests themselves. Open spaces beneath a broad, beautiful sky. It seemed that she had almost found the human worlds opposite, as the thick foliage of the upper canopy held back the worst of the Suns molestations, ensuring the tree-borne town was kept at a reliably cool disposition and swathed in gentle, pleasant shade between the low timbre songs of creaking oaks and timber.

 "Think of the cuisine we could make with those fruits and paultry or pork!"  Taalia spoke excitedly to her shorter, Tilean friend, her eyes on the pears, peaches, apples and walnuts.
MrAbdiel
  "It seems that the peasants who live in obscure little villages in all nations are more prone to eat well than those snarled in cities,"  Bella observes; marvelling up at the grafted orchard above.  "I wonder if we might borrow an oven and make a nice  peshe crostata !" 

Leaving the boys to the wagon and horse (and the aura of obescience that that blooms around Briant when he comes into such a village), you and Bella wander about the novel village. There seems to be no central market - not one that stands day to day - but many of the houses have tiny thatch kiosks outside their homes, unattended, featuring a basket of their little garden industry's cabbages, or pears, or eggs, and a wooden bowl into which one seems obliged to place some copper for what they take. With a modicum of generosity, you're able to plan to scare up the ingredients for what you intend to eat in the evening. The meat is a little trickier, but not dissimilar to what you have experienced in Bella Collina. The peasants have root cellars, but they are not sufficient to preserve meat for a long period. Chickens tend to be killed, cleaned, cooked, and eaten inside of the same day. A pig is slaughtered, and its parts shared or bartered out to anyone interested, to be cooked up and eaten that night and the following morning. They are not rich in salt here, so brining their pork is not an option to them - but the best preservative for meat is life, anyway; and that's more than sufficient in a village of this size.

 "Oh yes, you could get a pot of honey, indeed,"  tells one villager as Bella eases the information out of him, her dreams of making a nice sweet dessert pie coming together as you make your culinary plans.  "Old Jürgen has bees he keeps at the north edge of town; a little away from everyone else, for he fears a child will get stung though if you ask me a child that gets stung by a bee as a lesson more valuable than honey. Anyway, he's a bit of a funny old fellow; a Sigmar-man who comes and goes. But it's good honey, and he's no stranger to the harvest days, so he's a good fellow and no lie." 

Bella conspires with you again.  "We don't really  need  the honey. Although I would like it. We just have a habit of meeting such strange and dangerous people sometimes..."  
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 


A Sigmar man?

Sigmar was the religion of the Empire, their destination. And it was a creed to which she would have to become familiar enough with that she could offer the tokens of respect required not to be torched at the stake by the overly zealous members of that foreign religion.

But...in the lands of the Empire,  she  would be the foreigner.

Well...likely, she would be anyway. Maybe she originated from there? And upon her return she could play the wayward, stolen spirit having come back to her homeland and faith?

In either case, Taalia wanted to speak to the man, even if the only thing fruitful from the alteraction was a lovely pot of honey!

Speaking, nodding and thanking those who gave her the directions necessary, Taalia slowly approached the more remote tree-house that was claimed to be his dwelling.

 
 "We don't really need the honey. Although I would like it. We just have a habit of meeting such strange and dangerous people sometimes..." 

 

Taalia smirked and bit her bottom lip and gave her friend a shrug.

 "Maybe he can tell where I'm from?"  she said, a mote of her words serious, but mostly padded between the shepardess' playful and adventurous spirit.
MrAbdiel
 You go to the edge of the village, and a little beyond, where a scant number of rope bridges and carefully wedged and nailed boards permit your treeborne passage. A comfortable little hut is cradled in a raft of branches like the palm of a hand; and on its roof, wooden hutch thrums with the industry of bees.

The occupant of the house, Old Jürgen you gather, is reaching inside the hutch with a wooden spoon and shingle, scraping some honey from the hive with no fear of its buzzing guardians. He's in his winter years for sure, though he seems to have both a good deal of muscle bulk in his shoulders and chest, and a comfortable gut suggesting fine living; and neither of these seem threatened by his advanced years.

His hair is long, brown, frosted with gray, and woven through with little leaves and blades of grass like he had fallen through a hedge. And his eyes are the greenest you have ever seen - not sickly green like warpstone, but warm and deep as the forest itself.

 "Ah? Ah, who comes here, then?"  He calls back, his attention firmly on the hive and his plundering,  "And be it a matter of honey, or another thing?"  
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 
 "Just honey would be fine..."  Taalia's smoky voice came over the buzz of a colony of bees, her bootsteps equally cautious as she remained at the entrance to the cosey, comfortable looking hut and simply peered in with a childish fascination at what the man was doing.

Just seeing the slow, viscous flow of that amber honey excited something primitive within Taalia's being, as if her ancestors were part bear and the sight of that sweet nutrition stimulated their spiritual call through the ages.

 "But I've always enjoyed collecting stories where-ever I go!"  she beamed, still remaining at that door, standing on her tippie toes and rubber-necking her head about to try and get a better view while her ears filled with the droning of thousands of worker bees going about their enterprise.

 "Do they sting? How do you do that?!"  she gasped in wide-eyed amazement.
MrAbdiel
  "Sting?  Oh, well. Sometimes! But not so much as you'd think. As long as you move slow and don't threaten too much, and you get at the hive during the height of the day when they're mostly out working, then we operate on an understanding and leave each other alone!" 

He chortles a bit - talking about his craft seems to have been a good way to endear yourself to him quickly - and then finishes scraping the honey into glazed pot before sealing the hive. After all that, he takes a look at the pair of you.

You catch the familiar blinking double take as often occurs for you - be it the facial scars, the height, the unusual coloration of hair and eyes, or in Bretonnia your chosen regalia. But he doesn't spend long being confused, and gets right around to being polite.

 "Well, honey and stories I have both aplenty, young ma'amselles. The question is then - what do you have to barter, hmm? Travellers you are, plainly; and I am well served here with the basics of life. What might you have to trade for such fine, fine honey as this?" 
 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
Old Jürgen seems to be largely uninterested in money or food for trade, but it's a good opportunity to make use of some of the knick-knacks and oddities you've scoured up.

This is also a good time to make a roll. This is less of a haggle situation and more of a Charm, so make a Charm roll. This fellow doesn't suffer the same prejudices as the natives do, so the difficulty is merely +20.
 
 
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 


Taalia couldn't help but smile gently at the mans words, her eyes transfixed on watching his operation of the bee's industry to procure what he needed and wanted without causing long-term damage to the hive itself. In a way, the honeycombed network of shallow pods and winding tunnels within the hive itself reminded the former slave of the labyrinthine design of the Under Empire: an endlessly sprawling, subterranean pit that was combed and plied within every inch of its wretched surface. Only instead of the relatively benign and environmentally essential bees, it was staffed by a race whose non-existence the world would be better off without.

Indeed, just watching the bees thrive and build their economic and efficient little homes, going about their business with such orderly contentment...

 "Something other than currency?"  the shepardess asked, her angular, scarred features wearing an amused and friendly smile as she stepped forth into his home.

 "Well...if you give me time to retrieve a few things from my horses, we might find something that sparks your interest?"  she offers, still wearing that lopsided, almost roguish grin she was starting to perfect.

Were he so inclined, she would offer a little bow and return to the wagon to retrieve the bag that carried a variety of trinkets, baubles, gubbins and oddities that she had gathered in her journey from the south of Tilea.

OOC:
 
 Spoiler 
Let's have a look at the list of gubbins and oddities that Taalia has picked up and retained, like the 6'5" magpie she is:

• A wooden staff around which has been tied a string of wolf's teeth.
• A pair of embroidered leather shoes with a small tag bearing the seal of the town of Pfeildorf, home of the best tailors in the Empire. They are dirty, but still in good condition.
• A rain-stained sheet of parchment inscribed with the name and address of a tavern, Signore Pepito's, in the town of Rialto Mio.
• A grimy human skull with the name 'Magnus' inscribed into the forehead.
• A waxed rawhide case of butcher's knives and sharpening files.
• A tiny ivory statue of Shallya.
• A pewter ring etched with an oath of allegiance to the Empire.
• A leather case containing a musket-cleaning kit with muzzle rods, wire brushes, oils, chamois, fuses, flints and spare parts.
• An iron hand-torch with a fistful of charcoal in the cage.
• A deer-hide pouch branded with the image of Sigmar.
 
MrAbdiel
 The fellow is delighted to go through your knick-knack pile

 "This  wooden staff  looks like it once belonged to an Ulrican shepherd. The wolf teeth, you see? It's an appeal to old Ulric to turn aside the wolves. I don't suppose you've had much to do with Ulric, being southwise. He's a war god of the old tribes; war, and winter, and wolves. Anyway, it's not a precious item. But you could probably string those teeth on a necklace and sell them somewhere for a copper or two." 
 "These  shoes , though! Ah! Yes, they're from Pfieldorf, too - wonderful! Pfieldorf cobblers are some of the finest in the world for buckled shoes. Why, I'd take them for trade, but I fear I'd be defrauding you - if you polish them up, you might find they fetch a full gold crown over the border in the Empire." 

He squints at the  rain-stained sheet of parchment.   "Rialto Mio... Sounds Estalian to me, though I can't say I know. I'd have thought 'Signore' meant it to be Tilean - do you know letters, young ladies? You see  signore  here instead of  señor ? But Pepito's more an Estalian name than a Tilean one. Anyway, it's a very old sheet; you could always use the reverse side for writing." 

The  grimy human skull  catches his attention.  "Ah, now this is a small treasure. A relic, if you will - the skull of one of Magnus's knights. Magnus the Pious was a great hero of the Empire - of the world, you might say. I could ramble at length of his many deeds, but I shall spare your ears. But he was a great scourge to dark gods, that's for sure. If you clean it, keep it polished, it will warn you with a shout if the minions of the dark gods are near. If you don't care for it, then certainly you'll find some Sigmarite shrine somewhere and they will be delighted to receive it." 
 "But I do like this  waxed rawhide case of butcher's knives and sharpening files . It might make a nice little trade for one of our locals when they're ready to slaughter a pig... hmm. There! I'll give you three pots of honey, for fit. Say it's not a deal, I dare you." 
 "This  tiny ivory stature of Shallya  is a fine token to give to a sick friend, I think. You see how how fine it is? How pale and pretty the ivory? That's because it's not pig-tusk like most you find. It's mammoth-tusk. That's the best kind." 
 " A pewter ring etched with an oath of allegiance to the Empire?  Let me read that... Hrm... It's a road warden's ring. A mark of office. I suppose that means the poor fellow who once wore it was killed and looted, for it to make its way down here. But if you return it to an Imperial road warden, I'm sure they'd be grateful." 
 "This is a very find  musket-cleaning kit . But given you're festooned with powder weapons, I think you ought to keep it! Hah!" 
 "This  iron hand torch  is in good condition. Coal cage torches burn longer than oil and rag torches, but they're obviously more expensive to maintain. They tend to be for symbolic purposes more than practical, though. Witch hunters, mostly. But it does me no good to be lighting coal fires up here in the branches." 
 "You see that image, on the side of this  deer-hide pouch ? That's Sigmar; god of the men of the Empire. The pouch itself isn't specially purposed; but it's a nice design. Some folk take the view that you can never surround yourself with too many likenesses of the gods." 

Having settled on the butchers' knives to trade, he bustles about his treeborne home gathering your honey jars, before asking somewhat inevitably:

 "And where are you going, travelling Tileans? Because I would like to think my honey was worth the trip, but I'd sour it in the pots, with vanity."  
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 

Taalia revealed her inner scribe and scholar as she withdrew her writing kit and used proper velum parchment to take notes of the Imperials words upon each of the odd little trinkets that she had collected...mostly from one place, mind you. But he didn't need to know that! What was important was what they were, and where they had come from, as the idea that each of these items had been drawn from across the Empire and Bretonnia towards the point of her collection within the north of Tilea was a fascinating thought experiment into fate and the nexus of traveling pathways and how they had all converged upon her fortuitous passing.

What fascinated the girl further was the idea that each item had its own little story, one that might have been lost to the sands of time had they not ended up in Taalia's possession. The ring, for example, a symbol of authority for the Road Wardens of the Empire, doubtless a perilous and tough job in itself. To whom had it belonged? How had they become separated from it? How had it ended up in Northern Tilea of all places? The most obvious answer was that it had come into the Skavens ownership once its prior owner had been slain, and via the tunnels of the Under-Empire it had been deposited, by fate, into the path along which Taalia was traveling. However, that seemed almost  too  easy, too convenient. Perhaps there was a grander tale to be told? Or maybe, it really was that simple...yet no less miraculous that she, of all people in that sunkissed land, should come to return its dominion to human hands, particularly as she was traveling north to the lands of its forging.

And so the girl jotted down notes and entries, complete with little "wow!"  and "All the way from there?" commentaries with the revelation's delivered, each one seemingly more fantastical and improbable than the last.

 "Three pots, si, Singore..."  Taalia smiled happily, seated in the mans comfortable, cosy little treehouse, the scent of pine and forestry wafting in from the external world to mingle with the sweet-waxy aroma of the bee hives.

But, it was the last question that prompted the tall and scarred girl to smile with that infectious, lop-sided smirk of hers.

 "The Empire..."  she responded.

 "But, Tilean?"  Taalia repeated, and Bella most likely knew where this was going.

 "Do I look Tilean?"  she asked, her friendly tone rather clear that she was genuinely curious, rather than offended.
MrAbdiel
Old Jürgen detects your change of tone, and his demeanour shifts subtly at the same time - from pleasant old gent to wry confidante. He shrugs a little, and then waves a hand vaguely up and down your profile.

 "Tilean riding boots, I see. Your mail looks to have circular rings of the southlanders, rather than the oval links the Bretons and Imperials tend to use. And the bulls head on your shield, there - it has the hump and jowls, best I can take from the portrait, of the big brawny beef down there. I suspect you have a cloak rolled up in your bag somewhere, but if you were Estalian, you'd be wearing it. Things like that make me say... yes, you look Tilean. Ah, but that's not what you meant, was it? You meant..."  He draws his hand up in front of his face, and down with the frame of thumb and forefinger emphasising his features.  "...Then I'd say, no. Your height alone would make me question. Your eyes are lighter than most southerners, but not all. Your hair is unusual for any people, actually. Is... that what you expected to hear?" 
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 

Taalia grinned.

It was a friendly, girlish grin, as if the man was half right. But beside her, Bella rolled her eyes with a lightly amused snort and gentle pivot of her head. She knew where this was going - but she couldn't exactly blame her friend for her indirect method of dredging out the information she sought.

 "Mostly, Singore,"  Taalia answered, her sunny disposition remaining.

 "...but say I wasn't born in Tilea. Say I ended up there through no fault of my own, as a child...where would you think I originated?" 
MrAbdiel
Old Jürgen tilts his head. You sense he is trying to humor your line of questioning, but is struggling a little to find a clear answer for you.
 
"Well. I can't say. Anywhere north of the Irrana mountains and west of the World's Edge mountains might have given you to the world. You might have as easilly be a Bjornling from Skjold, or a Sylvanian girl. I'm sure you're not a Southlander, or Cathayan, or Arabyan. Those possibilities I can rule out almost certainly." 
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 


Taalia smiled. She was clearly in a good and exciteable mood over the conversation, even though Bella once again rolled her eyes beside her with an amused look on her features.

 "Bjornlings! " the white-haired girl announced, almost excitedly, shaking her head. If  only  she had ended up in their hands, the most "civil" of the Norscans.

 "No no...though I was in Norsca when I was very young, not by my own choice.  Kom hilt ! Hehe, that's all I remember. It means 'come here!'... " she trailed off, the implication clear of the circumstances of her stay.

 "Then they took me down to Tilea, where they sold me to a beautiful Tilean girl,"  Taalia brightened again, smirking as she hinted-gestured towards Bella,  "...but all she uses me as is a pack mule to carry her many beautiful dresses! Hehehe!"  she giggled, bringing her gloved hand up to cover her mouth as she gently teased her friend.

 "But...thank you, Singore. And apologies, this is something I ask of every good, well-travelled individual I encounter. I am not from Tilea, not even the northern area. I know not where from,"  she smiled, gesturing down to herself with an 'obviously' signal.

 "But, the Tileans were very good to me, in so many ways,"  Taalia smiled again, reaching out a hand to affectionately hold Bella's as a token of warmth.

 "We travel north to Nuln, and then to Altdorf. Do you have any advice, Singore?" 
MrAbdiel
Bella gives your hand a familial squeeze, in return.

 "I've always cared for my donkeys and mules. You are in good company. Oh, now I'm thinking of old Landuin, back in Bella Collina. I hope those troublemaker boys are taking care of him, like they said."  With her free hand, she produces the little ivory carving of Cestié's donkey that the old man carried - you remember Lazlo plodding faithfully alongside you and the tinker up to Mount Ezio, on the camping trip where he inducted you into his hairbrained flying machine schemes.
 
"Well,"  the burly man considers your question, smiling, apparently able to parse the jocular elements of your life's tale from the genuine ones with ease,  "shackling is a tragically common fate in this rough world of ours - but being set free, or escaping, is a rare turn of blessing. If you have come this far from Tilea, you know all the simple advices I would give. Honor the gods. Ware ye the daemon moon. Watch for the petty spite of lords, and the fickle envy of the common man. But as far as the journey in specific, you're getting across the Grey Mountains one of two ways." 
 "From Parravon, if you head north to Montfort, you'll find the better way, Axe Bite Pass. It's more militarised, pinned between great fortresses of the Empire and Bretonnia, but it's broader, more commonly travelled, and as far as I know there is no war going on between them since the Battle of Montfort, which must be close to ten years ago. It's a rough business, men fighting men. When you fight the orcs, they have the good graces to vanish into the mountains for a few years. Fight your neighbour, and win or lose, you get to sit in it and glower across the mountains at each other until your sons are old enough to do likewise. Pilgrimages go that way, sometimes, from the Empire up to Couronne; but there are some dangers - the odd stone troll, or rumoured giant climbing down from a peak to snatch up a caravan." 
 "If you go south instead, within this band of the Loren forest that is Parravon's own, you will come instead to what is called in Breton 'Grey Lady Pass', but what is known in Reikspiel as 'Teufeltal', which means Devil's Valley. It's more treacherous by many degrees, and so is used by smugglers and brigands, outcasts of both nations. The river Teufel runs through, but like I said - it is a smuggler way too often to travel there in small numbers. And, as we come into a winter, it's likely to be snowed in and impassable soon enough." 

Axe Bite Pass, via Montfort, had been your previous plan anyway. Montfort perhaps hosting some information about your memories of a knight defending Appletree, long ago.

 "And travelling in the Empire... do not go wandering off into the Drakwald.  The Beastmen over the mountains have far fewer elves hunting them, keeping them in check. Men of Sigmar might make this sign to mark their faith." 

He brings his fist near is face as if to salute, and produces a fork of his index and middle finger, parted over his eye, with the palm outward.  "The twin-tailed comet, you see? Sigmar's sign. This says 'I am a man of Sigmar'. Conversely..."  He flips his hand so the palm is in towards his face, and the back of his hand and forked fingers is toward you.  "This means 'go rot, enemy of Sigmar.' Or, when the children do it, it just means 'neener neener', and they mean to make you mad. But I would not go throwing those signs about if you are not a Sigmarite; the Imperials are torn between Sigmar, and Taal, and Ulric, and you needn't pick a side there." 
 "You said Nuln, then to Altdorf? Hmm. That's afair bit of double-back. If you go by Axe Bite, you might well pass through Altdorf first. But when you get out the otherside, see if there are any wagons going to one or the other, and try your luck. Better a hundred miles on wheels than fifty on foot, I think." 

He grins.

 "That's about all the advice I can think, for you. The rest is common wisdom that'd serve you everywhere. Oh - and Sigmarites hold dwarves to be specially protected, though in practice there are always frictions with people groups. Most cities will have a dwarf quarter, however small. There'll be a elf here or there, making their way also. But watch for the halfings - I won't say they're all thieves, because they're not, but plenty are thieves and swindlers indeed. They look out for their own, which they must because no one else will; but be careful in your dealings and keep your pockets buttoned. Buy the more expensive pies; the cheap ones will leave you wishing you had." 
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 


Taalia listened with the captive attention of a child, her eyes a little wide and her smile ever present. For those who did not know her, it was difficult to imagine that she was a rather desensitised and hardened person, given her current wide-eyed infatuation with all of what Jürgen was unveiling through his tales and knowledge of the world beyond.

 "Men of Sigmar make this mark..."  Taalia repeated, as if transfixed, bringing up her right, gloved hand to mimics the sign displayed and doing so over her face. She gets it wrong the first time, snorts lightly in self-depreciating amusement as she almost pokes herself in the eye. Then tries a second, more successful time.

 "Men of Sigmar make this mark!"  she announces happily, bringing her hand up to form the signal over her eye, palm forward, and her smiling, happy mouth grinning beneath it, while Taalia's naturally smoky, husky voice contrasted amusingly with her current image and words.

 "Yes, Nuln is our first destination, we..."  Taalia trails off, her lips pursing.

 "We... flew  into Bretonnia. Not upon brooms or anything, singore! Haha!"  Taalia giggled into her palm.

 "Our ward, Singore Cestie...he had a slight way about him! This trip was his dream, but..."  she trails off, pursing her lips and shrugging apologetically, "...he did not make it this far, sadly. We are taking the damaged remnants of his creation to Nuln, where we hope to restore it to working order. I have been told that Tileans are not particularly well thought of in the Empire... except  in Nuln, where there are many examples of our former wards mad genius making names for themselves." 
MrAbdiel
 Jürgen's eyebrows rise with the predictably mitigated buoyancy of marvel and scepticism, at the talk of the flying machine. He's impressed in theory, but obviously a little doubtful by the fanciful nature of the claim. He does not, however, seem to take you for trying to make a fool of him, so he gives the benefit of his doubt.

 "Well, that sounds very impressive indeed. I've seen dwarf flying machines - clunky, temperamental things that run on steam and make a hideous racket. And once, I witnessed and elf skycutter - a winged boat pulled in the sky by an eagle, like a chariot. But the Signore's flying machine songs very impressive. I am sure they'll be suitibly impressed to see it recreated, in Nuln." 

He considers the idea of Tileans being poorly thought of in the Empire, but can only offer a shrug in defence.  "Alas. The Bretonnians here didn't like me much, when I came to town. As the Arabyans say - 'me against my brother, me and my brother against my cousin, me and my cousin against the stranger.'. No one anywhere really likes foreigners - not unless they live in a mansion with guards on hand so there's no threat in the unknown. A man in Altdorf will take a Tilean over a Norscan, for he's less foreign. But he'll take a Middenlander over a Tilean. And an Ubersreiker over a Middenlander, and another man of Altdorf over all of them. And he'll take his neighbour over the man two doors down. But if you've made your way in Bretonnia with charm, you should be able to do so in the Empire. You are right that Nuln has more fondness for Tileans - it was founded by them, after all. But I worry you might be a little misinformed." 

He draw a little circle in the air, as if making an effort to turn something around for your benefit.  "Nuln has a School of Engineers, yes - but it's rather small. Tilean friendly or not, there's definitely more engineers and a higher calibre of them in Altdorf at the larger school. The one in Altdorf is the one old Leonardo founded, all those years ago. But you're planning to see both places - you might have your pick. Nuln is one of the world's great cities; but Altdorf has eclipsed her. You'll understand, when you see them." 

When a comfortable silence lapses in, he spontaneously stacks a second pot of honey on top of the first, before handing them over.  "Above all things, remember the Empire is a land of roads and rivers, traversed by barge and coach. There are coaching inns a days ride from another coaching in on all the major roads and along the major rivers, and the wardens patrol those ways. Following a train of coaches is a wise vagabond's way."  
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 

A part of Taalia wanted to sit here and talk shop with Jurgen all day. The man had an image about him, a presence, like that of an old sage with enough stories to last the weeks supply of beef stew and mead, and then a few days more. His visage was older and weathered, more so than most, and his distant station from his homeland spoke of his wunderlust that had taken him far and wide. Though, unlike Taalia, this had likely been at his own behest, he nevertheless felt almost like a kindred spirit to the girl, as she took in all that he said with a sweet seriousness that saw her nodding and glued to his words.

 "...stay off the roads, Si..."  she nodded, eyes transfixed, her right hand making a sweeping motion as if practicing her own directions once they reached the empire.

 "...never more than a mile away...Si..." 

Bella was likely enjoying a small smirk off to her side, watching as her foreign friend absorbed it all like a sponge.

 "Thank you so much, Singore, for your time. I could stay and listen until sundown, but, we do have other duties, Singore Jurgen!"  Taalia finally announced at the end of the meet and greet, offering a little curtsey as she did so.

 "Aidrien is going to  love  these! He simply will - I think we'll make a...hmm..."  she trailed off, one of her hands wrapped around a unit of honey.

Then, her eyes lit up and a bright smile crossed her face,  "Struffoli!"  she beamed, nodding.
 
"Si! Si! Struffoli! We'll save some for you too, Singore Jurgen - thank you for everything! Keep your health and fare well!" 
MrAbdiel
 Jürgen corrects patiently as he rambles - stay  on  the roads, not off them. Coaching inns never more than a  day's ride  away, not a mile - distinctions he would dread to fail to make, considering the risks of travelling through the Drakwald. Then he releases you, your barter and banter complete, with a last word of advice.

 "When you get to the Empire - to Nuln, and Altdorf - don't take the first offer given you. There are many opportunities, in such cities, for clever young women with great potential. And some decisions made cannot be unmade; so take your time. Taal keep you on the roads,  gute Frauen.  Farewell!" 
 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
If you want to describe what Taalia and Bella cook up, you can do so - but I won't delay you in another dining scene directly unless there's other narrative stuff happening! Onward!
 

 * * * * * 
The next day while the sun still glows behind the mountains in the east, your party is up and on the road. You bid Basílle, with its grafted orchards and friendly but odd people, a final farewell and spend most of the next day roaming the wide, paved switchback roads up into the mountains, past checkpoints and the this-way-that-way traffic of knights and carts. At one corner, a lone pegasus mare with bay roan coat is found grazing the tufts of mountain grass off the road's side. You watch it together for a while, hesitant to pass it and spook it. Briant tries to approach, whispering and clicking his tongue in the hopes that this particulat beast is the kind of wild that is amenable to taming - but when he gets close enough almost to touch, she turns and gallops off the edge of the road's cliff, swooping down and up into the sky in retreat. The knight watches her fly away, hands on his hips, unable to do anything else. Bella watches him watch, with the same look in her eyes, until Adrien draws her attention to show her a tiny lizard he has caught.

Not long after, the cold mountain winds bring down a non-trivial dusting of noonday snow, you pass into the fertile Parravon Vale, where the majority of Parravon's villages work every inch of arable and pastural land while living in homes build clinging to the cliffs and slopes. Castle Parravon itself is surrounded by great canyons on three sides and the unforgiving cliff face on the other, and the city is accessible only by an elegant bridge, built by elves long before humans migrated to the land. It's a beautiful ribbon of stone that arches over the canyon to the city's gates, and low walls (on account of the fact they do not need to be tall, for no siege tower or ladder crew can traverse the canyons to set at them).

"Castle" seems almost like the wrong word - for the walls, the greater buildings, the towers and the keep are not made from quarried blocks but carved from the living stone. Down below the walls, in the face of the white stone cliffs, peasants live in homes cut from the rock, with only windows visible and access presumably given by tunnels cut beneath the walls. High above, on top of shingled parapets on tall towers whose crenulations must have once been part of great fingers of mountain stone, the pegasus banners of Parravon fly in the cold wind. You can see with your bare eyes where the elven construction past the bridge merges into the human mason work of the walls and the greater city. Bretonnian architecture's elven influence is clearer here than anywhere you have seen.

Once over the bridge and inside the city's interior gate plaza, Briant dismounts and gives a bittersweet sigh.

 "Here we are, then."  He gestures with one hand to the large, stonecut inn across the road. Its shingle reads 'The Kossar's Steed', and depicts a bumbling foreign knight trying to ride an armored bear, clearly about to fall from its saddle.

 "I suppose this is it, then. Well - not completely. It would be... inappropriate for me to bring you to the wedding, but I would see you after it, if I can. To see you both off with fresh horses and supplies. There's plenty to see and do in the city for a day." 

"Inappropriate" seems like a weak excuse - surely he could swing it somehow - but you take his meaning. It would be painful for Bella to attend such an event, and given the difficulty of the situation, he expects you would remain dutifully with your dear friend rather than nosing into the spectacle of a high society wedding as a wild and woolly outsider.

Bella steps down from the cart, and she and Briant bask in the silence of their forbidden affection for a few moments. They chastely embrace, and whisper in each other's ears.

Adrien gives Milo a penultimate cuddle before placing the kitten in its rumpled bed of rags in the cart, and sticking out his hand to you, to shake. Like most children, he's less sentimental about goodbyes. Time and permenance are still ephemeral to him.  "Will you write to me, from where you end up, Taalia? I'm still not very good at reading - but I would like it. You're nice."  
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 


When her mistakes were pointed out to her by the amusingly exasperated elder Imperial, Taalia blushed a crimson shade across her fair-skinned cheeks and hung her face into her palms, her restrained, self-depreciating giggle causing her to almost vibrate in embarrassment. So enamored with his stories of the wider world had she become that she had allowed the details of his own instructions to slip through her notice, to almost disasterous consequences.

 "Yes...yes thank ye, sincerely, Singore..."  Taalia spoke, clearly with pursed-lips and blushing cheeks of embarassment as she struggled to ake eye contact, even attempting at one point to almost 'hide' her face behind Bella's dark locks in a ruse of whispering into her ear - but such a ploy was easily penetrated.

The next time Taalia would see Jurgen was later that evening. Having recovered from her embarassment, the shepardess brought him a bowl of Struffoli, made from the very honey he had sold them earlier:

 
 Spoiler 
 
 


They were parting gifts and a final thank you, as they waved goodbye to Jurgen and the odd, but endearingly pretty town that resided amidst the trees.


 oOo 

The final leg of the journey was carried out with the same excitement as before, though the three young adults could feel the clouds lingering on the horizon. Taalia knew what was coming. She understood that soon the brave knight Briant would depart their company, taking Adrien with him, and in his wake would be the whiff of love between he and Bella.

Taalia felt for her friend, but she knew this was an unwise thing to have even pursued in the first place. They both knew things were coming to an end at some point, they both had to know that the day would come when they would say their final farewells and never lay eyes upon each other again - yet they teased and flirted upon the periphery of commitment. And now, sadly, this was the cost. Taalia could sense it in the Tilean girl, as desensitized as her own emotional state was, given her 'unorthodox' upbringing'. And so, in the lead up to their trajectory into Parravon, the white-haired Shepardess had remained rather quiet on the topic. Instead, she remained adjacent to Bella, present and available, but not forthcoming with her concern. In truth, Taalia didn't know  how  she should handle the matter, outside of what gentle protests she had already offered. In the grand scheme of things, they were all young adults at best, and though if their circumstances were different both Bella and she would be family's of their own by now, neither had the experience in matters of the heart to divine the wisest course of action, outside of straight denial.

If only Madre Ferrini could be consulted. Something told Taalia that the elder woman who had taught her so much would know what should be done, so that the two girls could learn from her advice and avoid calamity.

Well, Taalia guessed they'd be learning the hard way then. Perhaps one day she could pass on her experience as a pearl of wisdom to the next generation of wide-eyed travelers.

In the meantime, Taalia shoved these thoughts from her worry as she took to maintaining the cart and its precious, broken cargo, and schooling the young Adrien. Though it was Briant's responsibility to teach the boy how to wield his axe and employ his shield, Taalia enjoyed doing her part too, because not only did it help her Breton, but there was an old adage that teaching someone something will reveal how much of it you yourself know. To this end, the taller, foreign girl, used  Daybreak  and her shield to help the boy learn proper footwork and posture, particularly in the use of his decorated, wooden protective barrier. Though his use of the axe in its motions, moves and capabilities differed greatly from that of a sword, there were still foundationals that she could help pass on.

She could tell that with some practice and experience, Adrien would be a big kid one day, and very adept with the weapons available to him.

But, the girl knew she was just delaying the inevitable, for it came down the path of life flanked by beautiful, mountain-born castles, pegesai and knights.



 "Here we are, then." He gestures with one hand to the large, stonecut inn across the road. Its shingle reads 'The Kossar's Steed', and depicts a bumbling foreign knight trying to ride an armored bear, clearly about to fall from its saddle.

"I suppose this is it, then. Well - not completely. It would be... inappropriate for me to bring you to the wedding, but I would see you after it, if I can. To see you both off with fresh horses and supplies. There's plenty to see and do in the city for a day."

"Inappropriate" seems like a weak excuse - surely he could swing it somehow - but you take his meaning. It would be painful for Bella to attend such an event, and given the difficulty of the situation, he expects you would remain dutifully with your dear friend rather than nosing into the spectacle of a high society wedding as a wild and woolly outsider.

Bella steps down from the cart, and she and Briant bask in the silence of their forbidden affection for a few moments. They chastely embrace, and whisper in each other's ears. 

Taalia watched, solemn and poised. She knew she had to be the pillar while her friend felt the weight of her time with Briant taken from from her like a stolen life. When it came time for Briant to say his farewell to her, Taalia smiled and curtseyed, her projection warm and forlorne with the departure, but knowing it was a necessity harkened by duty and social responsbility.

 "If anyone asks where to find the bravest Knight in Bretonnia, now I know where to direct them,"  she gestured to the mountainous castle with her round-a-bout compliment to the man.

 "I do not envy what is required of you,"  Taalia continued, her cryptic suggestion nonetheless lined with sympathy.

 "'til next we meet, Sir Briant. Something tells me that will be sooner than either of us thinks." 

 Adrien gives Milo a penultimate cuddle before placing the kitten in its rumpled bed of rags in the cart, and sticking out his hand to you, to shake. Like most children, he's less sentimental about goodbyes. Time and permenance are still ephemeral to him. "Will you write to me, from where you end up, Taalia? I'm still not very good at reading - but I would like it. You're nice." 

Taalia looked down at the lad, her broad smile one of affection as she reached down to ruffle his hair before reaching with her long arms and bringing him in for a tight hug. Mwah - mwah, mwah! she giggled as she kissed him one each cheek, before standing again.

 "That makes two little boys I have to write to!"  she declared, her grin becoming more teasing,  "and my wrist will be so sore already, with all the goblins and orcs that need slaying out in the world..."  she brought her hand up and flicked it about with a pretend-injury to her wrist, before giggling again.

 "But I'm sure if I address it to the bravest boy in Bretonnia, it would find you sure enough!"  she finished, leaningdown to kiss him upon the forehead one more time.

 "Listen to Sir Briant, and next time I see you, you'll be looking out for  me !"  her friendly tone remained.
MrAbdiel
  
 Spoiler: Struffoli a Deux, ooc 
... Well now I want to try struffoli. Sort of a ...  spherical baklava situation?
 


The party breaks for the penultimate time; the boys trotting off on Cleménce's strong back, leaving you and Bella in the company of your gentle-natured white palfrey (the one mildly traumatized by the magic and furor back in the battle in Quenelles) and the two young draft horses pulling the cart with your possessions, and the covered remnants of the flying machine. And Milo; though he requires no stabling, and no inn so far has had the gall to charge you for his presense.

Bella mutes her sadness at the occasion by appointing herself to parley with the staff at the  Kossar's Steed  for stabling and lodging. When she emerges, a girl comes to lead the cart horses to the adjacent stables to see them brushed and watered. You and Bella linger in eyeshot, to make sure your cart is safely secured and undisturbed also.

"Well... the Parravonese seem a touch more worldly than other Bretonnians. Those inside the inn were less concerned to hear my accent, hah. Strange - mountain folk are usually more sheltered, not less. Maybe the nobles, with so many flying horses, get around a bit more - and that bleeds through to the peasants."

The  Kossar's Steed  is run by burgher named Jef who is not himself a Kossar, or from Kislev, or anything like it. But he  does  have some Kislevian liquor, a water-clear beverage called 'kvas' in bottles in the inn's bar. Those, and the stories he has heard about Kislevites riding bears, is as close to Erengrad as he has ever come. But he's happy to furnish you with ideas about thinks to do in the city, while you rest and pass the time.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
You have could do one 'city thing' today, two tomorrow - and potentially one more the day after, before you depart. Parravon is comparatively welcoming enough place that I won't require a roll to 'discover' the options.

 The Falconer's Club  - A Parravonese social club centered around breeding, training, and keeping birds of prey, for hunting or recreation.

 The Range  - An extensive archery range for the city's yeomen, as well as the local 'engineer's guild', such as it is. You may never have a chance to fire a trebuchet again.

 Baron Marcel's Estate  - The home of a knight who has subsequently taken his entire household to settle in the New World. His home has become a kind of museum of relics and curios sent back, to encourage young knights to consider crossing the sea for their Errantry.

 The Dawi Quarter  - Parravon is one of few Bretonnian cities with a sizable population of dwarves; variously expatriates from mountain holds and from the Empire.

 The Bone Quarry  - A display of the osseous remains of monsters slain by the knights of Parravon, including, so they say, a dragon.

 The Penny Auctions  - A gathering of minor nobles who auction off their trinkets and curios to one another; and sometimes items of higher value. They are donated anonymously, which makes the auction vulnerable to abuse by fences laundering stolen goods.

Or something else you'd like to do, or nothing, as you prefer!
 
  
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 


Taalia watched the boys disappear into the city while atop the broad, strong back of the horse to which Taalia had grown both accustomed and affectionate. But her focus did not last long, as it was soon drawn to Bella, her friend, a she reached out and gently lay a gloved hand upon her shoulder in a gesture of affection. Leaning in, the shepardess kissed her upon the cheek once before embracing her fully with a warm, firm hug.

 "I'll have to ask you what your secret is one day,"  she spoke softly to her friend.

 "You don't see any strapping fellows lining up to whisper sweet words to this,"  Taalia brought her other gloved hand up to run her fingers down the scars on her face, attention also brought to her heterochromia eyes, as she smiled mischievously for the punchline of her self-depreciating joke.

Taalia did her best to comfort her, as much as her limited experience could provide. No one had ever been interested in her that way...well, except for Marco. The memory still brought an amused, but thankful smirk to Taalia's lips. But, to most men, she was far too tall, too round in the shoulders, scars across her face, unnatural color of hair and eerie in her single blue and green eye hetereochromia. The two men that had excited her girlish flights of fantasy had been Bertuccio, himself smitten with Bella, and a mercenary who's name she couldn't even remember - but she could recall, in vivid detail, his towering and fighting fit image produced by years of adventure and hardship.

Accompanying her friend to the tavern, Taalia was particularly agreeable to her friend, wanting to buttress her as much as possible in her current state. When being informed of the attractions available, Taalia's eyes lit up.

 "Oh, Bella, the Penny Auctions, for sure!"  she spoke, the entrepreneurial sheep and pig trader within her lit up.

 "And...the Barons estate...do you want to see more treasures of the world in one place for our discerning eye?" 

OOC:

 
 Spoiler 
Yes, they're fried sweet dough balls coated in honey. They're amazing!
 
MrAbdiel
 Bella puffs a muted laugh into your shoulder.

 "Compared to you, there are barely any fellows who qualify as 'strapping' at all."
 
 * * * * * 
The various towers in Castle Parravon have great bells which chime at different notes. In siege conditions, it permits them to communicate data from the various towers at the same time to a court of listeners around the Duke who know the chimes and what they mean. A castellan with a good ear could hear a cacophany of clanging and know how many hundreds were massing at which facings of the walls, and which had cannon or catapult. In peace time, the collection of bells make a unique musical marker of the passage of time. The striker-men in the towers have a song they play out at the top of each hour - a lilting tone of four bars that require a chime from each of the towers in sequence. At the first quarter past the hour, they play just the first bar of the song. At half past, they play the first two. At three quarters, all but the final bar. And at the new hour, they play the full four bars, and then a syncronous chiming of all the bells, one strike for each hour past midnight (starting at 6 in the morning) or past noon (ending at 6 in the evening), and sometimes at other hours on appropriate prayer days.

It is three bars past five in the afternoon when you arrive at the Penny Auctions in a lovely plaza in the shadow of the castle's keep. A sprawl of colourful stalls show off items to be auctioned off later on the plaza's elevated stone platform, which must serve as a centre for events and executions in addition to, tonight, an auctioneer's block. Each of the stalls consists of a few light tables, a colorful canopy to keep the evening snow off (not heavy enough to cancel the event, but heaven enough not to want settling on the goods), and an embroidered pennant featuring the sponsor of that table's goods (and therefor the recipient of any proceeds). Most are merchant 'clubs' - the Peddlar's club, the East Tower Horse Breeder's club, the Farrier's club - which stand in for what would be guilds, in Tilea. Larger tables belong to the city's temples and shrines, which have received their donated items from the city's minor nobility.

There is a genial spirit in the air as parties go about looking over the displays, asking questions, fascinating about which they might dare to bid upon. The demography of the event is unusual as well - three quarters of quarters of the attendees, both operating the stalls and looking to bid, are women of the city. Clusters of noble ladies in blue gowns and a minimal silver accessorisation; bands of merchant's wives, in green and gold, move among them too - though you note more than one discreetly putting away some of their jewelry so they don't risk showing up and alienating the nobles. Each of these tittering gangs of ladies has one or two lads with them, usually around the age of twelve, looking bored to tears.

 "I suppose they're obliged to bring a man to escort them even to such a safe event as this,"  Bella speculates in your ear,  "though I'd bet many sons get quietly auctioned off to marry someone's daughter here, too." 

The adult men in the area are men-at-arms seconded to the Auctioneer's Club that runs the event, as well as a lanky, moonfaced auctioneer and a handful of young knights from distant duchies wintering in the city, and trying their luck impressing the local maidenry. You witness some kind of implicit game unfolding where an agent of the knights will peel off from his friends, make an overture to a lady, and try to convince her to pair up with him to explore some of the stalls of goods before her friends snatch her away in a flurry of skirts, giggles, and critical ribald whispers. Most of the time, the knight returns empty handed to his friends, who jeer and clap him on the back and ruffle his hair. This all seems to be in good fun for all parties - though certainly, it's a recipe that, with just a few cups of wine, would result in some young Knight Errant making an ass of himself to some local knight's wife (or more dangerously, succeeding and wooing her). But such scenarios are not accessible at the surface level of gossip. For now, it's all in good fun.

There's dozens of items ranging from worthless (but interesting) nick knacks to some genuine items of quality that will certainly be sold for more than a penny. But a sampling of those that catch your eye:

 1. A 'tanto' - an unusual dagger brought back from the far kingdom of Nippon. Its quality is very good, but it's the exotic style that makes it most mysterious. Supposedly, the knights of that kingdom are so devoted to their lords that they use such knives to open the stomachs in shame if ever they displease them. This tanto does not appear to be stained with gore, however. (Best Quality Dagger)

2. A large, quality iron cook pot with an inscription in Mootish, though no one seems to know the language to translate.

3. A polished brass storm lantern, and a blue glazed ceramic pot of what fancifully claims to be 'white whale oil, that never ceases to burn bright, and smokeless'.

4. A battered old bronze lamp of moderate craftsmanship but poor repair, brought back from the crusades in Araby. No additional defining features.

5. A ceramic handbell featuring tiny painted designs of children picking flowers around the bell's rim.

6. A deck of handpainted Imperial Tarot cards (plainy so because 'the Emperor' card features an imperial regent with a twin tailed comet roaring overhead).

7. A whimsical 'mechanical grappling hook' and rope, the product of some southern kingdoms tinker, which does not present its obvious function. However, the locked joints of the hook itself are fixed and firm, and it would serve it's basic function just fine.

8. A finely carved wooden recorder, from the duchy of Brionne. The Brionnese are the most artistic Bretonnians, so their instruments are more highly regarded.

9. A wooden abacus that someone  says  is from Cathay, but there appears to be no way to verify that claim.

10. A plump, pale green toad. The Frogwife's club mistress assures onlookers that this toad is almost ready to give up its 'toadstone', a small dull gem that is said to ward against illness when worn on one's person. Everyone seems to think this is legit. Several ladies talk as if they already have toadstones that they wear when they dine in unfriendly courts.
 
 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
Ask any questions you want about any of these pieces, and after that, we'll auction whichever ones you're interested in!
 
 
BananaPhone
   Taalia Giovanni 

Taalia watched with an excited eye as the Penny Auction laid bare the variety of items, gubbins, knick nacks and curiosities from the surrounding region, and a little bit beyond. In a way it was a type of museum, furnished with all manner of oddities, with the difference that one could buy what piqued their fancy so that it could be carried off home.

And Taalia intended to do just that!

Combining her general sense of wonder about the world at large with her mercantile spirit for commerce, Taalia seemed particularly alive as she held drifted in and out of Bella's proximity like an overgrown child in a candy store. She moved between each stall and display, green-blue-eyes wide with a   "Ahh!"   escaping her lips in awe, before she'd hurry along to the next item on exhibition and repeat the process, each new offering more fantastic than the last to her mind.

In the end, Taalia formed a little catalogue that she shared with Bella, the way an excitable child might tell an older relative of all the places they wanted to visit upon arriving in town.

Her list, read thus:

- The Tanto.
- The polished brass storm lantern.
- The whimsical 'mechanical' grappling hook.
- The wooden abacus.


The discerning eye might have noticed a pattern in her selections, as though most were exotic in one form or another, they were also decidedly functional, particularly the collected columns of counting beads. Maybe it was from distant Cathay...and maybe it wasn't. What-ever its origin, Taalia found it to be a most useful item she wished to possess, along with the others on her list.
MrAbdiel
 Bella grips your arm as the bidding begins on some of the items. One of the young fellows from the Auctioneer's club furnishes you with a pinewood paddle from a barrel with many similar paddles. Each paddle has an image of a bird on it, burned into the wood with some kind of heated stencil, then painted with a bright colour so the auction barker can identify it with ease. Your paddle has the yellow sparrow.

The bidding begins on the tanto. You have a good idea how much the item is worth - around ten gold coins, give or take. But the barker doesn't seem to appreciate that.
 
"A fine weapon - a companion blade for a warrior of far lands; the arming dagger of strange knights! Gifted to the questing knight Sir Lamont du Crenshaux, who befriended the sword-saint Tanji Totomoto in his pursuit of the grail in far Nippon! A very rare gift indeed - shall the bidding begin at... two  ecu ?"
 
 "Two and two!" , bids Red Herron.
 "Two and six!" , bids Black Crane.
 "Three!" , bids Blue Dove.

Quickly it becomes apparent to you that there is something  polite  about allowing the bids to cycle up from a low point, but there's also some element of pattern tracking. It feels like a card game. Red Herron is anxious for it to be known that he wants the tanto, and will probably ride it to the top, so others shouldn't chase him. Black Crane snipes in increments of four silver  denier  every time she chimes in. Blue Dove rounds up to the next clean  ecu.  Each are trying to signal their interest in a way that dissuades other bidders from forcing them to pay as much as they might. It's about reading intentions, knowing how much you're willing to spend, and resisting the impulse to go beyond that... and all without ruining the fun by just announcing your top dollar right away. It's as much like gambling as it is like haggling.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
Make a Haggle roll, and a Gamble roll, and total your 'degrees' of success. The total will tell you how much you'll have to spend if you want to win the bid.

0 or fewer = 20 gc
1-3 = 16 gc
4-6 = 12 gc
7+ = 10 gc
 
 