"Yes, I was formerly a guard and Hammerer for the fortress of Routedmansions. I was always drawn to the idea of adventuring, though. I went through standard Dwarven militia training, which consisted of two years practicing, and then five years of living in a pit fighting off various animals until I came of age. I can't do that to your lads, but at the very least I can give them a decent facsimile to help them toughen up a bit."
Examine the incense lamp and the sticks of incense while I speak. What quality are they, and is there anything notable?
"HAH! Excellent! This is exactly what I've been trying to tell the mayor that we need. Some honest goddamn grit," the chief sputters, suddenly pretty animated. "This new generation is so soft and coddled, with all their whining about
injuries this and
too dangerous that. It won't be like the old days, when the ogres were a problem and would bust up through a storm drain and carry off a screaming family, or when the desert gnolls still made buildings and merchants disappear from the city outskirts, or that time a tornado dropped giant scorpions all over the city, but by god at least these men won't be such
limp wristed fucking fruits." He slams a gauntleted fist down on his desk calendar, making the various bottles of ink and doodads on the desk top bounce slightly. "Let's get right to business. What'll you need for this training, and how much do you expect to be paid?"
Thankfully, the chief was too busy shouting about scorpions and fruits to pay much attention to how Drubjarred was fucking around with a lamp and not looking him in the eye. [4] The lamp is thick bronze, small enough to fit in two cupped hands but nonetheless heavy for its size. The metal is dull but intricately engraved. The upper tier of the lamp features an engraved view of a skyline of very distinctive looking mountains. One of them is The Spire, an unusually tall and steep mountain not far to the west of the city. The others are similarly unique, but without seeing them in person Drubjarred cannot place them individually and is uncertain of whether or not they are in the same range as The Spire. The lower tier is a mural of geometric patterns surrounding intricate symbols of a provenance that is unknown to Drubjarred. The incense appears to be of good but not exceptional quality. The sticks are dyed a vibrant red, and there are ten of them, with five holes in the edge of the lamp to hold them.
Cautiously peek over the doors. How badly-lit is it inside?
Keep an eye out for anyone trying to sneak up on me, too. Don't let thoughts of magnificent mustelids distract me.
"I would rather have my discount weaponry delivered in a crate to my doorstep, not in a thrust to my gut," Pyotr muses under his breath as he squints into the gloomy building with some trepidation, one hand lightly fidgeting with the hilt of his 'borrowed' dagger all the while.
I'm surprised that [1] didn't have me either buy or steal one of those dang weasels on the spot!
[2] You peek inside. It's a little bit dimly lit, but not too bad. Many stone slabs lie across the floor for use as tables, wooden benches and stools circled around them. The tavern is crowded, and the crowd is rowdy. Armored warriors have discussions at shouting volume across tables while spilling beer on themselves. The occasional incredibly drunk person vomits copiously onto the floor. Someone is having an arm wrestling contest and someone is yelling about it. At a table near the wall, a small group of unrecognizable humanoids that definitely aren't human are playing some sort of complicated game with a board and strange pieces. Near the center of the room, two armored men are standing on a table-slab and drunkenly sparring with battered and notched short swords. Don't worry. Nobody is sneaking up on you. Think of the mustelids.
Against one wall is a long counter. Behind it are unnumbered wall hooks hanging all manner of weaponry in every state of disrepair. They have swords, axes, maces, spears, bows, whips, voulges, guisarmes, glaive-guisarmes, Bohemian ear-spoons, mancatchers, hunga mungae, kpinga, zuwuru, shuriken, blow guns, shuko, giant ass clubs with huge spikes on them, dog sticks, nunchucks, meteor hammers, monk's spades, halberds, morningstars, eveningstars, and all manner of other weapons, some of which you don't even know the names of. To the side is an array of not so gently used pieces of armor, most of which look like someone died in them. Behind the counter is a skinny guy with a shaved head and dark circles under his eyes. He's wearing a gray tunic.
Against the opposite wall is a long counter, behind which large wooden shelves support numerous kegs of what mostly looks like all the same ale. There are a few glass bottles of thick, dark liquor. One of them is very large and has an enormous dead scorpion floating in it. The bartender is a bored looking woman with greasy hair and a bitchy resting face. She has a long nose and a really weak jaw. She looks kind of like a weasel.
Maybe I should have had you buy one or steal one, but I feel like that would be a step too far in dictating your actions. I might have strongly encouraged you to buy one and left you at the stall if you didn't already specifically say that you were doing something after looking.
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Topic: Turaco's Sellswords RTD: Turn 17: I Guess This Counts As Taking Casualties (Read 29068 times)