DCC DotSK: Act 1-3

He pats Aldric on the back to help him move the phlegm.

At this mention of coin, Dufgal perks up feeling as though his mind was being read. He almost says something, but decides he may be well to wait for the others to negotiate their reward.

From the watchman's reaction, Ty infers that extorting distressed humans for money is frowned upon. So he says, "Master, what ice-hearted wretch would plunder the meager stores of poor folk in the midst of their last extremity? Not Father Aldric Waveborn, certainly, and not Anora the Blue." Of Dufgal he says nothing.

The elf twists his lips as if wrestling with the riddle of how to be justly recompensed for any aid.

"Now, your Jarl seems to be a man of means. Might he have, laid up in his hall, some treasures with which to reward those willing to protect his subjects?"

It seems a stretch to Tyravasiel himself. Why would he, after all? But then the flyspeck lordling is likely the only person for miles around this backwater with riches that might be of any interest to Ty's nemesis.

Aldric leans on Dufgal as he expels the troublesome phlegm into the street. He hasn't quite put two and two together about desperate people being an opportunity to exploit, so wrapped up is he in his own self-preservation. But the rusty wheels are starting to turn, with words like treasure and reward flying about.

Cutting through all the talk of recompense, Anora tries to get a read on what, exactly, this man hopes for them to do.

"If there is some legend or tale or rumor regarding the hound’s end, I’m sure the folk here have already attempted it. What is it you expext for us to do?"

She knew that in places like this, it was always some matter of strange convenience.

A virgin’s blood beneath the tower that only shows itself under the light of the month’s first blue moon, or what have you…

The former nightman, heaver of nightsoil, mulcher of fertilizer, target of social scorn, has been thinking of nothing other than climbing out of his low caste. Dufgal finally feels that his luck has been a-turning. The thrill of the thrice-reward as he sees it; gold of course, but status as well, and opportunity. His only ambitions up until now had been to get to the zero sum; to survive. Could he now thrive? At the mere cost of testing his mettle? He was up for it. That was the easy part. The hard part seemed to be the impossible task at hand. What brought this beast into existence in the first place? Could there be a clue there? It seemed the one to ask has already walked off. This watchman certainly knows little more than we’ve learned already.

So, the thief simply fancies himself with his imagination. How shall he dress? Would he take a wife or a harem? Why not both? Shall he wear lifted boots to give him height? Why wouldn’t he? Perhaps he will. He will do all the things he’d seen other folks do.

"Where will we find the Skald and the Crone?" Anora asks, dryly so as to temper his expectations that they would take up the charge.

"We can promise very little, but I will speak with them and see what they have to say. You understand that this is a little beyond the scope of our employment."

They would stay the night at least, and that was time enough to talk. She doubted the men in her care had steel enough for this work. If nothing else the Crone would give her the female perspective on matters; a perspective she was keen to hear.

Aldric is finally catching on, and in typical Aldric fashion, thinks the plan is entirely his original idea. Desperation was the crowbar with which one could pry a person out of the mortar of their existing life and into the welcoming tentacles of Pelagia. Why else did he embrace the Bitch Queen? Desperation was good for raising funds, too. Desperate men who would part with barmaids would surely part with gold coins in their place.

Aldric had to think about all this, though. The devil dog would surely end him, regardless of what minor spells Pelagia would pour into his mind. Normal men needed a beer and hot meal beside a hearth, and there was still that part of humanity left him, although increasingly he would prefer and bath in saltwater. But, a meal would give him a chance to convey this genius plan to his comrades, and weigh the risks.
Ahh, perhaps Anora the Blue is the wise wizard she appears to be and is formulating a similar plan? But, she has no flair for the dramatic! In case we take this role on, it is of utmost importance begin planting the seeds in men's minds that will bloom into unquestioning faith.

He speaks with gravitas, and loudly so that not just the present company can hear him.

"Nothan, my divine investiture permits me to lend aid where others have failed. Anywhere the rain touches, Pelagia can touch. Let us look for signs of the Bitch Queen's miracles, hmm? Perhaps a devil dog might survive a spear to the eye, but even demons can drown."

The Jarl will never agree to that, sir? Tyravasiel-Llir thinks, troubled. Well, sir. Nothing comes from nothing.

If there are no treasures on offer, what then? Glory? Whom among the Fair Folk would ever hear of his exploits upon this far-flung frontier of humanity, or care if they did? Delight, perhaps? The well-endowed barmaid is likely meat by this time, and they presently have no means of aiding her regardless.

The elf studies Anora the Blue, his brow furrowed beneath his blindfold as he tries to puzzle out what would posses the woman to offer even conditional assistance to these unfortunates.

"Before we part ways, master," he says, without looking in Nothan's direction, "Might you tell us also where the tanner Dolsten resides? He is, after all, the man whose fate we have traveled to ascertain."

This one knows little or none about any charge… Anora felt, as the man seemed dismissive and desperate at once.

She nods, and when the man has safely departed, she begins to rub her temples. She was of no mind to try and contend with the others for now. She was sure they would conclude their business and leave, and she supposed she could be persuaded to that side, if all the locals were as difficult to sympathize with…

Dufgal cannot grasp why no one is talking about price for what seems to be a second contract forming. He felt as though he understood how things worked after treating with Relfarious. I guess things are more complicated than I thought. That, or everyone in his crew has riches of their own and their need is not as great as his.
Either way, he dared not say anything at this point. Better to keep acting as dumb and dirty as he always has. His father had insisted on it and always said, you’d come to appreciate it one day.
He does feel a pang of curiosity in exploring the former home of man who lost his boys. He wondered if the others would deem it worthwhile.

Once Nothan the Younger takes his leave, Ty turns to face The Sign of the Wolf-Spear.

"Here is food and rest after our travels. Also the man we have come to see, if the watchman speaks true. Lady Blue, if you wish to amuse yourself with the plight of these rustics, perhaps you should begin your entertainment with Llore the Skald, who is rumored to be within doors here at the inn?"

---

THE SIGN OF THE WOLF-SPEAR
The inn was one of the most prominent buildings in town, and as the group had already noted, one of the stoutest and most defensible. For that reason, the place contains not a few townsfolk, surely villagers too frightened to be in their own dwellings, or to spend the night alone. Entering through the front door and climbing a step or two up onto the creaking floor of the main level, the visitors see that those heavy shutters with the loopholes are even more evident, as there's a heavy iron bar near the door that's obviously used to bar it. Above the hearth hangs a huge spear, the kind evidently used to fight wolves in the old days by the ancestors of these now trembling folk. The place must seat forty, and looks to be at least half full. No food is coming from the kitchen, though, and no ales are being drawn and served. The crowd is frightened.

Morgan would normally be brightening the place with her disposition, but she is absent. And her father, Broegan -- is tied to a chair in the middle of the room. Unhappy but determined men surround him, as he curses at them, red-faced and furious. He's a huge man, and the ropes that bind his hands behind him creak as he struggles to break them. Stairs lead to a second and probably a smaller third floor, but all eyes turn to the newcomers as they enter the inn, and the din dies down.

"Who... who's this?!" the bound innkeeper manages between ragged breaths as he spies the four weary travelers. The man's craggy, ruddy cheeks are tear-stained, and his eyes are red.

"Strangers? Gods strike me blind! Strangers! Help me! They've taken my girl, my Morgan! They mean to feed her to that thing!"

Dufgal gasps twice. Once at the spear, he had thought that a place named for a spear would have a spear as decor. It was impressive and he wondered if he would ever learned its history. The other gasp was from the realization that the woman they had seen in captivity was this man’s daughter. The tension the thief suddenly felt could only be regret. The second gasp sounded more like air being punched out with a swift jab to the diaphragm. He instinctively grabbed the hilt of his dagger but kept it under his cloak.
This man is grieving. Surely he should not also be held against his will. What is wrong with these people?

Aldric moistens his lips. With the man begging for help, the place is saturated in desperation and shame. Truth be told, Aldric felt a pang of sympathy for the man, and if a bastard like Aldric could feel that way, then he knew most of the room was feeling the same or worse. The place was ripe for ... something. He didn't quite have the plan worked out yet. Curse his water-logged brain!

"Good-day. My, what a wretched state this town is in. I am Aldric, Witness of Pelagia, Bitch Queen of the Sea. A humble servant and holy man of a goddess most fucking mighty. These are my associates..."

He waves to his company, offering them a chance to introduce themselves. It didn't seem exactly appropriate to be giving their introductions while this man begged to be freed, and he wouldn't worry at all if they chose to remain silent. But in Aldric's mind, if you live in a mad world, there was no point in bothering with appropriateness.

To the proprietor, he says "Yes, we passed your daughter on the way into town. Our sincere condolences. Given that so many swords escort her, these men who hold you to this chair surely think they are saving your life. Oh, do you mind? We will pay, of course." While talking, Aldric has gone behind the bar and poured four ales for himself and his fellow travellers.

Then he heads for the kitchen to prepare meals. "Just a moment, I'll be back with a bit of supper."

"So long as he speaks plain!" Anora remarks, in no mood for riddles after the day’s drudgery!

---

Anora feels pity for the man, and doesn’t dare introduce herself under such circumstances. She doubted there was a soul there that would catch all four names of the new arrivals.

"I sought to help her myself, in my own way." she admits softly to the man, not caring who hears.

"Several armed men made sure we could do nothing!" she says softly again and when looks disheartened. "Was there no one to take her place?"

It's not difficult to read the tension in the room. The clenched fists and jaws, the mutterings of the townsfolk, embarrassed as they are over what's transpiring. Few of them are able to meet the innkeeper's furious, pleading glare, and no one seems willing to try and console or quiet the man.

Long, tired faces are on Aldric when he makes his introduction. These are a plain and simple folk, most of them, unused to talking with strangers, and especially with strangers who emanate the confidence and worldliness that Aldric does. No one dares to challenge the man as he pours beer, and as he departs into the kitchen.

A few puzzled looks are exchanged -- perhaps some villagers might even harbor a flicker of hope that his Pelagia will protect them better than Justicia has -- and then Anora quietly takes center stage.

The doomed girl's father shakes his head vigorously when the woman asks about someone taking her place, then looses a wail of anguish that quiets the inn to a person. "The Jarl and his black-hearted augur won't allow that! The Hound is appeased only by a sacrifice drawn by lot, Sylle Ru says! With no rhyme and no reason!"

Off to one side, a bald, jowly man shakes his head and offers a bit more. "And that thing isn't appeased. Just sated for a few days. We will draw lots again soon enough."

Aldric rummaged around in the kitchen, projecting confidence than he knew what he was doing. Back when he was a humble potato farmer, his wife and oldest daughters did all the -

"Wait."

"Stop."

"That is not a thought we allow ourselves to think."

He had made this choice long ago. The Bitch Queen was ever jealous - she would never share his soul. Better his family thought him dead and they were free of Her. He had gotten very good at stopping these thoughts dead in their tracks, his addled mind ever a merciful ally in this task. Something about the kitchen and the grieving father outside had triggered it.

But then it was gone again, like a fading dream.

"Right, what was I doing?"