DCC DotSK: Act 1-3

So that's how they're going to play it?

"Indeed, madam, I am but a provincial boob," Ty answers Anora through his teeth. "And ignorant of your cosmopolitan ways. I rely upon your patience and condescension as much as I do your eyes." With that, the elf allows himself to be led into the village square.

Scanning those assembled through his blindfold, Tyravasiel-Llir mutters, "I believe those ruffians' asses are sewn onto their saddles. Mere intimidation, that."

He goes up on his toes a little, then cocks his head as if to listen. In fact he's trying to get an idea of how many bodies might be under those blankets. The buxom one was saved, but at what cost?

Dufgal catches up but doesn’t make his allegiance obvious. In fact, he does his best to blend in with the locals. He aims to eavesdrop and overhear as much as he can. He hears the preacher of Justicia prattle on with his righteous accusations, but it bothers Dufgal very little. After all, he figures the Hirotians’ sinful ways is as good as any reason he can think to explain the mess their in.

Aldric strides out into the morning air, head held high and regal. He brings with him the ceremonial wolf spear that hangs above the mantle, Pelagia's marked oar in the other. Though the spear is merely symbolic, he understands the power of symbols, and he proudly displays the thrice-blessed wave of Pelagia on the oar in close proximity to it. He thumps them against the ground as he walks, and continues to do so as he stands in observance.

He stares at the so-called Justican priest the entire time, judging silently and from a stance that conveys utter superiority. The thumping does not drown his words, but it is loud enough that the crowd can feel it over top of his words, reminding them of the rumours that have no doubt been spreading through the town of last night's victory over the moon beast.

Anora allows herself to be used, and seen, as a crutch for the beggar magician, who had blinded the beast the night before and secured their escape.

It’s all she can do to keep her mouth shut as the priest goes on with his remonstrations. Was it not Anora herself that had warned the others to keep quiet and make themselves small? She wouldn’t be tempted at the first hurdle…

Aldric's arrival draws attention as he walks and thumps the spear and oar. He garners looks from the townsfolk, from several of the helmed Thegns, and especially from the balding, white-robed Justician priest. The proselytizing, aging cleric directs his stern, hawk-like glare at the other holy man as he makes his way through the crowd, making a bee-line towards the interloper.

"Justicia's scales have been tipped! Her mercy is at an end for Hirot and the cesspool of sinners that congregate here! The Hound is the sign and the will of unhappy gods! If you covet your neighbor's goods, his wife, his daughters -- those sins are seen, and weigh against you! Forsake your material wants, your lewd longings!"

The Jarl and his advisor finish descending from the great hall and begin making their way to the platform at the center of the market square just as the priest marches up to confront Aldric, pushing through the crowd. "And what nonsense is this? I am Father Beacom, Justicar, and I know a worshipper of a false god when I see one! Heretic!"

By now, Dufgal has slipped into the crowd and well blended in. Anora and Ty still stand out like sore thumbs, but almost all eyes turn to Aldric and Beacom. Red-faced and angry, Morgan prepares to unleash a response towards the priest if the Waveborn doesn't have one...

Trying to position himself where the most useful gossip might be, Dufgal starts feeling overwhelmed. He takes a moment to close his eyes to reduce the stimuli incoming. His ears sharpen and he starts moving towards the more excited sounding voices.

"The only thing the people here covet is for their neighbor’s name to come out of the hat, and not their own." Anora mutters darkly to the elf on her arm.

"If Wee Tocs is right in his suspicions, then Father Beacom's name was never in the hat to start with," Ty murmurs back to Anora.

Come to that, where is the human boy? Without leaving his place, or the scant cover that Anora's arm and hairdo might provide, the elf peers about the crowd in search of his young informant. It's probably a forlorn hope to spy the human child in such a throng-- unless, of course, Wee Tocs has positioned himself to keep an eye on them as well. Perhaps some hope is there, after all.

As the priests have their confrontation, and as Dufgal mingles and Ty searches the crowd for the boy he spoke with last night, Morgan Haverson is suddenly before Anora and the blindfolded beggar. She glances at the Jarl, worried he will soon be in place to address the crowd, then hastily but lowly says to Ty, "I seen what you did last night. With the colored lights. You blinded the Hound! That was some kind of magic, wasn't it? Do you know more?!"

Some distance away, in the middle of a throng of people, Dufgal hears that the people of Hirot are terrified, and they are angry. There's no one common refrain: people are upset about the prior night's killings, they are angry that the chosen sacrifice still lives while others are dead, they are fearful their own name is about to be drawn, and they are worried that the Hound will now be back to its old ways -- assaulting the village nightly.

Eagle-eyed, Dufgal also spots two people of interest in the crowd. (Anora the Blue spots them as well, but being alongside Ty, she is occupied with Morgan's question at the moment.) Near the southwestern edge if the market square, a bent and stooped woman with wild white hair watches the proceedings from a distance, and from the comfort of what looks like a large, upholstered chair. The second individual the thief and Anora spy is less noticeable: a figure hides in the hedges that line the north side of the Wolf-Spear. It appears someone intends to observe the lottery without anyone noticing their presence...

Having learned quite young that playing dumb can be very smart, Dufgal deftly approaches the figure crouched in the hedge and whispers, "perfect hiding spot" and offers a wink for emphasis. He then proceeds to settle in and watch the fireworks show.

He figures that the others will have more interest in the old crone as he expects that is who he spotted. Dufgal believes in being in the right place at the right time to happen upon answers rather than using interrogation techniques that force out answers.

"Pelagia!" Beacom howls, clearing the crowd around him in a circle for some distance as he confronts Aldric, not shrinking from the raised spear.

"That brine-licking whore has no power here! Fool! Why have you come here? Do you seek to rob me of my congregation? Is it you behind these horrors that have befallen our village? Do you tempt my flock?!"

Before Aldric can properly answer, a hoarse voice booms across the square, silencing almost all present. It is a voice the travelers have heard before, on the road when they first met the Jarl and his men.

"Silence, you twat of a priest!" Jarl Griegor thunders, stepping up and onto the raised wooden platform at the center of the market, huffing and grimacing at the effort. "Hold your tongue or I'll have it cut from your head! Your frigid bitch of a goddess pays no mind to this place, or to you! We've no time for your drivel -- the Hound has murdered again, and tonight we will feed the thing to keep it sated!"

Behind the bearded, barreled-chested man, Sylle Ru climbs onto the platform as well, where he walks towards the large wooden lockbox that many in the crowd stare fearfully at. The seer points then, at Morgan as she stands before Ty and Anora.

"Trollop!" he hisses after the Jarl nods at him, permitting him to go on. "You were meant to be that sacrifice last night. Your firm flesh was meant to fill the beast's belly. Instead--"

"Instead four of us lie dead!" the Jarl bellows, red-faced. "Including Nothan the Younger! My master of the watch and as fine a man as I knew here in his godsforsaken place!"

One of Ru's hands rests atop the strongbox as his gaze fixes the tavern wench to her spot. "What happened, Morgan Haverson? Why is it you stand here, while those four lie there, in pieces... in tatters?"

The barmaid with the dark braids does not shy from answering. She does not look afraid as she puts her shoulders back and chin high. "Lloré died in my place!" she cries, her voice edged with anger and anguish. "You plan is folly! The thing takes who it wants, whether they are trussed and helpess or no!"

No expert in subterfuge, Dufgal just answers the question fairly straight, hoping for straight truth in kind. "I’se no one of means, but my Lady is quite important and we’se ‘ers by contract."

"Contract?!" the man says, keeping his voice down despite his eyes alighting. "Are you monster-hunters then, paid to slay the Hound that plagues our town?!"

Dufgal paused for a moment to relish how cool it sounded. He even considered lying just to prolong the fantasy. But he was a simpleton who didn’t want to keep track of lies. He found the truth actually was easier. "more like protection service than anythin’ as heroic as slayers. What’s about you then?"

Emboldened by Morgan’s resistance, Anora takes the bait. She had watched as the man had dragged himself up to his spot, the efforts of simply walking taking its toll.

"What better meal than a brave man; graced with such long life that he is weary from a simple morning’s walk? So that the young might go free and live beyond the horrors of the hound."

A hush falls sharply over the crowd after Anora speaks, and one of the Jarl’s crow-footed eyes twitches. He makes a growl deep in his chest, almost like a burp, and then he’s coming forward, exhaling the stench of his breakfast as he walks to the very edge of the raised wooden platform. His feet thump and the whole structure strains and groans beneath the man’s weight, such as it is from his appetites and his creaking armor. When he comes to stand directly before Anora, he looms over her, lords over her.

"And who are you to enjoy the comforts and protections of my walls, and then dribble such bile from your lips, woman?" he booms. Pointing at Morgan, he bears his teeth and adds, "And this one, this little whore? She should be dead!"

Morgan’s eyes are glassy and welling with tears as she stares at the man, fury sparking inside her. Her chest trembles as she draws a breath and speaks.

"I am no whore," she says quietly but fiercely, loud enough only for those immediately around her to hear. "And you, personally, know this to be true, Jarl."

From behind the village’s headman, nearer to the locked trunk, Sylle Ru clears and raises his voice.

"They do not know our customs, Jarl. They are outlanders." Despite his master turning to look at him, clearly irritated, the seer goes on. "As sound as your logic may seem to you, Anora the Blue, ‘tis not logic we abide, but Fate. The three Fates themselves must chose our sacrifice. This is what angered the Hound. This is why there was a bloodletting."

Nearby, Father Beacom clucks and gnashes his teeth in frustration, knowing the sins of the citizenry are responsible for everything that’s happened, but seems to know better than to interrupt the proceedings further.

"Aye," the Jarl says in his hoarse baritone. "And we will let them choose again — and suffer their choice!"

Glowering, at Anora, but also at Morgan, Ty, and Aldric, he nods his head slowly. "We have placed your names in the box too, strangers. And we will abide the name chosen by The Fates."

Dufgal sees and hears that the drama on the village stage was carrying on as he expected, he remains much more interested in the conversation at hand. "hehe, actually I’se figured that out last night when I grabbed it off the wall mount. I’se athinking to use it against that beast. I’se wish I’se could have the real one. Could you’se tell me where?"
And then after a moment,
"what's a skald anyways? We’se don’t has those where I’se from"