DCC DotSK: Act 1-3

DUFGAL

The auburn-haired teen turns and screws up her face a bit. "I ain't tryin' to steal your fing, sir. I'm tryin' to help you make it a proper weapon to crush that unholy fucking wolf's skull. It's killed scores of us you know, includin' me master." The girl's face is pained as she adds, "It has to stop."

Dufgal looks her straight, then tilts his head and looks her slantways. His head starts to hurt so he closes his eyes and says, "I’se just tryin’ to be thorough is all. I’se don’t know anything about anyone ’round here."
He pauses and realizes that he’s teared up a bit on account he just accused a right helpful girl in the midst of grief and fear and desperation.
"I’se awfully saddened to hear that you lost yer boss an’ all. I’se didn’t mean anythin’ I’se said. Let’s get this weapon made right agin an’ we’se gonna send that foul hound back to hell!"

"And then the Jarl and his men saw an opportunity to be exploited." Anora goes on, on what she assumes is the natural follow on from Dolsten’s tale.

"Well…" she says, beginning to sound a little frayed and exasperated. "We can only deal with the matter before us for now. Wield the mob while it’s willing. I’m sure they’ll have spent themselves long before the beast comes on tonight. Let us deal with those that saw an opportunity, and then deal with the opportunity itself, Dolsten."

Ty's cropped ears perk at the mention of relics. Perhaps there's something to be gained from this miserable errand after all!

"This tomb of Ulfheonar," the elf cuts in. "You know where it is? If the town's curse started there, then perhaps we must return there in order to set things to rights."

Tyravasiel pauses. Then, with a touch of manufactured compassion, he adds, "I think it would go some way towards assuaging your guilt, Dolsten, if you were to come with us. You might also recruit your burly brother Broegan."

Whatever the threat that might have done for Jenks' scoundrels, Ty figures the more targets who are not Ty himself, the better.

Aldric is elated that his new flock is overflowing with enthusiasm for their new-found faith (snicker!). As much as Aldric might want to rest on his laurels (after all, it had been a hard day, and creating so many ), he knows the flame is but a flickering candle in their hearts; he needs to deliver a true miracle to cement their passions into the pure zeal Pelagia demands of her servants.

And that was only going to happen with the death of that fucking hound.

Aldric looked up from the frolic in front of him to see where his companions had gotten to. A lot of what had happened, he had to admit, had come from their doing, and he was but riding the crest of their wave. Best to keep going with that momentum! Where did they go? Ah, is that Dufgal in the distance? Who is that he is chatting with?

"A moment, my brothers and sisters!" Aldric calls out to his flock - ahh, that feels good to say out loud. Oh, but how can he tell who these peasants are that are his followers? He pauses before leaving to meet with Dufgal, and raises his oar. "Followers of Pelagia, this is the thrice-cresting wave, the symbol of Pelagia! Wear it proudly on your person, so that we might know each other, and that Pelagia might spare you in the coming chaos."

And with that, he wades through the invisible waters to approach Dufgal. "My friend, what a turnabout you and the others have instigated in this town. I always knew you were a top-notch lad. Well done!"

DUFGAL & ALDRIC

Leaving his new congregation as they finish with their pissing and moaning, Aldric agrees to meet with them later on at the Wolf-Spear. For now, though, he moves in his sloshing way, headed for where he sees Dufgal and a young woman leaving the market square.

---

"Through here," the smith's apprentice says, leading Dufgal into a shop, sliding past the hides that hang, acting as a door. Inside, a now-absent carpenter has crafted and racked a great many things -- including a number of axe handles that look like they might be fitted to the hammer.

Aldric, though normally vigilant, has a lot going on in his life right now.

Anora began to feel her temper rising! She was being pulled in several directions at once. Having avoided being pulled apart for Hirot, she was in danger of the same by Hirot.

ALDRIC

Dufgal and the villager leading him make good time — they have a lead, and they outpace Aldric’s sodden gait. By the time he reaches the edge of the market and moves into the alleyway they disappeared into, they have already turned down some other path or entered through the rear door of one of the buildings backing up to the alley. There! Does he glimpse—

But no sooner is the priest able to spy what might be a door closing when a girl’s voice calls out to him. A strained, high-pitched voice that grates the ear.

"Why hallos!" a child of perhaps twelve says from the stack of empty crates she’s climbed up on. Nimble thing she must be, and Aldric sees she’s skinny, all bony knees and elbows as she crouches.

"I’m Catkins. What’s your name?" she asks, her eyes bugging and rotten teeth showing as she speaks and grins disturbingly.

DUFGAL

Collecting a few wooden axe and maul handles from where a number of them are piled, the friz-headed, stoutly-made apprentice turns to Dufgal when she has three large hafts in her strong hands.

"Put that hammer head on there, on that bench. I’ll see which one o’these fits best. Hopefully one will work. That looks like quite the weapon. Where’d you find it?"

Ty catches himself before looking up to gauge the position of the sun, but it's a near thing. Perhaps, he reasons, the revolution they've incited won't leave them time to loot the tomb of this long-dead, flyspeck chief before set of sun. If so, then they'll need to make other provisions for the coming of the Hound of Hirot.

"I hear the tumult around us, Dolsten," Ty observes. "We dare not leave Hirot at this moment of peril, when the people are wroth, the Jarl and his toady desperate, the armed thegns doubtless torn between obedience to lord and kin. For now, order must be restored... and justice, done. But when the time comes, I trust that you will lead the way to Ulheonar's tomb. And remember there the lives that have been lost to your folly."

Dufgal, still hearing Aldric’s mandate to keep the artifact safe and hidden ringing in his mind, decided to sidestep her probing curiosity.
"Uh, yes, one of dem oughtta fit. Mighty big ‘o you’se for this. I’se gonna tell your townsfolk that you’se helped fix the weapon that felled the hound!"

DUFGAL

Lifting her eyebrows, the unnamed NPC who may die at any point since she doesn't have a name gestures at the work table with her eyes. "Go on. Put it up on the bench so I can test the fit, then. I might have to rasp the closest haft, shim it -- to get it to fit right. You won't want it flyin' off while you're facin' that thing."

Waiting a beat longer for Dufgal to produce the goods, she adds, "Do you think it'll work? Do you think it can slay the beast?"

The thief with his most valuable stolen bounty gently places the warhammer head on the bench and simply shrugs, "I’se expect it will."

AT THE WOODSMITH'S (DUFGAL)

The apprentice smith's eyes light when Dufgal produces the impressive warhammer head. The thing shines in the sunlight streaming into the shop, almost seeming to throw off radiance itself. It's a work of art, and the girl waits a moment, swallows, then approaches it carefully.

"It's beautiful," she whispers to the thief, running her rough, blistered fingers over it's silvery, intricately carved surface.

"It is at that," a voice says from the shadows, from an alcove that Dufgal should have been suspicious of. It's a voice that's been ground down by age, by hard living, by mouthfuls of gravel. It belongs to a man the big sneak hasn't seen before, a man with stringy black hair, greasy facial hair and sunken cheeks.

"Where'd you get it, boy?" he asks as his companion steps from the shadows, a younger and more able-bodied looking man. That man fixes a dark glare on the warhammer; a longknife gleams in his hand.

"The church?" the second man says in answer. His voice is softer. Less grating.

"Look at it... it looks like the hammer the priest's bitch-goddess has in the glass."

Dufgal, startled if not entirely surprised, quickly scans the layout of the workshop. He can’t help but be impressed by the ratty-haired accomplice. In another circumstance, Dufgal might even admire her ploy. But no time for that. What he needs is to get himself and, hopefully, the weapon out of there!