DCC DotSK: Act 1-3

Aldric contemplates his flock’s eagerness to "fall" upon the Jarl, but he suspects they’d only get themselves killed. And then what? He wasn’t opposed to putting their fervour to good use, of course, but he needed to think it through carefully, find their best use.

When Catkins returns, Aldric startles slightly, instinctively bringing his oar around and making a warding sign with his hands. That crazy girl and her unsettling, toothy grin were disconcerting on a good day and outright terrifying the rest of the time. Still, as she speaks, he regains his composure. Her intentions, at least for the moment, seem not immediately bent on murder or dismemberment—probably.

Addressing the wild child, he raises his now-healed four-fingered hand, a testament to the miraculous power of Pelagia. "A minor setback, child. You have the teeth of a shark, I’ll give you that. But you’re not stopping me from meddling anymore. What’s changed?"

Regardless of her response, he presses on with an offer. "You know, sharks are beloved by Pelagia. Someone with teeth like that—and the attitude to match—could go far in her service."

Aldric shushes Catkins as Anora boldly demands more of the Jarl. After, Aldric is inspired to push further. "Never hurt to ask" was a thing people said, but they didn't usually involve asking a man dripping with blood after having just decapitated a sorcerer of some power. Nonetheless, the time for timidness had long past.

"Men may be helpful, as we dispatch the creature, yes. And even more crucial is to pledge tribute to my Goddess, Pelagia. You can bank on the fact that she alone among the heavens hates this beast, this hound of Shul's, and it would be a wise investment to pay her tribute before we depart. It is only through Pelagia's will that we will get this task done."

Anora hides her displeasure as Aldric makes his plea for Pelagian converts. She had just been concocting a way to bring Justicia and her domain to the fore of the conversation…

Tyravasiel follows the mob into the Jarl's great hall. He meanders between the irate villagers, surveying the walls and tables for any hint of rare treasure.

It isn't long before disappointment, even distaste, contorts his lips below the ratty blindfold he wears. The elfin lady who pursues him would scarcely consider her honor redeemed by the tribute of a barbarian king's drinking horn. Perhaps if there were some story attached to it, but what tale could Jarl Griegor possibly tell that would not be sordid and grasping, as human tales tend to be?

Even the lord's basket of jewels wouldn't be likely to buy the flower lady's peace, supposing Ty could come at it.

The elf heaves a little sigh. He will have to wait and watch for finer fare to present itself.

"And what story will the men of this hall write for themselves?" Anora calls out, intent on not letting the Jarl wiggle out of cosmic justice.

"Whatever tale these men write, Anora, they'll want that bitch at their back. The Bitch."

Aldric steps forward, the oar in his hand scraping against the flagstones like a warning growl. He did not like the way the Jarl dismissed Pelagia one bit, and his ire grown into a raging tempest in his heart. He leans into its weight, his body a crooked defiance, and his voice cuts through the hall like a blade.

"You're right, Jarl Gregior. Pelagia has no love for Hirot. She doesn’t covet your throne, your barmaids, or your rituals. She doesn’t care how you grovel, posture, or pray, or piss."

His tone shifts, sharp and scathing, as he slams the oar’s end against the stone.

"But let me make one thing crystal clear for every soul in this hall. What does the Bitch Queen want? Pelagia. Fucking. Hates. This. Hound."

He spits the words like venom, his eyes scanning the room with wild fervour.

"She wants it destroyed. Erased. Because it reeks of the curse'd moon, the vile spawn of Shul. That beast that tore through your kin—and it’s that fucker's handiwork. And while Pelagia may not give two shits for your lives, she burns to defile him, to rip Shul from his silvery throne and shove his glowing arrogance up his gods-damned lunar ass!"

The vulgarity rolls out like a storm tide, crashing against the stunned silence of the hall.

"Look at me, Jarl."

Aldric’s voice drops, hoarse and ragged, and he shifts to let his frailty show: the broken priest leaning heavily on his oar, his missing finger stark against his glistening, water-worn skin.

"I tried to warn this town, to make Hirot heed her will. But I failed. And Pelagia does not forgive failure. Look at what she’s done to me—these curses, these afflictions—they are her judgment. Why? Because..."

He straightens with sudden, burning purpose, his voice swelling to fill every corner of the hall.

"BECAUSE THE BITCH QUEEN WANTS THIS HOUND DEAD!"

His words roll like thunder over the assembly. Then he leans forward, his eyes blazing with zeal.

"And her price must be paid. Eighty-eight gold coins, Jarl. One for each of the constellations that guide her mariners across the endless waves. And, she demands stalwart men-at-arms! Angry, vengeful men who have lost their loved ones to its jaws, that hate the Hound as much as Pelagia. Blood and gold, to show her that this town is serious about killing this Hound once and for all! That is what she demands of Hirot."

He pauses, letting his final words settle like an anchor dropped into the depths.

"Do this, and you may yet win her favour. Refuse... and may the gods have mercy on your souls. Because the Hound will not."

Ty narrows his hidden eyes at the Jarl. He shares Anora's suspicion that Griegor did not take revenge upon Sylle Ru, but rather silenced the wizard so that Ru couldn't speak of Griegor's own complicity in the lottery scheme. After all, the Jarl's twisted 'Fate' sent Morgan Haverson to the sacrificial stones, and it was Griegor whose advances that comely flyspeck rejected. Not Sylle Ru's.

Still, the game now seems to be that they will enlist Griegor's aid against the hound. Tyravasiel shoots a glance toward Morgan, then her relatives Broegan and Dolsten, to gauge their reactions to this congealing alliance. They may serve as a sort of bellwether for the wronged folk of Hirot.

It's an impressive speech, Aldric's. Impassioned, intense -- rousing. This hatred between Pelagia and Shul, the ocean goddess demanding the head and the hide of the Hound, it spills and froths from the priest like so much bubbling seafoam. The crowd is nodding, fists are clenching. The fresh-hatched followers of the Sea-Bitch rally behind their leader, ecstatic at the dramatic picture he paints.

But Jarl Griegor's reaction is not what anyone expects. He listens, grim-faced and intently to the drowned priest as he goes on -- and on -- glaring and brooding, mentally chewing on what he is hearing. The broad-shouldered, big-bellied man smiles when there is mention of coins -- golden ones, no less, and eighty eight of them.

"A tidy sum for a beggar priest," the Jarl growls hoarsely, his voice like two huge pieces of cold iron being ground together. There's something wet in his lungs; the man isn't well. That's proven again as he limps towards Aldric, leaving his pusblood stains on the floor. "Is that it? You've arranged all this," he gestures, "to ask me for eighty eight gold coins?!"

The room is silent now... the Jarl has the floor.

"You're a fool. Shul holds no sway here. The Hound did not pounce forth from some crevice on the moon! It's a demon, you halfwit! A beast sewn together by the strands of pure chaos! My ancestors fought such things, but they were young and hale, and had many wolf spears with them! This one has arisen -- we do not know why. But let there be no doubt: you are far from your sea, from the influence of Pelagia."

Somewhere, Aldric hears a quiet voice during all this at his side.

"Well," Catkins says in a mouse-whisper, "we was tryin' to rob the fat one. I was just 'sposed to keep yous busy. I can probly find yours finger if you like."

The distraction is short-lived, as Morgan steps to the fore, more willing it seems to confront the thickly bearded chieftain than her father, Dolsten, or anyone else.

"You're saying you did not know that the drawing of the lots was false? That Sylle Ru alone machinated it all?"

Saying this, the brunette has moved into the central part of the hall, alone, to stand between the two sides, and in front of the towering Jarl. "You're saying your advisor steered you to a course of murder, and you didn't see it?"

Murmurs and quietly uttered concerns circulate about the room as the Jarl considers the slight girl in front of him and his already bloodied sword. The commotion in the passage that leads back outside increased; those standing near the back can hear that Father Beacom is coming, and that his own voice is raised and urgent.

Ignoring that, the Jarl cocks his huge head at Morgan.

"Are you calling your Jarl a murderer, you lice-ridden whore?"

His eyes narrow. "Return to your father's, Morgan Haverson. Hope there that the Hound does not find you. That Beacom's laments about sins drawing the Beast are untrue."

Morgan stands defiantly, but also trembles slightly as the sword comes up to rest on Griegor's shoulder. She is ready to bolt, just as he looks ready to strike.

"My Thegns," the big man says instead of lopping off the girl's head, "It sounds as though a hunt for the Hound is forming, to be led by this water-logged priest here. Which of you will join him?"

For a beat, none move a muscle nor utter a word, so then the Jarl continues. "Kreig, Clohn, Haelf, remain with me. Guard the hall. You others ... Ofenloch, Haedrick, Orioc -- join this ambitious hunt. Slay the unslayable if you can."

Then, turning to look at Aldric and Anora, the burly man with the bad leg points at them with his blade. "Know that fighting the Hound of Hirot angers it. Makes it wild for blood. Fail at this and the people of this town will suffer for it. I will see any such debts repaid, be sure of that."

Wordlessly, Kreig, Clohn and Haelf fall in at the Jarl's sides, exchanging glances with one another.

Anora sneers as the Jarl makes commands of her and her troupe.

"If the beast was drawn to sin, it would find its way into this hall before all others in Hirot."

Doubly so is she irritated at the threat he levels at them if they were to cause the village any harm.

"You’ll repay any suffering brought to Hirot?" she scoffs. "And you the chief designer of the people’s misery! Slink back into your shadows, squelching, sickly lord!

If we succeed, let none of the glory be yours. If we fail, be grateful that you’ll be the hound’s last victim, when you should have been its first." she says, letting her scoff turn to a laugh.

Aldric's hands clench the oar so tight it bends, ignoring Catkins' confession. Instead, he is incensed by the nerve of this royal cunt! Should he remain silent, this struggle of wills could extinguish his credibility with the townsfolk, undermine his ability to recruit new followers.

"If the Jarl is too miserly to pay the symbolic price to prove Hirot is worthy of Pelagia's mercy, it will fall upon the townsolk, who have already shouldered the entire burden of this disaster."

Aldric will instruct his new followers to obtain the wealth needed for the 88 gold price, although more is certainly acceptable. He will also explain that where the coins come from or how they obtain them is not an issue, only that the fee is paid by sundown. He will also instruct them to spread word of the Jarl's miserly behaviour, and to refer to the campaign as "The Jarl's Generosity Fund."

Anora's words rile up the crowd again, and there's a moment when weapon hafts and grips are grasped tightly, and when it seems like half the village will descend screaming on the Jarl, his three Thegns and his hunters. Their numbers would surely see them victorious, but the price would be dear, of that the blue sorceress had little doubt.

When Aldric adds his piece, fueling the fire, the Jarl roars and swings his sword whistling about his head, making the advancing mob hesitate.

"Fucking feeble-minded -- YOU WILL FIND NO GOLD IN THIS TOWN, YOU SEA-ADDLED FUCK! These people trade in chickens, in nails, in beer, in rabbits taken from the wood!" Spit flies from the Jarl's mouth as he bellows, and his face reddens. He has had very nearly enough.

"Begone from my hall. All of you! Those who live through this hunt, through the night -- my doors will be open to you. But not so long as you have thrown in with these quacksalvers!"

Bows creak behind the Jarl's seat; Kreig and Halfson and Clohn stand ready with their bared steel.

Orioc comes forward then, the Thegn who once spoke something resembling sense to the strangers. The man has a calmness that steadies the room. His hand is on his sword, but the weapon is not drawn as he comes before his leader.

"A word, Jarl, as the hall clears." Turning to Anora and Aldric, he raises a bushy eyebrow, showing that he expects they will cooperate.

Griegor seethes, but gestures for the man to go on once his followers find their way out.

The man who has always felt off center finds himself in the middle of a tension that can only be resolved by ridding this town of the hound. He finds his resolve and swears to bring the head of the warhammer down on its skull, even if it costs him his life. What was his life worth anyway? It seems already forfeit in his home village. Even if the barmaid was there waiting for him, his happiness would not be safe. And here in Hirot, what has he done? He has made enemies of the thegns and the riffraff alike. And the priest of Justicia once the truth of his theft is revealed. However, all of this may be forgiven if he is the one who brings an end to this torment. Yes, let them all talk. But he will take action. When the time is right. He will act.

Dufgal’s daydream lasted only a few seconds, as he found himself on another hero fantasy like he often did as a boy. One time, he found a way to convince the mayor’s daughter to marry him and he became the head of Garion’s Folly. He renamed it of course. Dufgal’s Glory. And he lived happily ever after. That was a favorite daydream that he would visit often and add chapters.

He snaps to attention when the jarl’s sword whistles overhead. Dufgal looks back and forth between Anora and Aldric, wondering if they realized that they were working out their divergent ambitions at the most inopportune moment. He contemplated how it might play out if he was made to choose sides. Aldric had been good to him, but clearly for his own gain. Anora had seemed to appreciate his abilities, but still consider him expendable. Ty, the first elf Dufgal had ever seen, at least had been completely transparent in his disdain for humans in general. It wasn’t even personal to Dufgal. That brought him a strange comfort, actually. What an odd crew that was assembled. Certainly none would have predicted heroism. Well, perhaps his daydream was prophetic. Maybe he would have to find it within himself. And maybe he would.

Fortunately, most of Tyravasiel-Llir's mounting dismay is hidden by his blindfold.

What does he care for the Pelagian's eighty-eight gold coins? Of what concern is it to him whether the unwashed masses of Hirot find shelter with their new Headwoman, or perish in the night beneath the hound's slavering jaws? Rich or poor, win or lose, all of these mayflies will be gone in the blink of Tyravasiel's pure green eye. And he will still have the Dread Lady to contend with.

The one thing approaching a treasure that Ty has found in Hirot is Morgan Haverson herself. And she now stands exposed to the bows of the Jarl's hunters.

As the standoff hangs suspended, the blind beggar ambles up and gently takes the barmaid by the elbow. "You have said bravely, madam," he assures her in an undertone meant for her ears alone. "Now there are weapons raised. Leave the rest to us."

Or rather, to Dufgal and Aldric and the loyal thegns. For Ty himself will guide Morgan off of the ledge she's placed herself upon between the contending camps. He means to lead her behind at least a few of the townsfolk, so that they'll bear the brunt of any arrows shot her way.

Aldric is already leaving, ready to enact his plan to gather Pelagia's quadruple tithe to regain his power. He was in no shape to take on the hound, and needed to pay. But why not kick at the rotten foundations of this Jarl's rule while he gathers his strength? He reminds himself that even an impotent man can be dangerous, perhaps especially so, if pushed. Just by openly defying the Jarl, Anora and Aldric have demonstrated his weakness. Perhaps once they have destroyed the hound, the waves of popular tide will crash down upon the man.

What was his plan for the town? Surely he would not rile the town. Aldric had need of worshippers, not responsibilities. Anora was likely tied to her wizardrly order, and Ty would never bother. Perhaps Dufgal would enjoy ruling here? He was an almost local man with much ability, and the necessary ruthlessness. And having a friend as a Jarl could be quite useful for his true goal - to build the mountaintop temple to Pelagia.

Anora is tempted to draw her sword and so end the Jarl here and now. She had the numbers, and more importantly she had the right of the matter.

But then the Jarl’s man seems to ask for her cooperation, and so she relents, and draws the people of Hirot around her so that they may leave together! The Jarl had been shown to be an empty fool!

He couldn’t deal with the hound, and Anora the Blue was a good deal more wiley and resourceful than this moon dog!

It's not so much a retreat from the Jarl's great hall as it is a loud and purposeful withdrawal. A point has been made. Anora has the numbers -- had a melee broken out, the Jarl and his supporters would surely have come out on the losing end. But the price would have been dear -- at a time when every able body in the town was needed. The Hound's nightly attack loomed. If they were going to fight -- or hunt -- the thing, there would need to be coordination amongst uninured townsfolk.

Father Beacom's advance into the hall was reverse by the flow of villagers coming out, so the strangers find the priest and his two silent acolytes waiting for them when they emerge back out into waning sunlight. Mere hours remain until dusk, and Anora, Aldric, Dufgal and Tyravasiel-Llir immediately find themselves surrounded by more than half of Hirot's survivors. Among them are the apprentice girl who was to help Dufgal find a haft for the hammer, Wee Tocs, Lloré, Dolsten, Ofenloch and Haedrick. And all of Aldric's flock, plus bitey Catkins.

Broegan comes forward to try and comfort and quiet his daughter: the tall elf had to remove the girl bodily from the hall, so angry was she at the notion of Sylle Ru being solely to blame for the false lot-drawings. She'd squawked at the headman almost comically as her feet brushed the floor while she was whisked away, out of sword reach and bow-shot.

As the last of the Hirotians exit the building, Orioc stands in the entrance, waiting to hear what plans will be made. The town's man-bun-wearing skald voices the old Thegn's question.

"What now, brave heroes? Will you hunt and slay the wolf where none could before?!"

But before any of the four can think of answering, the sour-faced priest shouts aloud to seize the attention of the crowd.

"Repent, all of you! Miscreants! Confess to me and Justicia will absolve you of your transgressions -- she alone can be your salvation!"

Making eye contact with Anora, Beacom nods at her politely as a twisting shudder comes over his features, a twitch that lets the woman know he is still, in at least some minor way, her thrall.

His finger comes up when he regains his composure. "But first! There is -- there is a thief in our midst! A holy artifact has been taken from the shrine! Justicia will offer no protection without it!"

The man's eyes are squarely on Dufgal, on Aldric, on Ty.

"Step forward, vile robber, and return the relic. Then face your punishment!"

Once more Ty's blindfold serves him well, for he can't help stealing a sidelong glance at Dufgal.

The elf knows the he himself did not steal the flyspeck priest's holy thing. The haughty Anora would not stoop to theft. Father Aldric makes such a spectacle of himself, everywhere he goes, that he simply wouldn't have the privacy to steal anything. But Dufgal-- who has a habit of disappearing and reappearing at the most opportune times-- is another story. Ty wouldn't put it past the burly human to have lightened the spiritual load of Justicia's church.

Not that it matters one whit to Ty. He's simply curious about that's been lifted.

So the beggar clears his phlegmy throat and wheedles, "Reverend master, might you be more specific in your accusation? What is it that has been stolen from you? You say 'artifact,' but as we all know, there are artifacts and there are artifacts. Mighty Justicia would scarcely begrudge the loss of a fancy candlestick or the knucklebones of some local hermit. We are strangers in your village, and pray that you will enlighten us."