* 7th Pflugzeit, after dark *
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| Black Cap |
The streets were dark, shadows from the dim lanterns casting vague and menacing shadows as they dances across the towering buildings that seemed to block out the sky as they overhung the cobblestone ground. The six travelers who traversed the winding paths and walkways keeping to the darkest shadows, attempted to avoid unwanted attention from the numerous eyes and ears that suffocated Marienburg. To their left they walked past the long. unadorned wall that separated
Deedesveld Cemetary from the rest of the district.
The canals that flowed like a strange form of separate set of roadways caused the group to cross narrow bridges and ankle-deep water from time to time. The neighborhood was in decline, a once thriving city hub, now little more than a dwelling for the working class as most of the former glory of markets had been moving north, across the River Rijk. This area was now littered with the constant activities factions within the Tilian immigrants, all the isles of
Kruiersmuur seemed to house a separate minority. To the south, a community of Brettonian decent, to the west, halflings thrived, bordering the province of
Doodkanaal, where the real slums began.
As the travelers moved silently northward, towards the famous clocktower of
Tarnopol, through a small alleyway. Two large and hulking shadows blocked the way. Undeterred, one of the group took charge and moved towards the shadowy figures, muttering words of authority and recognition. Within moments, the shadows had returned to the small alcoves from which they had appeared, allowing the
group to continue on their way.
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| Armand Santa'Ana |
Passing the courtyard in front of the clock tower, another group emerged, walking two by two, the black hats, guards of the city watch, all dressed in random garb, their large, floppy black hats the only identifying feature. Attention the group had been trying to avoid, the six men disappeared into the darkest of shadows as the Black Hats continued their patrol, all silent but for the occasional murmur of discomfort from the bitter chill in the air.
As the patrol past, the six re-emerged, disappearing down another alley before arriving at the docks on the
Southbank of
Suiddock. The travelers came to a standstill in the shadow of a small sail barge. A hooded figure emerged from the dark, his hood clouding his face, all but a long silver beard and the faint glint of the lantern light shining in his squinted eyes. The six quickly boarded the boat.
Armand looked back at
Jormund, who, with a slight hesitation, took a large step to get onto the it. When he woke up yesterday morning, Armand could not have foreseen he'd be here tonight...
* 6th Pflugzeit, close to noon *
Jormund was running late. After the unfortunate loss of his family Inn, another opportunity had chosen to present itself on the northern coast of Suiddock. The short legs of the dwarf, coupled with his, at times, poor sense of direction seeing the minutes pass, his appointment disappearing further and further into the distance. A shortcut, down a back alley to save some time being his only option.
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| Jormund Thorekdan |
As he turned a dark corner, five figures appeared in his view, four men surrounding a firth, Jormund knew what this was, a shakedown.
The four men, dressed poorly in dark clothing, surrounded a smaller man, an Estalian, his garb and accent giving him away.
“That’s a pretty sword,” one of the thugs bellowed. “Let us take care of it for you.”
“Would you like me to show you how to use it?” replied the Estalian, unafraid of the number of men around him.
“You don’t want to get hurt, kid,” spat another of the thugs, clubs and chains becoming visible in their hands.
The Estalian, Armand, wasting no time, drawing his rapier before the thugs could react and slashing at the closest man with a wild and uncontrolled lunge. Expecting the blow, the thug shifted his weight and avoided the strike that was sure to take an eye had he not moved.
Swinging back with his club, the thug struck Armand in the left arm, nearly breaking the bone. Falling to a knee under the force of the strike, Armand lunged again, still unable to make contact.
Jormund began his slow approach, keeping out of sight as the altercation in front of his was within arm’s reach. Another of the thugs swung a club at the downed Estalian, this time however missing his face by mere centimetres as the Estalian predicted the oncoming blow.
A momentary howl of agony filled the air, as one of the thugs to the rear of the Estalian had frozen, a look of terror on his face. As the three others looked at him intently, his body became limp, falling to the rocky ground, revealing the shadowed outline of a Dwarf, bloodied axe in hand.
One of the thugs lunged at the new arrival, striking down at the bald, tattooed head of the stout figure, only to have his strike blocked and the strong fist of the axe-wielder collect his chin and send him back with a violent thud.
The Estalian used the distraction as best he could, slashing at one of his attackers and made contact. However the leather vambraces of the thug proving too strong for the glancing edge of the rapier.
As Jormund approached the remaining thugs, his bloody axe leaving a trail of glistening red on the stony street, two of the thugs turned on their heels and ran.
“Your friends have left you,” Jormand smiled at the remaining thug who had thrown his arm back as Armand had tried to remove it. “Go now or suffer as this man did, only slower.”
Jormund’s thick accent echoed in the ears of the thug who in turn dropped his club and backed away before turning and running into the night.
Armand rose to his feet as Jormund wiped the blood from his axe, “Thank you,” Armand spoke softly, embarrassed at his inability to hold his own, “I should have had them all.”
“You’re welcome lad,” Jormand’s reply was rough, his voice showing his amusement at the Estalian’s beating,” What are you then?”
Armand, still troubled by his terrible performance, “I have been studying swordplay from two of the best in the city, I should have had them all.”
“Swordplay!” Exclaimed Jormund, “Clearly you need to keep practicing son.”
The two continued along the alley together, Jormund jabbing fun at Armand as they exchanged stories of how they came to be in the alley at the same time. Jormund, heading for the Pelican Perch Inn, Armand, with no real destination.
The two arrived at the Pelican Perch, Jormund demanding a large beer for his effort in the rescue of Armand. Taking a seat at a small table currently occupied by a dour figure, Jormand bowed his head in acknowledgement of his tardiness. Armand taking a seat at the bar, ordering for himself and Jormund bottles of ale.
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| Rikkert Bot |
Rikkert was not a man of patience, “Don’t be late again.” The annoyance in his eyes easily spotted by not only Jormund, but anyone who cared to look. “The job is simple, easy cargo transport, sail out, take the contents of the hold, sail back, simple.”
Pointing to the Estalian at the bar, “There was an unexpected delay, he was in my way, well him and his four friends.” Jormund’s lips cracking a slight smile.
“What’s his story?” Rikkert enquired.
“Some form of Estalian Sword, not too impressive though from what I have seen.” Jormund chuckling as he spoke.
Glancing at the table, Armand could see Jormund usher him to the table, beer in hand, he obliged, placing the large stein of beer in front of Jormund.
“You need work?”, spat Rikkert to Armand. The reply coming in the motion of a small nod,
“Be here at seven tomorrow night.
* 7th Pflugzeit, after dark *
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| River Sail Barge |
As the six travellers boarded the barge, Jormund and Armand keeping somewhat close together at the bow of the ship, watching as the currents took hold of the ship as it made its way along the Bruenwasser canal, one of the few canals large enough to accommodate oceanfaring ships. For almost a mile, both sides of the Bruenwasser are lined with docks, warehouses, counting houses, mercantile offices, shipyards, taverns and brothels. This waterfront is Suiddock – the heart of Marienburg, and the crossroads of the world. It is said that everyone and everything that moves into and out of the Old World passes through Suiddock at some point. The hooded figure brandishing the silver beard,
Olaf, was piloting the ship, his knowledge of the waterways proving vital to the navigation of the small canals and waterways. As they made their way west, the saw the shape of Vloedmuur.
* 6th Pflugzeit, around noon *
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| Erasmus 'Ras' Snoeck |
Erasmus Snoek, known to most as Ras was a tall man, his broad chest built solely from years of pulling his ferry across the marshes. His way into Marienberg was from the south. His eyes could not draw their gaze from the Vloedmuur wall that surrounded the city, its 10-meter high barrier seemed like a mountain to Ras, having spent most of his life in the barren and flat marsh lands.
“Easy boy, we are nearly at the gate.” Thiel, the uncle of Ras placed his hand on his shoulder, “We will be inside the wall before you know it.”
“Yes uncle.” Ras replied, his eyes finally shifting to focus on the gate that lay ahead. As the small boat approached the gate, men were busy at work, men in large and floppy black hats, opening the gate for Ras and Thiel to pass through. Their destination, Kruiersmuur, the tavern known as the Rusty Barnacle.
As soon as Ras and Thiel strode inside, the portly man, Sweaty Olaf, stepped from behind the bar to welcome them. Looking around, the windows of the tavern were all boarded up, not a shred of glass to be seen. Ras and Thiel made their way to the bar, people scattered throughout the tavern keeping mostly to themselves as the two men marched through them. Sitting on a stool, a large and powerfully build man, dark hair, beard and sunken eyes that seemed to watch everyone.
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| Sweaty Olaf |
The large bartender usher Thiel to join him at a booth at the far end of the tavern, signalling Ras to stay at the bar as he joined the bartender, Ras stood, uncomfortable and adrift. Glancing to his left, the bearded man was staring at Ras, locking eyes for a few moments, Ras could not hold the gaze, turning away in submission. The bearded man following the direction of Ras, both looking into the booth beyond, seeing both Thiel and the barkeep pointing back at them, both of them.
The bearded man smiled and passed a beer to Ras, “I am Goran, Black Goran, if they are going to talk about us, we might as well talk about them.”
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| 'Black' Goran |
Ras let out a smile of relief, “Ras, nice to meet you Goran,” Ras taking the beer from Goran and gulping it down uncomfortably fast. “What are you doing here?”
“Just doing a few jobs for a friend,” replied Goran, “And you?”
“Same sort of thing, only for my uncle.” Ras motioned towards Thiel. “So what do you do for a living?”
Looking slightly puzzled Goran’s reply was cautious, “I am a retired Marine, but the pension doesn’t pay the bills. How about you?”
“I work the ferry, across the marshes, that’s what I do.”
Thiel called to the two men, Ras and Goran, motioning them over towards the booth. Both springing to life, joining the two occupants of the booth. “Be here at eight tomorrow night."
* 7th Pflugzeit, after dark *
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| Thiel Valk |
As the barge made it’s way past
Rijker’s Isle, the great prison island of Marienburg, Ras and Goran could not help staring at its mighty walls, housing all manner of madness within. Jormund was also curious, yet not curious enough to walk across the deck, his sea legs being new to him, he was not sure if he would walk or fall.
Armand kept his vision fixed forward, the first to spy the large cargo ship off in the distance, joined quickly by Ras who seemed more intrigued by the marsh lands between the two vessels.
Rikkert came to the side of Goran who still kept watch of the mighty walls of the prison, “Sweaty Olaf told me you have been an impressive addition over the last few jobs you did for him, Goran. We may have more for you if everything here goes well.”
Still watching the walls of the prison as they passed by, Goran nodded briefly in response. His eyes finally shifting the large ship that was rapidly getting closer.
* 7th Pflugzeit, just before 8 at night *
The march from the Pelican Perch to the Rusty Barnacle had been easy, the sunset easing their passing as Rikkert, Armand and Jormund made good time. Pushing the door open, Rikkert immediately made his way to the round barkeep. Rikkert turned to Jormund and Armand, pointing to a large booth at the back of the room with three occupants already residing within.
Jormund wasted no time, marching off the join the booth, followed cautiously by Armand. The introductions were brief, Ras, Thiel, Goran, Armand and Jormund all explained their methods of coming to sit at the table. Ras, Goran and Thiel all giggling at the explanation of
Armand’s embarrassment. This obviously annoyed Armand, who was ready to unsheathe his blade in protest, but Rikkert silenced the table by placing large bottles of ale in front of everyone present.
“We are moving shortly, we make for the clocktower, then the boat, any questions?”
* 7th Pflugzeit, after dark *
Light flashes from a lantern aboard the aft of the large Tilian ship came into view as the barge drew closer, signalling the all clear to approach for the transition of Cargo. Within minutes, all seven of the barge’s passengers were standing along the starboard side, ready to begin unloading.
Thiel took the lead, barking orders in what seemed to be some strange negotiation before access was allowed onto the deck of the ship.
Thiel and Ras made their way across first, Goran leaving his crossbow on the barge to free both his hands. Jormund remained on the barge with Olaf and Armand to begin reloading the numerous barrels and boxes into the hold. Not deep enough for a man, however as the crates started moving onto the barge, Jormund would be the final set of hands, loading deep under the deck where standing room only applied to dwarves.
It was no small job, two hours or loading, unloading, re-positioning and dropped containers making the separation of the two vessels more than welcome. Sweat pouring from all who had done the handling of the barrels and crates, alcohol the main quantity, as for the crates, only few knew their contents.
Olaf began the journey back far more cautiously than previously. Choosing narrow and winding canals rather than open water, keeping special care not to come in close view of the scattered Black Caps patrolling shorelines and bridges.
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| River Sail Barge |
As the barge left the Bruynwasser and entered the winding waterways of
Stoessel, a strange sight came into view. The waterway was only wide enough for the barge and possible a sloop, however ahead of the barge, a sloop adrift in the current blocked the way. All seven looked at each other
cautiously, something was wrong.
Ras was the first to speak as the narrow docks along both shore lines became more prominent, “Movement on the right.”
All eyes scanned the shore, Goran, Thiel and Rikkert all moving towards the right hand side of the barge. Armand called out next, “Movement on the left.”
Jormund, and Olaf joined Armand along the left flank, waiting and watching. All members of the crew hunkered down under the railings of the barge, waiting for the ‘would-be’ ambushers to spring their trap.
The familiar sound of bow and string whispered through the air, the bolt of a crossbow slamming into the thick leather of Jormund’s left arm. With a grunt he recoiled and broke the arrow shaft clean off with the blade of his axe. A second whistle, this time Rikkert took a knee as the bolt sliced open his leg. Goran responded in kind, his crossbow returning fire to the right, the shrill scream of the target echoing along the dock.
No one wasted any time, the arrows had flown, no time to reload, enough time to disembark and launch an assault on the archers who had so brashly revealed their intentions. Thiel and Ras left across the railing, Goran in tow as he had dropped his crossbow and drawn his brutish broadsword, Rikkert following slowly, his leg causing him to limp. On the other side, Armand was first across the railing, Olaf, mighty axe in hand followed with Jormund bringing up the rear, his attempts to vault the railing comparing closely to a child trying to climb a tree with branches just out of reach.
As Ras, Goran, Thiel and Rikkert stormed the dock, one assailant lay clutching his chest, a crossbow bold protruding at a dangerous angle, four more men waited in the shadows, all sporting blades of various design. Halted briefly by the numbers in front of them, Ras, Goran, Thiel and Rikkert all launched themselves at their opposition, taking them by surprise almost as much as they had been surprised themselves by the hidden number of men on the dock.
Armand wasted no time diving at the closest attacked on the dock, another five ambushers stood waiting for their prize. Olaf also leaping at his opponent, his mighty axe cleaving the skull of the man in two. Jormund, finally over the railing also launched himself into the fray, his axe and fists swinging wildly and dangerously.
On the right bank, Ras and Goran were holding their own, the rusty marsh blade of Ras leaving him in a limp wristed attack, however his fists more than compensating, knocking a man out cold. Goran on the other hand, experienced with his blade, took the arm of his foe, the blood-soaked limb bouncing across the wooden planking. Thiel and Rikkert also fought with success driving their foes away. Those without injury fled as the tables turned, the final man swinging wildly at Ras only to be struck over the back of the head by the hilt of Goran’s sword.
The left was getting messy, Jormund was not quite as effective as he had shown to be, yet his powerful strikes still driving those before him, making them think twice before attempting to go toe-to-toe with the Dwarf. Armand also struggling, his skills with blade in hand were solid, however having only sparred with other trained swordsman, he could not help the feeling that in the real world, against mixed opponents with varied degrees of civility, his rapier would need more training than he thought. Striking one man in the biceps, thrusting clean through the muscle, he sent his opponent to the ground, screaming as the blood began to flow. Olaf continued his wild swipes with his axe, not caring who stood in his way, his ferocity proving more intimidating than any other attribute.
Witnessing their compatriots on the right bank flee, the men on the left bank also turned to run, one however was entangled, Jormund’s iron grip rapped around the man’s neck, “Where do you think you’re going.” Jormund taking pleasure in the struggling of the physical superiority he had over his victim. Armand soon joined him, the bloodied tip of the rapier he wielded was more than enough to stop the man from struggling.
The interrogation was terrifying, Ras taking the lead, playing the friend, information for leniency. Goran on the other hand played the iron fist, willing to cleave flesh from bone unless questions were answered. Armand sat in the distance, picking at his nails with his dagger, still frustrated at his performance with his blade. Jormund was the surprise in the eyes of the struggling prisoner. The answers came thick and fast after the threat of testicle removal by the hands of a dwarf. Even though the questions were answered, Jormand took the testicle anyway, leaving the man broken and howling through the gag placed in his mouth.
Two prisoners lay side by side on the ship, one missing a testicle, the other still not conscious from the blow of Goran’s strike. The enemy had launched their operation from near the base of Heiligdom, the Temple of Shallya, Goddess of Mercy and Healing, according to the information given to them. Thiel, Rikkert and Olaf all agreed that they needed to investigate.
As the tide lowered, the water revealed
a cave entrance known only to few,
only visible at low tide. Possessing the knowledge of where their competition had originated, the decision was made to hunt for them another day, the cargo needed to be unloaded back in Kruiersmuur, the sooner the better.
The conversation turned to what was to happen to the two prisoners, Goran and Ras were less inclined to dispose of them, having bested them, they were no longer a threat. Thiel, Olaf and Rikkert, shrugged, looking at the newcomers to see how they would handle this situation. Jormund seemed unphased, he had broken one of them, a chance to break the second seemed more interesting than the outcome. As the group discussed at length, Armand had already begun taking his frustration and petty vengeance out on the prisoners, placing them on the railing of the barge.
The sound of the splashes causing all involved in the discussion to halt, staring at Armand who looked more angry than ashamed, “What? Were we not going to do that?” His voice plain, betraying no emotion.
* Later *
Once arrived at the dock they originally had made their way to, the crates and barrels were unloaded smoothly, the staff of the Rusty Barnacle aiding in the distribution of all contents of the barge. Olaff insisted on finishing up by himself, sending the others back to the Rusty Barnacle.
Ras, Goran, Armand and Jormund were all ushered inside for food and drink, joined soon after by Thiel, and Rikkert.
The large bartender also approached, distributing the spoils of their actions, five gold for the job and another five for hazard pay.
Completed by a fine bottle of Estalian Brandy each, Armand’s eyes lit up at the bottle more so than the gold.
Not wanting to mince words, the bottles were opened and within an hour, the world was spinning in the heads of most occupants. The only member who seemed immune was Armand, his previous years of alcohol consumption to excessive amounts allowing him to bear witness to Ras falling off his chair and spending 20 minutes trying to walk while lying on the ground.
Also witnessing Jormund become increasingly fascinated by his own beard, inspecting it as if it were made of pure gold. Goran on the other hand had a look on his face that is usually reserved for when in the company of a paid lady. Sitting in an arm chair, Goran’s hand moved along the arm rests as though caressing the skin of a woman, his legs squirming as his face twisted and his vocal emissions sounded more attune to that of wild horses.
Whatever was happening in that chair, Armand could see that Goran was thoroughly enjoying it.
The sun was high in the morning sky when consciousness returned. Met soon after by a breakfast of meat and eggs, the four present members of the crew, Ras, Jormund, Armand and Goran all ate in silence, three of them bracing their heads in one hand.
When agreeable, Ras enquired as to Rikkert and Thiel only to find that Thiel had vanished, leaving his share of the spoils to Ras. Stunned by the news, Goran offered few words of comfort, seeing it plainly in Ras’s eyes, he had never been on his own before, this was his trial.
Goran also continued his muttering regarding going into business for himself, possibly with a crew such as the four of them, breaking free of the labour force and taking up a planning role. He had been party this work for some time, looking for his opportunity to climb the ladder of society, now he had men, three men who seemed to be good at what they do. Ras was in agreement, Armand simply shrugged, not dismissing the idea, and Jormund looked troubled, as all dwarves tend to do when faced with a decision.
In the end, they were all new to working like this together, to Ras this was a strange new world, to Goran, this was now life. Armand was simply looking for something to be a part of that aided his plight, Jormund, he needed the money.
The four shaking hands after breakfast and heading to the local armourer, the spoils of their victory needing to be fenced. The deliberation was not long, Goran leaving the armourer with leather garb covering all but his head, Ras sporting new leather pants and jacket. Jormund also trading his leather Jerkin for Jack, his arm bearing the scar of its lack of protection. Armand also look up leather as is new form of attire, his left elbow still stiff from the knock it took in the alley previously.
Returning to the Rusty Barnacle, each man had a weeks lodgings to pass, Ras on the other hand, having two weeks thanks to his uncles share. Food, drink and money in the purse, all a man could want.
For now.
An ambush was set up and in a very short time the group was able to kill the other guards, without damaging the cargo they were returning to the Bretonnian ship: a boat full of tied up children. All of these slaves-to-be were distributed over the two rowboats, and a discussion took place about what to do with them. The women were 2 merchants wives from Nuln, who's coach had been held up, after which they were taken prisoner, as well as 2 local prostitutes. The children found in the ship were all Wastelanders, their parent's killed on the road or they themselves kidnapped from their houses. The newly arrived kids were locals, but our group didn't seem too interested in them. A few ideas were swapped, like keeping the Nuln woman as hostages and release them for a ransom, or to use the children to set up their own group of pickpockets, but in the end Goran settled to let the women go back to Nuln; the prostitutes owing them a favour, and would take care of the Wasteland children; and the local children were left at the nearest watch post, tied to the front door.
