"Good doggie!" Eilieen enthuses.  All of the masons seem downed.  Everyone seems alive and well (well, everyone in her group...).  Erista is as usual her sneaky, efficient self.  Arkan is uninjured after all.  Colwyn has ceased words and arrows both.  Aarnr is using his words.

Splendid.

With a glance at the villagers, she moves to where the downed masons lie - most from Erista's sorcery, at least one by the cudgels of the villagers.  "Well done, well done indeed," the priestess murmurs.  "Ropes for this lot, I think, should there be any here.  I will pay silver indeed for ropes," she says, slightly louder, "to hold these villains."

So far the ire of the villagers has turned on the masons.  Hopefully they can establish a wary peace.  AND tie up the masons, as yes, there are questions she might ask.

The old woman, holding her charge firmly by one hand, steps forward and proclaims, "Bind any that aren't dead, and stuff rags in their mouths, in the name of the King.  They're friends of Currinder, not of the kingdom."

The child starts to say something, but she hushes him gently, "Currinder is gone, Your Majesty.  You don't have to listen to him any more.  Nor his outlander cronies."

King Arranol shakes himself free, "Tie them up, then burn them all!"

"No, Your Majesty, we have to give them a fair trial before we burn them.  That's the way kingdoms work.  There are rules."

The King ponders this for a moment, then nods his acquiescence.

Smiling, Erista is about to step forward when she catches something about `fair trials' and `burning' on a stray breeze.  Not entirely sure what the conversation around these phrases was, she slips back into the shadow to see what happens next.

Wiping clean his blade on a ragged piece of cloth taken from one of the dead masons, Arkan finally sheathed it upon his back.

He surveyed the situation while flexing his sword arm, giving Eileen a nod of thanks for the healing; the pain was gone albeit the arm still felt a bit stiff, a good night's rest would take care of that though.

"Aye, bind the villains," he says. "You do not have to go through the trouble, we can take them off your hands and back to face justice in Bard's Gate." Arkan adds to the 'King' quickly.

Aarnr grunts.  He's heard of these ceremonies the decadent city folk call 'trials' and finds them offensive.  In his own lands, you fight your accuser and let blood settle the right of the matter, not attempt to trick them with laws and difficult foreign sounding words.

The stripling king seems much more sensible than those who advise him.

The priest is scornful of Arkan's suggestion which defies all reason.  Seems a froggin' lot of effort to go to just to kill the scurvy beetle-headed nut-hooks anyway.

Aarnr shakes his head in disgust.  He pointedly does not sheathe his sword.

The masons are bound, hands behind their backs.  Some of the villagers are, perhaps, a little too enthusiastic in their effort to secure the scoundrels.  Especially when it comes to the shoving of rags into mouths.  By the time the procedure is complete, some of the stunned masons in in the corral are starting to show signs of a slow return to awareness...

King Arranol's guardian beckons one of the guards over an bids him steady her as she scrambles up to stand atop a horse trough, feet braced carefully on the sides.  Behind her the palace blazes picturesquely, and provides a nice dramatic backdrop for her words.

"Citizens of Crossroad!  For too long has Currinder poisoned the mind of the King with words of tyranny and hate.  For too long has he used his authority to have those who dare oppose him put to death.  But that is ended!  Now we must find a new High Minister and Regent.  One who will embody the virtues that we would prefer to see instilled in our King.  A new age dawns for Crossroad.  Long live King Arranol!"

Her brief speech is greeted by a ragged chorus of cheers, which might have been less ragged, except that a significant number of the villagers are busy trying to douse the flames on the tavern wall, and the remainder show signs of not having quite understood some of the words.

She signals for the guard to help her down, and then she addresses Arkan.  "We will hold them here for trial.  They are allies of Currinder, and we would not trust outsiders to administer honest justice to other outsiders.  It should not take long - all saw the evil beast they summoned.  At least we did before yonder giant slew it."

The priest applauds the zeal with which the villagers bind and gag the masons.  He particularly approves of the rags that will still their lying tongues and should certainly make this trial they speak of go a lot faster without them interrupting with their whines and complaints.

Indeed Aarnr is beginning to warm to the old woman who rallies the villagers and what remains of the hell-hated guards.  She reminds him very much of his grandma.

But as she speaks, the smug grin fades from the priest's visage, replaced by a look of ... could that be worry ?  Fear ?!!

Gesturing his companions close to him, and ignoring their gagging and choking, Aarnr confides his concerns in low (at least for him) tones.

"Ye all heard her !  It's froggin' obvious that bunch-back'd flax-wench wants ME to be their new high ... minstrel to guide their mewling monarch !  We must leave this midden heap now before it is too late ! Leave those those mammering, malmsy-nosed malt-worms to their justly deserved fate !"  Much as he would enjoy watching the masons burned alive, the risk is too great.

The priest holds up his blade for his friends to regard, careless of the blood and sharp edges. "Gonder made this blade.  Gonder has no king ... Gonder needs no king ! And nor do I !!"

Taking a deep breath, Bilfro hugs the girl closer still.  Torn between guarding the cart and protecting the young girl, the latter wins in a heartbeat.

"I need you to trust me, dear princess.  Close your eyes and do not open them until I say so.  I will find your brother.  Can you do this?"

Once she gives her consent the trip into the village, ah, capitol begins, with a wary eye out for where to step as well as for the king, should he still live.

Drawing closer to the gathering ahead, a frown forms upon the face.

"I seek the king, or someone to care for the princess!"

There is a murmuring in the crowd, and a nervous shuffling of feet.  And then a voice calls out, "You should do it!"  And then a second voice, "Anja should do it!"  "Aye, Anja!"  The cries for Anja to take the matter into her hands swell and spread actoss the citizens.

"You have taught the King and the Princess before, and you were their nursemaid.  Old Beoric, their father, trusted you."

The old woman pulls the King close to her skirts again, and eyes the crowd, who generally seem to view her as the best candidate for the role.

Only one person doesn't appear to be watching her.  His attention is, for the moment, focussed on Bilfro and his diminutive charge.  "King Arranol?  Why, he's over there with Anja.  Hello Nata, who's your new friend then?"

"Hello Petr, he's named Mister Bilfro.  He told me a lovely story."
This message was last edited by the GM at 17:58, Sun 02 July 2017.

Eilieen cocks an eyebrow at Aarnr dubiously.  "T'would seem otherwise," she reassures him.  "Look, Aarnr - they choose the elder woman.  No doubt for her wisdom and compassion, showing wisdom themselves."

Gonder needs no king...why does that sound familiar?

"You - and Gonder - are safe," she finishes, her regard falling upon Bilfro.  And what is this, the young woman wonders?

She would throw her support behind Anja, but this town - rightfully, the priestess ruefully concludes - eyes outsiders poorly.  She could inquire of Bilfro and the girl, but again...outsider.  Best to let that play out as an observer, see what comes of it.

In all, it seems that they've managed to do a good thing here...though with an impressive amount of collateral damage.  Hopefully the village will recover from its 'rescue'.  And, the priestess considers, the masons will receive their due and the world will be made a hint lighter from their loss.

Anja, after a few moments' thought, nods her head.  "Aye, very well then.  I've taken care of Arranol and Nata since before they could speak for themselves.  I taught them their letters, and how to count without using their fingers... "

Next to Bilfro Nata gives a guilty start, clenches her fists, and hides them behind her back.

"And I kept on teaching them, even when Currinder started trying to twist Arranol into a tyrant."  She spits in a thoroughly unladylike manner, striking the dead minister squarely in the chest.  Then she stops.  "But what's this?"

She leans over the corpse, and draws her knife again, using the tip of the blade to dislodge a chain from around the severed neck.  A chain with a medallion attached.  At the sight of the disc, Anja recoils, dropping her knife.  "Currinder wore the sign of Orcus!  Freja preserve us!"

As the cries for Anja ring out across the area Arkan releases the breath he didn't know he had been holding. Aarnr had not been chosen as the king, as Arkan (and Aarnr himself it seemed) were fearing.

All the lands around this little kingdom need not fear a horde of barbarians storming the gates any time soon then.

"Well then, alls well that ends well eh?" Arkan says with smile. He wasn't all too happy with the trial to be held here rather than in Bard's Gate to be sure, but perhaps the villagers would allow them to take back some evidence of the mason's executions as proof that justice was served.

As Anja points out the medallion of Orcus Arkan sees a sudden oppertunity and says, "Aye! Foul servants of the dark lord they are. But they might yet provide more mischief if we cannot find out where they came from. Allow us to take back one of the ones still alive as a prisoner so we and those who sent us may interrogate him and find out where they come from and what other plans they may have."

---

ooc: 4 on diplomacy :P

Though it seems that Eilieen is correct that the old woman has been chosen in his place, despite his relief Aarnr is not minded to hang around lest the rabble change their minds.

The revelation that the greybeard was a follower of Orcus, however, drives such from his thoughts and the priest emits a low growl (if one were to listen closely, one would receive a  truly enlightening oif shocking education in the art of foul language).  Indeed, Aarnr now deeply regrets his slaying of Currinder and thus granting the artless, base-court devil-monk such a swift and easy passage from this life to the next.

"Did we give our oath to those frothy puttocks that we'd bring one of the lumpish louts back ?" he asks, hoping that someone will contradict that.  "An' alive ?"  A little more hopefully that even if the first is true, the second is not.

Something else is worrying at the priest, even if he doesn't know quite what.  "An' how many of the nut-hooks were there, anyway ?" he further inquires, if not politely.  "An' how many of them have we froggin' got here ?"

"An' why were they runnin' to this wart-necked, scurvy whoreson ?"  The puttock had a mouth on him but couldn't even defend himself.

Eilieen frowns.  Had they given an oath?

"If you speak of Bard's Gate," she muses, "we were told that they would likely be condemned to death anyway."  The priestess can't recall, otherwise.  "I doubt it would be needful, at this point.  As for why they came here, clearly Currinder is a follower of Orcus himself."  That makes the group peas in a pod, really.

Corrupt, putrescent peas.

"But I agree with Arkan.  I believe we need to find out their plans.  Their associates in distant cities.  And why, why they created the portal back in Bard's Gate."  Her eyes narrow.  "We need to know," she repeats.

Bowing to Anja, Eilieen echoes Arkan's sentiments.  "My lady Anja, we would be most curious to hear information from these miscreants.  Where we find one group of Orcus' followers, we find more."  This said with a wave to Currinder, who remains...well, dead proof of that fact.

"There may be more of the sheep-biting, devil-taken, toad-knockers," Ardens points out to his grandmother the old woman.  "We'll soon loosen their lying, boil-mottled tongues an' you can string up the unruly, ripe-reeling rogues once we're done with them."

Colwyn glances at Aarnr, "They was sayin' as 'ow there were bein' eight or so of the buggers.  There six 'ere, livin' or dead, not countin' that there minister cove.  That leaves ... "  So tempting to say 75, and see what happens, but Eilieen is a bit too handy with her spear... "Two."

Anja interjects, "I'm quite certain that there were only six here.  It could be that the others continued onward, or met their doom on the road."

And after some thought, "Very well.  You can question them if you will, and take whatever tokens you will back to Bard's Gate...  But they are conspirators in a crime against the Kingdom of Crossroad.  All those who yet survive must stand trial within our borders."

Nata tugs at Bilfro's sleeve.  "Can you take me to Anja and my brother Mister Bilfro?"

After Anja speaks Arkan realizes this was as best an agreement they can hope for, without things turning bloody.

"Very well, lets let them get on with their justice then," he mutters, turning to glance at his companions.

"While they make their preparations we should interrogate those who are able to answer. Anyone here skilled in forcing people to say anything they don't want, preferably without torturing them?" Arkan glances at Aarnr as he says the last part, ofcourse.

"Anja."

The older woman turns with quite startling agility.  Her jaw drops open as she sees Bilfro and his charge.  "Nata!  Where have you been?  I was worried."

"I went into the woods, but I didn't see no monsters.  Mister Bilfro fetched me back safe."  Princess Nata peers, with some interest, at the bodies laying about.  "Old Currinder don't have a head no more.  Good.  He only used it to say bad things about folk.  And to shout sometimes."

"Thank you Mister... Bilfro?  Thank you for returning  Princess Nata to us."

Then, turning to some nearby guards, she instructs them, "Stand watch while the outlanders question the prisoners.  Don't let them release any of them, or kill any more of them.  And listen carefully to any answers they get."

Colwyn, meanwhile, is watching Arkan.  "Is cuttin' off fingers countin' as torturin'"

"Kill one and keep killin' 'em until one of the toad-knockers finds his voice," Aarnr suggests, but with a quite unenthusiastic note to his voice.   He's very certain that sensible proposition will be summarily ignored, though Anja's suggestion that the guards might stop him is quite frankly insulting.

They might delay him, he'll allow.  Even temporarily inconvenience.

Colwyn's thoughts, however, lead to a glimmer of hope.  Perhaps cutting off small pieces doesn't count ?

Much more important is that two of the death-merchants might have escaped !  "Ask these plume-plucked rats-banes where the other dismal-dreaming giglets have got to," Aarnr insists.

"I think we should eschew the cutting off of fingers," Eilieen notes quietly.  "I am with Arkan, in this; I do not feel we should put our feet on that road."  Where it takes them in the name of 'good' - or whatever Aarnr considers such - will be dark indeed.

"Nor do I think that killing one of them will inspire the others to speak," she continues.  "They sit already condemned, and know it.  They will be executed whether they speak or no.  Why should they betray their patron, then?"  Crouching, she studies the six with a jaundiced eye.  "After death, their souls will be in his black grip.  I doubt they wish to journey there with their last act being treacherous...against him."

Bad enough to have failed...if they actually have.

"No, only trickery or honest release would loosen their tongues, I suspect," she sighs.  "We cannot release them, though, for the evil that they would do.  And I cannot think of something deceptive enough to worm the truth from them."  One eyebrow rises.  "Colwyn?  Erista?  Perhaps a subterfuge leaps to mind?  If not, I would be happy to question them.  It may be I can fire them to anger against the ones who have left them here to die."

Evil turning on itself, a not uncommon thing.
This message was last edited by the player at 11:46, Tue 11 July 2017.

The priestess's words have the annoying ring of truth about them.  In the same situation, in the unlikely even anyone managed to take him alive, Aarnr would curse and threaten his captors, taking every opportunity to rile them.  Never would he grant them the satisfaction of cooperating matter not the consequences.

Nor can the priest think of any clever lie that might convince those soon to stand in the presence of their god, somewhat the worse for wear.  Deceptions do not come easily to a son of The Vast, though the machinations of the civilised world are no longer unknown to him.  Indeed some, such as actors and shopkeeps seem to make their living by fashioning fabrications.

"Let them die then !  I'd not give the base-court apple-johns the benison of even so petty a victory !  Let them stand before their foul, toad-spotted god without such a claim to appease him !"

"If there are two more such, then we will find them by our own merits !  How many more froggin' places can that dankish road lead ?!!"
This message was last edited by the player at 12:13, Tue 11 July 2017.

Colwyn stifles a snort.

Aarnr clearly hasn't been paying attention as they've travelled along the road, otherwise he'd surely realise that it's a long road, and leads to at least two more cities, and an unknown number of villages, hamlets and farms.  And Rappan Athuk itself, where they'll doubtless find a goodly number of the masons' fellow cultists.

And the thought of the cultists gives him an idea.  "Magic." he says,  "I's 'eard tell of wizards what could be makin' men speak the truth with magic.  Weren't makin' no odds 'ow tough they was bein', or 'ow scared they was bein' ter say a word, the magic was still loosenin' they's tongues."

"I'd froggin' like to see that !"

Though impatient to set the oxen and cart in pursuit of the two missing masons, Aarnr is clearly interested to see first hand the casting of any spell that can loose men's tongues from their mouths.   Assumedly one then threatens to feed the now absent appendage to the dogs unless they ...

... presumably it would help if there was ink and parchment to hand and both parties had some familiarity with the chicken-scratchings that civilised folk call writing.

The priest looks expectantly betwixt Erista, Bilfro and Arkan, expecting a good show.

"I can't do anything like that," Erista asserts promptly, before expectations get too high.  "And... subterfuge, that's like, trickery, right?" she asks Eilieen.  "I can sneak in behind them and listen well enough, and," she shrugs, a little self-consciously, "I don't find it too hard to pretend to be a human child.  But I can't think how that's going to get them talking about their fiendish plans, really."

"But if you want to try your plan, then maybe while you're distracting them, I can slip in and find a comfy spot inside, in case they start talking among themselves once they think they're alone," she offers.

Having set the princess down, Bilfro performs a curtsey that is interrupted with a bow, so it becomes a curtsow or possible a bourtsey.

"Think naught of it, m'lady."

Remaining in this bowing curtsey the hat comes off.

"Master Bilfro Gabbins, at your service."

The bow deepens a bit more.

Talk of fingers and other such horrid things are unceasingly pushed back into the far reaches of the mind dwelling in the skull now looking down at the feet positioned at the other end of the mortal form.

"I ought to retire to the cart left outside, lest it rolls of on its own volition."  Hopefully no one has gotten up from it and walked off.