The mayor nodded. "I can give you a writ of approval, stating that the bearers are friends and saviors of the city of Akendorf, and that they are to be trusted in all matters within which they may have expertise. Signed, and sealed."

"As for the gates, they should be arriving up the Skull river within the next few days, where they will remain in perpetuity."

The Count listens to the Mayor's pleas, his fuming having died down slightly from his self-chastisement, and he finds himself actually sympathizing with the man; Nik had seen many people buckle under the fear of invasion, and this man had no noble blood to buoy his courage with responsibility. He sighed to himself; this is what comes of the rising middle class.

"From certain perspectives, Lord Mayor, we are all replaceable. Had you opened your doors to refugees, or offered even a tenth of your House Guard for a show of defiance, I would be more forgiving. You failed your people, m'lord, and for that you owe them - not us - an explanation. For our part, I consider any feud that may have come around to be ended; you are a weak man, m'lord, but if we persecuted all such people the world of men would be a lonely place. You must improve yourself, for the good of your people. Earn the position you currently occupy; a man cannot lead from hiding." In a gesture of magnanimity equal to mayor's own, the Count approaches his seat again, grips his sword by the blade, and presents the mayor with his old sword; when the mayor lays his hand on the hilt, Nik releases it to him with a low "Do not drop it again."

He returns to his line as Bjorn reads the letter and speaks, nodding in agreement every time a particular point is made. He glances over the priest's shoulder to read the note, and shakes his head silently.

They were going to need that writ of approval, for they were bound for Brovska.

The mayor nods quietly, chastened. He will call for his steward, and arrange for the transfer of the count's goods [Private to Nikolaas von Richtgraf: If memory serves, you had $2,000 invested, meaning you'll get $6,000 back.]. The Steward also mentions casually that furs have been in high demand recently in Brovska.

At the same time, the mayor's secretary appears, the promised writ is hastily scrawled out, and given the proper signatures and seals. Rolling it up, the secretary places it in a scroll case, and presents it to Count Richtgraf.

With little more ceremony, the group is turned out of the palace, and the doors barred. Celebrations can be heard throughout the rest of the city, as soldiers revel in their new found money and plunder, or families simply express their happiness at being alive. The mayor seems to occupy a bubble of ambivalence in the people, and there is little talk of rebellion or, even, resentment. They knew that he was an incompetent fool, but better that than some cruel overlord.

It is now shopping, selling and appraisal time! Feel free to make posts IC, OOC or by PM to me as you like. When everything is ready, we shall set out.

 Seeing as there were no more chance of bloodletting he snorts as they turn soft and let the mayor go. "We dwarves would not be so forgiving i think, even manlings should have turned out to defend their clan, which he did not. Bah". Turning he stormed outside and back to inn with its weak watery ale.

After being ushered out of the palace, Bjorn says, "That went well. What next?" he says to Nik. "I cannot rightly abandon the savior of Akendorf to the traps of the witch huntress. Sigmar knows she seeks to destroy each of us. I think it best if we remain a company at least until she be brought to justice."

When the diplomacy was over and there was time to talk between the group again, Grigory spoke to the collection of mercenaries-turned-heroes: "If you are going after Benedikta, I'm with you. I still have a score to settle with her. But I'm going to try and get my hands on some more weapons before we head out."

"Agreed." Nik says simply as Grom trots away; he stands with the remaining companions and let's out a dry chuckle when Bjorn calls out his new, unofficial title.

"Nor would I wish you to, my friend; alone, I'd be fodder for bards as well as bandits. No, I pray we keep this fellowship a long while yet." It was the first time he'd referred to any of them as friends, and Maurice darts his eyes toward his master to see if the Count even realized how casually he was speaking.

"Though my road is far from finished, it is thankfully my own to navigate. I must restock this measly cart," he kicks the wooden wheel, "and sell yet more wares in the next town; the life of a merchant is much more exciting than I was led to believe, but the profit is as promised. I believe that next town is Brovska - a good market for furs, I hear, and a fine opportunity to catch up on old acquaintances."

Nik smiles a half smile at the companions, unsure of how to approach the next subject. "It seems unfair to suggest you come along freely, nor does it seem fitting to simply hire you on as guards. I propose you join me as an entourage - a purely formal distinction, you understand - so that I may continue to compensate you for your continued services to my family." It wasn't an ungenerous offer, despite the failing status of the von Richtgraf family name, but it was also a shrewd bargaining maneuver; a noble's retinue might have whatever trappings they wished, while any unit of guardsmen would be expected to have uniform equipment payed for by their employer.

I wrote and re-wrote that last sentence a few times, and I can't get it to where I like it. Basically what I'm saying is I'd like to keep adventuring with this group, and especially to pursue Benedikta, but character-wise I'm tied to the caravan. We're way too unique a group to just be "caravan guards", despite the fact that we are currently guarding a caravan, so basically I'm proposing a "Merry Men/Knights of the Round" arrangement that preserves the group dynamic. Also, I don't want to have to shell out for uniforms for anyone but NPCs. Make sense?

"I am for it," says Bjorn. "If we are to be an entourage, we should have some name for this fellowship, but being, as we are, motley in nature, I have no suggestions. Have you any? I am willing to purchase a design and tabard for each of us with my share of the spoils if it be an inconvenience to you."

As the group go about their business, searching for goods, haggling, and shopping for equipment, a representative of Figgario's Imports delivers a message to the Count. It reads:

To the Count von Richtgraaf,

Greetings to you good sir. I first wanted to congratulate you on a most excellent victory for the most excellent town of Akendorf. I Figgario de Medi, merchant and true born citizen of Tilea, would ask a favor of you.

I am looking to ship a quantity of Dwarven Ale to the town of Brovska. If you are happening to pass that way, I would pay handsomely if you would but see it safely to its destination. I fear that none of my teamsters are willing to risk the roads so soon after an Orcish attack. I have fired them all, but am in quite a bind, as this shipment is expected within 14 days. Please let me know soon if you are interested in my proposition, and please do not share this note with anyone else.

Regards,
Figgario de Medi, Merchant of the 3rd rank, Trustee of the House of Med, honored counselor in the Traveler's Guild, etc.

After Maurice hears of the note, he casually mentions that it isn't just a lack of teamsters that has cause the Merchant to come to you, but also a likely desire to avoid any Akendorf excise taxes. (This isn't such a bad thing, the tax would go right into the mayor's pocket anyway).

Nik sits quietly at a table in the tavern, a thick candle melted to its middle and shining a wan yellow light over his plate of beef, bread and potatoes. He would occasionally raise his stein in greeting to those that acknowledged him and offer a ragged, weary smile though he is obviously no fit company; a small stack papers are spread before him, Maurice is busy tabulating numbers and outlining the profit and loss of the journey so far, and inwardly the Count wishes he were back on the ramparts. He sighs wistfully, wipes a smear of gravy from his chin and leans back, only just noticing that Maurice is expecting an answer.

"Hmm?"

"I said, 'you've received an offer from one Figgario de Medi'-"

"Tilean?"

"Just so," Maurice responded patiently, "apparently he owns an import/export business here. He'd like to meet with you regarding a shipment of Dwarven Ale to Brovska - that should turn a handsome profit!" The fat servant smiled up at his master, who simply stared at the plate in front of him. Sensing his hesitation Maurice continued; "the poor mayor would of course be cheated of his taxes, though... he probably doesn't deserve that..."

The Count caught the mischievous twinkle in his servant's eye, and couldn't help smiling. "Tell the Tilean I'll dine with him tonight, and we can discuss terms. Now, tell me again how much it's going to cost to feed all those damn mules."

Figgario's house was situated in the Northeast corner of town. The buildings there were nearly all constructed in a Tilean style, whitewashed exterior walls, with red, barrel tile, roofs. The merchant's house was built in a square, with an open interior courtyard complete with a fountain, tiled floor, and numerous lanterns hanging around the exterior walls, to give the evening some light.

It was here that Figgario, a rotund man with curly black hair, met with Nikolaas. There was a table set with wine, a rarity in much of the empire, and various unrecognizable food stuffs from Araby, Cathay, and Lustria.

"Ah, Count Richtgraaf, the savior of Akendorf, and of my own soft hide. It is an honor to meet you." The merchant bowed low, an awkward gesture thanks to his weight. "Please, join me at table. It is a Tilean custom to never discuss business without at least a little bread, and to always take a meal with a potential partner."

He trundled over to the table, sat, and tore a loaf of salted, crusty bread in half. Setting one portion on his own plate, and gave another to a servant, his slithered around and offered it to the count. There was a faint hint of rosemary that wafted itself to the nostrils. "You dip the bread," and here he smashed a piece onto a plate with some oil and pepper "before eating it. I'm sorry if I condescend to you, Count, but one can never be sure of the customs of the... coarser Empire. So I thought it best to share mine."

He went on to ask the count of the battle and his dealings with the mayor as the meal progressed until, about half way through, got down to business. "But enough small talk. I have been sizing you up, and I like you Count. You are... a desperate man, but also an honorable one. The former leads me to believe you will accept my proposition, while the latter leads me to think you will carry it out."

"So, here is what I propose. I will give you a wagon load of ale. Four barrels, to a total weight of about 600 pounds. Of. Bugman's. Ale." He said the last three words carefully and clearly, poking his finger at the table with each word. "I don't think I need to tell you how rare, and coveted Bugman's is. There is little of it left in these parts. People, especially orcs and some deranged Dwarves would kill to have it. As would some power hungry functionary who's heard of the brew but never tried it. Getting it out of Akendorf shouldn't be all too hard, and that avoids excise taxes if nothing else, but getting it past the road and into Brovska is another matter entirely. Just because you defeated one gang of orcs doesn't mean there won't be more. The stuff gives them a narcotic power trip."

He sat back in his chair a bit and picked up a confusing looking fruit on the table. "If you will transport this cargo, I will hold Two hundred and fifty Crowns ($5,000) in escrow and will send along the ale, and a note to my man in Brovska. Upon delivery, my man will return your two hundred fifty, and pay you another seven hundred and fifty crowns ($15,000). What do you say?" He seemed uninterested, but Nik cannot help but notice the man's eyes, extremely bright and fixated on him, not blinking.

The Count ate slowly; having dreaded the possibility of an exotic meal he had snacked heavily throughout the day, and as he looked over the bizarre spread before him he decided he had made the right choice. It wouldn't do to be rude, of course, and so he ate as much as he was expected to, forcing a smile every time one was appropriate. He had no skill with dignitaries, but good manners was something he insisted on, especially with business on the line. In spite of his rustic attitude he finds the oil and bread combination particularly to his liking, and when he motions to Maurice to ensure that they pack a decent amount of the stuff for their own journey he receives a subtle reproof from the canny old servant - a barely detectable wave of the fingers indicating that he has already eaten far too much of dish.

"Such a meal. I dearly hope I may see Tilea one day, and enjoy it as a wealthy man." He told the diplomatic lie; anyone could come up with oil and pepper, and what by all the Gods was that horrible paste?

He nodded when Figario suggested they get to business, taking the opportunity to have his goblet refilled. He instinctively bridled a bit when described as "desperate", but the term was fitting and so he simply let it slide; his elder brother Piter would have killed the man for such impudence, which was part of the reason Nik was obliged to play the savvy-man these days.

As they spoke, Maurice kept a steady hand transcribing the particulars.

"It's a tempting offer," he responds as he mentally runs through the calculations, "but I'm sure you'll understand if I must quibble; such a highly prized cargo taken through such uncertain terrain - infested terrain - there are a great many concerns."

As he spoke a servant gingerly plucked the plate of oil from beside him only to be met with a fierce glare and, just as gingerly, sets the plate back down. Instantly regaining his composure - and soaking another rind of bread - Nik continued.

"Of course, as a soldier, I could not in good conscience deny the people of Brovska such a treat. I will speak to my factor tonight, and send you my answer then. I'll not keep you waiting long, my friend; my men and I are eager to be off, and I'm sure the people of Brovska are thirsty."

Obviously even if I didn't want the cash I'd still be totally interested in the "quest angle" here; any argument or negotiation is strictly to represent the fact that I'd also like to use Merchant to increase the pay.
Also, if it's relevant, Maurice has Detect Lies and we both have Gesture.

"Of course, I understand your hesitation but I must require you to make your decision before you leave here. My cargo, as my missive informed you, is on a tight deadline, and I'm afraid that means I can ill afford to delay any longer than I have to."

Momentarily, Maurice catches the Count's eye. It looks as though he is trying to imply something about the oil, or about the merchant, or the slimy servant. Unfortunately, the count cannot tell. It was clear, though, that the Tilean's terms were more than generous, and that he was unlikely to come off them.

Rolls made for detect lies, gesture, and merchant. You and Maurice both failed the quick contest for merchant, so no price changes in the pay there.

Nik nods. He had played his hand, and the gambit failed him; still, the money promised was good, and they were headed to Brovska anyway.

"Very well, I accept. We will load your barrels in the morning, and see them safely to Brovska with all haste." He raises his goblet in toast, drains it, and awaits the final courses.

"Excellent!" the merchant seemed genuinely happy and met the count's toast. With dessert (shaved ice flavored with lemon and sugar) a contract was brought out, laying out the terms already discussed over dinner. The document was simple and straight forward and neither the count, nor Maurice could see anything suspicious. Figgario and the servant signed and counter signed as witness before handing the document over to Nik and Maurice to endorse.

The document is not suspicious, and will serve as the letter to Figgario's contact in Brovska. Another page gives directions on how to find him.

You may close the scene however you wish and the rest of you may make any additional shopping posts. Monday we'll set out on the second leg. [Private to Nikolaas von Richtgraf: When Nik and Maurice are alone, he tells you that the merchant was hiding something,  but he couldn't say what. His "detect lies" roll was great, but gesture rolls failed.]

While he is milling about the different shops in the different quarters of Akendorf Nigel stops in at Pskov's Dry Goods, he smiles at the stern and vile threats and warnings against shoplifting, assuring the shopkeeper he was merely there to browse some of the travel gear and pick up a tent.

He gathers a set of climbing spikes, a one man tent, and another shoulder quiver, then begins sorting through the different traps laid out on the shelves. His eyes catch the old dusty leather tube on a shelf, quite out of place among the traps, his curiosity is peaked and he opens the tube to see what is inside, "What's this then?" he mutters to himself with half smile and raised eyebrow.

Pskov the Ogre thumps over to Nigel, snatching the tube from his hands just as he peaks in. [Private to Nigel Plaskitt: It looks like a scroll of paper, a spell, map, or something of the sort.] "Careful with that little man, no idle peek'in see?" If you be wantin to buy it, I'll sell fer a hundred 'n ninteen coppers."$119

After the battle, Grigory had more money than he had ever seen before. And after things had calmed down and negotiations were starting for their plan to leave town, he had the opportunity to spend it.

After dropping a dozen Crowns on rounds for the men who had rallied to fight the orcs in the taverns of Akendorf, he set about shopping for some equipment he needed on the road. With the money on hand, he spared no expense, and returned to the group with a brand new sword, a finely made crossbow and ammunition, and two bottles of Bugman's best.

The siege had also made it clear that he needed to practice with a ranged weapon. He spent a large portion of the time that Maurice and Nikolaas used to plan the logistics to practice with his new crossbow, with the help of some of the militia.

Purchases:
Balanced Shortsword
Fowling Crossbow + 2x bolt case and 40 bolts
$240 worth of boozing
2 bottles of Bugman XXXXXX

2CP Crossbow
1CP Streetwise
1CP Traps
This message was last edited by the player at 20:17, Tue 02 Apr 2013.

"Fine, fine. Don't know how I'm supposed to know whether its something I want without looking at it, but you've caught my interest and your price is decent." Nigel says, "I'll take the climbing spikes, the one man tent, the shoulder quiver, the frame backpack, and the mystery tube. Here's you money $749, now let's see what I've bought myself."

Nigel opens the tube up and examines it right there in the shop, before going about his business in the rest of the town. While he's out he picks up an assortment of tools to make up a carpenter's kit $250, 21lbs, a fletcher's kit $95, 4lbs, a small surgeon's kit $300, 15lbs, a first aid kit $15, 2lbs, the raw materials for 1000 arrows $?, ?lbs.

I might edited some more purchases in: a few more tool kits and some raw materials for making arrows (I'm not sure what to put for the cost and weight of the raw materials though, see my post in the ooc thread).
This message was last edited by the player at 21:39, Wed 03 Apr 2013.

Nigel upends the tube, and a scroll of paper slides out. When unrolled it becomes obvious that the sheet is, or was, a map. Impossibly old, it showed the Western side of the Border Principalities (the side you would be traversing), while the rest was blurred out, lost to time. Scattered across the whole thing were a scattering of skulls and Chaos symbols, as though marking points of interest. [Private to Nigel Plaskitt: It is probable that each point of interest marks some sort of chaos temple or ruin. One in particular, a Chaos shrine seems quite close to your intended route, while a few more would be an easy walk.]

Nik oversees the loading of the two wagons, paying particular attention to the beer barrels, personally overseeing their proper placement and double-checking that they are properly covered by canvas and lashed tightly with thick, clever knot-work.

Everything is kept very above board, with plenty of signings and counter-signings and a certain air of legal wrangling, and despite his concerted efforts to maintain a genial demeanor it's obvious that there's something occupying his thoughts. Maurice certainly detects his master's dark mood, and makes a great effort to cheer the workers as they load the cargo, all while ushering Pip around the site and showing him the ways of their caravan.

Nigel returns to the wagons with his new pack stuffed with all the tools and the leather tube in his hand, he whistles a cheery tune as he walks up to the wagons, "Greetings M'lord!"

"I've made some interesting purchases from that ogre Pskov." He says, "Its a map of sorts, I think it'll help our travels quite a bit. I'm sure Bjorn will want to look at it too, so we'd best wait until we're in the privacy of our companions."

Nigel will keep the map stowed in his pack, which he places in the wagon; he carries only his travel gear now, but stays near the wagon throughout the day to keep watch over the cargo.

When all of the wagons were loaded up, and the time came to depart, much of the city of Akendorf turned out to wish the Richtgraf Rangers good luck and a safe road. Women waved kerchiefs, and a few children ran up to offer flowers to the group. Whatever else this journey brings, each of you know that you have made an indelible impact on these people's lives.

For a time, you may have worried if Grom would show up, but he was there at the gate, reeking of alcohol and... other pungent liquids, several bottles of Bugmans under each arm, and his axe strapped across his back. Pip, your new wagon driver, and recent drummer, showed a surprising deftness with the mules and had no trouble controlling them. Indeed, it looked a few times as though he had to hold back and wait for the older man.

The road was good and the countryside, surprisingly, little harmed from the orcs. They had apparently raided the area between Akendorf and the pass, but had not ventured west of the town. The morning and early afternoon is marked by little of import. Perhaps Nigel shares his find with the others, Pip insists Grom take a bath at the earliest opportunity, and lunch was particularly enjoyable, now with fresh and plentiful food to be had.

About two hours after midday, you come across a small hamlet. Likely the holding of a wealthy knight. The fields are patch worked with cereal crops, meadow, and fallow land. In the middle of this is a small cluster of huts snuggled up against a palisade. Above the wall a manor lifts its slate tiled roof and, when you get close, you notice that the wooden gate is open (the Lord apparently wiser than the Mayor of Akendorf, for actually having something to hang on hinges). There, in the yard between the gate and manor is a fire blackened post. Several peasants are scouring the area, and a women, in a dress now filthy with ash and mud, kneels weeping near the post.

The Count waved to the people as they said their farewells, bowing low enough to be wreathed with the simple country flowers the village girls had gathered; he had not taken any comfort with the local ladies, though he knew he could have, and in this moment his heart ached for home.

So it was considered abrupt when, gradually growing overcome with emotions, he simply ordered the Caravan to "Be off,", and then they were.

Nik can't help but chuckle to himself as the caravan makes it's way, chiding Pip for whatever mistake he can find - even if he has to make them up - and remembering his own days as a young squire being sent on snipe hunts and being told to tolerate every intolerable thing. He wistfully reflected on how old he was getting, but even that thought would not stop his chastising the boy.

Along the way, Nik walks alongside Nigel and talks idly about the mysterious map; if Bjorn had not yet had a chance to study it, he says, they will sit down to a discussion during their afternoon rest. Before they can do so, however, the caravan comes upon the small hamlet with the wooden palisade; he sees the smoking post and his flesh crawls. He had seen quite enough of witch-hunters these last few weeks.

Raising a hand, the Count halts the group and Maurice guides the wagons to the side of the road. With a heavy sigh he looks to his companions and walks slowly toward the weeping woman, sparing the men a glance that says "expect trouble".

He approaches from beside her, and despite her obviously emotional condition speaks with his usual booming, authoritative tone. He doesn't want to ask, but does so anyway. "Woman. What's the matter here? What do those men seek, and why do you cry so?"

 The cheap brew from the tavern had done little for his own desire to forget his past but the word he got was that a merchant was selling a wagon full of bugmans brew.

 He made good haste to the merchant and even paid the overpriced coin the merchant demanded. It took a little work but he managed to crate it and to put some in a padded bag so it would not break.

 Imbibing of the proper dwarven brew he made his way back to the exit and waited for the group to finish what ever they were doing with the spineless count.

 OOC: he has a footlocker sized crate as well as a gunney sack with straw and several bottles within.