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With his thick accent, Vulpert can make sense of only some of what the little man is yelling into his face. He does key in on one pertinent fact however, and impatiently waits for Willard to finish before pouncing upon the statement like a starving man on a crust of bread. "Verena? Verena you said? Are you a magistrate then? Or a barrister?" The bonepicker tries not to get his hopes up, but a lawyerly sort might well be their salvation should they be going before some dwarf-judge.
Reading as best he can over Willard's shoulder while he scribbles, Vulpert cannot help but be impressed by the oddly-accented little man. His letters are well-formed and from what he can decipher of it from his street-learning the actual plea makes some sense. For the first time since entering this Sigmar-forsaken settlement, Vulpert feels a bit better about his lot. An odd thing to feel while awaiting his fate in a cold, dank cell after a midnight run-in with a crazed chaos-dwarf-innkeeper who cooks lousy-tasting mutton. To Willard, "Hullo, I see that you are a man of letters and apprentice of the College. I've never had reason to hate wizards, if you indeed are one. I have not made your acquaintance yet, Vulpert Schwartzhahn at your service."
Vulpert considers his chances of fighting his way through a few score surly and obviously well-armed dwarf constables and thinks better of it. As he is led into his cell he notes that pot-bellied halfling for the first time and wonders how he draws these types to him like flies. He hears the little man speak and his curiosity gets the better of him, "Who or what are you then?"
Vulpert dons his shabby garb again, momentarily reaching up to adjust his hat. When his hand reaches his bare head, he pauses and releases a drawn out sigh. He looks at the wide-brimmed, blood and ichor-stained mess that lies next to Rikarus, the innkeeper and the fallen Lawbringers. Turning his back, he instead follows the others outside.
The night air refreshes Vulpert but he is distracted just the same. Trying to collect himself, he keeps his head down, watching the boots of the others in front of him as he walks. When he hears the lead Lawbringer shout, he looks up in surprise.
Vulpert paces the end of the hallway, his inherent cowardice somehow halted when he got out of the miasma of foul smelling fumes that erupted from the shattered orb. Incredulous, putting his head in his hands, he struggles to come to grips with the fact that he is miraculously alive. The din of screaming Lawbringers and the awful wet retching sounds that Rikarus the Ferryman made before he perished still fill his ears. The whole freakish circumstance that just occurred seems so very surreal, he questions his own sanity for a moment. ...the mutton was rubbery... This thought, unbidden, is the trigger, and the bonepicker begins wretching violently over the stairwell's bannister. The crowd of curious patrons below suddenly scatter in every direction. The fool ferryman gave his life to save them. Vulpert had fully expected him to die at some point because of his foolishness and naivete, but never in such a manner as he did. The moral implications on his worldview were mind-numbing. Why? Why would anyone ever do something like that? The dwarf, Korgidd, would likely find it hilarious that his erstwhile companion had his hollow conscience threatened by a simple act of selfless heroism. But that was not Vulpert's world. Even so, he now had doubts, dire doubts about everything he thought he firmly believed. Seeing Kol speaking with the remaining Lawbringers, he staggers in their direction, wiping the filth from his face, eager to be led, to not have to think. Clearing his throat, he mumbles to the shaken dwarf constable, "Where are you taking us?"
Vulpert watches the mad ferryman pounce upon the globe as his hat gently comes to rest on one side. Momentarily baffled by Rikarus' actions, the shouted warning and sounds of the Lawgiver's pistols discharging bring him back to himself, and he bounds down the hallway for the stairs to the lower floor. He thinks of Rikarus and winces. One can always come by another hat, however.
"Don't touch it!" Tossing bow and arrow to one side with a clatter, Vulpert grabs his much-traveled, wide-brimmed hat from his head and tosses it with a slight spinning backhand toward the descending globe. His lips pinch together in trepidation and in his mind's eye he tries to envision the orb landing like a hen's egg in a straw-filled nest.
"Ahem, Lawgiver! I have asked for justice in this matter. The innkeeper has my coin for the cost of his door and more. All I ask is that the balance in question be returned to my purse and he can keep the remainder to settle, our, eh, unintentional vandalism. If you fear the defrocking of some servant of Chaos, so be it... "But let it be known....err, ahem, I, that is, I am, Mr. Vulpert Schwartzhahn late of Nuln of the Emperor's, err, Empire, bastard son of some wastrel mercenary and the whore Engrid "Ruby" Schwartzhahn, at least she always said it was a mercenary, when my addled mother wasn't in her cups, that is. Hmmm...ahhh...My word is, well, my word, I suppose, and by my bristles I challenge this conniving embezzler to meet in the Circle on the morrow should this, ahem, not be settled!" "Alright?"
Never expecting in his short, rough life that he would ever be relieved to be stripping naked in front of a cadre of well-armed dwarfs aiming pistols at him, it takes Vulpert all of a moment to comply. Making a somewhat sour face as he peers down at the end results, he ponders about exactly when he last bathed. He eyes the innkeeper warily, keeping himself well away from reach.
Vulpert takes in the reaction of the dwarf to Kol and the bizarre hedge wizard's recounting of events. Not liking the fact that the lead Lawgiver's impassive face is as unreadable as the statues he has lately seen of the stout folk, he bites his tongue, not sure if he will be dooming his companions with his lie or saving them. "It is true, honorable Lawgivers, that my friend is responsible for the vandalism to the innkeeper's door. It is also true that some horrid trampling upon the inn's roof roused him to awaken in such a state he feared for the life of his kinsman in the neighboring room." "You, above all, should know that the cry of a wounded axe-brother does not go unanswered. The Men of the North share your devotion to duty, your brothers-in-arms, and doing what is honorable." "When I awoke to follow him, we all realized the error we had made. Although we still did not know the origin of the shambling ruckus on the roof, our screaming kinsman had merely succumbed to a nightmare borne of bad mutton. When the innkeeper arrived to discover the origin of the din, we immediately offered to make reparations, and warned him of the fact that he may indeed have a burglar upon his roof! Enraged at the strewn kindling that once was a very stout dwarf-door in his inn, he at first did not see reason, brandishing the very cleaver he so courteously cut our mutton with earlier this very evening. Despite our repeated attempts to calm him, I think he believed we were the very burglars that we sought to warn him of! When I proffered coins to make amends, I reached out for his hand to press them upon it, and in so doing, disturbed the front of his garb. As I took my hand away, a wide staring eye, part of his own tainted flesh looked back upon me! I raised the alarum, and feel fortunate now that you came running so quickly despite the late hour." "It is truly a testament to dwarfen vigilance that you arrived before something worse could happen. We are merely travelers, and have no desire to impede your investigation into what may very well be the infiltration of Chaos into one of your business establishments. I ask only that you look beneath the innkeeper's garb, to see the wretched, leering orb for yourselves. If you doubt the truth of my tale, merely look anyway and retrieve my coin that he dropped into his pockets for payment so that accounts can truly be settled between us. I am fully and truly willing to accept your impartial judgment in this matter so that we can get to the bottom of this affair."
Vulpert steeples his fingers in front of his face, taking deep, controlled breaths to shake the squirming sensation that seems to have infested his mind. Over the last minute, he has alternately denied and reaffirmed to himself that there was, indeed, and eye staring out at him from under the innkeeper's clothing. As the Lawgiver interrogates Kol and Willard, Vulpert begins to weave the threads of prevarication into a tightly-woven lie that he can tell the Lawgivers as a pretext for them to search the tainted dwarf. He only hopes that Kol and Willard don't anger or confuse the angry dwarf constables even more than they are now. A faint hope, at best. As a last resort, he examines the innkeeper's garb to judge just how much of a yank it would take to defrock him at one go. Hopefully it would not come to that, but with the alternative being a fetid dwarf prison...
Ironically, a palpable sense of relief floods through Vulpert upon seeing the Lawgivers pointing their pistols at him. He very slowly lowers his bow in the fear that the dwarf guards have itchy trigger fingers. He points very slowly to them, and speaks as if trying to communicate to a deaf and dumb child, enunciating each word clearly and distinctly: "The innkeeper has the tainted touch of the North upon him. Look 'neath his nightrobe and you will assuredly have something looking back at you!"
Were it not for the new buffoon bursting on the scene, Vulpert might never have been able to regain his senses after seeing the wet eye staring at him from beneath the innkeeper's clothing. Even with the 'dwarf' begging for mercy, combined with the cacophony of those in the hallway and downstairs, and the terrified pounding of his own heart, he would not have been able to regain his composure. Something about the the absurdity of the newcomer's conversation with Kol does the trick however. Finding his voice, the moisture suddenly returning to his too-dry throat, Vulpert shouts over them, eyes wide and frantic. "Under his garb, EYES! EYES on his flesh, they're looking at us, even now! EYES! He carries the taint!" Vulpert fumbles for his bow, staggers back a few paces and desperately nocks an arrow, pointing it at the prostrate dwarf-thing's face.
Momentarily stunned by his violent collision with the sturdy dwarf, Vulpert quickly comes to his senses. He frantically scampers backward, crab-walking as fast he can as the innkeeper's cleaver comes down with the force of Sigmar's Hammer, splitting the floorboard within inches of the bonepicker's manhood. Unable to hear the entreaties of his companions over the din of the enraged dwarf and the grumbling from downstairs, he desperately reaches for his sword. "I think we have more than just a problem outside about now!"
Vulpert hesitates for a moment, considering the implications of what his next action might be. Always one to weigh the consequences, he ponders just what the Lawgiver's dungeons are like. Of course, he only need worry about that if he should survive a violent confrontation with an angry dwarf innkeeper hefting a cleaver like he means to castrate a bull. His gut, preposterously, tells him it is the right decision. Looking at the befuddled, frightened, and intense faces of his companions, he instead tries to think like them. Before he knows what is happening, Vulpert hurtles toward the innkeeper, his shoulder lowered to knock him down the steeply pitched stairwell.
Hearing the commotion, Vulpert climbs from the bed, adjusting his hat over his eyes, and creeps back out into the corridor. His intention is to take one last peek at what is going on, perhaps for a laugh, before going to bed for good, but a feeling of deep unease grows as he nears the corridor. When he sees the innkeeper brandishing the cleaver so brazenly in front of his nervous and heavily-armed companions, something seems to fall into place. Something is not quite right to him.
Seeing his advantageous position, Vulpert draws his sword. He then creeps up behind the dwarf, positioning his finger in front of his face to mime silence to his compatriots.
Vulpert finds he can hear the irate innkeeper through the door to the room just fine. Despite himself, he listens carefully to what is said, slightly unnerved and unsure why.
Hearing the footfalls, Vulpert slowly backs away from the entrance to Rikarus and Korgidd's room and casually returns to his own without saying a word. He closes the door behind him quietly, savoring the silence for a moment before climbing into his bed again. He leaves Kol and the others to explain the foolishness. Closing his eyes again, he tries to maintain a sense of calm. Muttering to himself through clenched teeth, "In the end you may be wealthy. Remember this. In the end it will have all been worth it..." It is impossible for him, however, to get the image of the ferryman chewing the apple core, mouth open, food flying about in every direction from his mind.
Vulpert looks meaningfully in both directions down the corridor before looking past Kol to the obviously chagrined Rikarus. He cranes his head toward the ceiling in hopes that he can hear the noise that Kol spoke of, but doubts are already beginning to fill his mind. A part of him is now suspects that Rikarus' dream could be the source of the present commotion. "All I wanted was to sleep! Do we really need to do this at every tavern and roadhouse we end up staying in!?!"
Vulpert actually flinches and drops his bow when he hears the ex-ferryman's high-pitched shriek. Reaching down and retrieving his wayward weapon, he nearly trips over the blanket while following the hulking form of Kol as the Norscan charges out the door, bellowing something in the phlegmy-sounding accent of his homeland. "Kol, Kol, wait...Kol..." He gives a nervous glance to the ceiling when left alone in the doorway and then hastily takes off down the hallway after his companion.
Vulpert wakes from a deep sleep to find the Norscan shaking him, the wide whites of his eyes standing out like beacons from his pale skin in the gloom. A moment of pure unbridled terror grips him when the first thought to enter his head is that the warrior is sleepwalking and dreaming of wenching something. It passes when he notices that Kol is pantomiming like a Kislevite peasant-mummer that something is on the roof. Vulpert hears it immediately, and knows a deeper fear. The bonepicker reaches for his bow and nocks an arrow, manuevering himself as far from the window as possible, while pointing the drawn bow in that direction. He hisses, "When did it start? What in the winding warp is it!?!"
Uncomfortably filled with mutton, Vulpert trails Kol to their room, only taking a cursory interest in the Norscan's elaborate securing of the door. Removing his boots while wincing at the blisters and the heady smell of his own feet, Vulpert reclines back on the bed. He leans his rusty sword against the bedside table within reach while making a suitably exaggerated expression of appreciation for Kol's mindfulness of their safety. Before he can even roll his eyes at Kol's smile of acknowledgement, the bonepicker is fast asleep.
Vulpert chews on the rubbery mutton and wonders why the dwarves prefer it so overcooked. He once had a conversation with a dwarf stonemason in Nuln named Gurrni who said something about cooking meat fully to stave off disease. Hrmph, still tasted like shoe leather. As he chews, smacking his lips audibly, his mouth ruminating over his meal, his mind ruminating over the days events, Vulpert thinks back to Frau Van Vechten and the heavy spoon she used to punish those boys in the orphanage who would not chew in silence. Thinking of her, he chews louder, even opening his mouth a bit wider, smiling with glee that the old crone is thirty winters in the ground. Damn the dwarfs if this insulted their table sensibilities. The Frau did have some words of wisdom, however, and a few of these came back to him even as he 'honored' her memory. "Korgidd, an old woman who once beat me with a seven-pound stew-spoon used to tell me that you should always bake two meat pies if company was coming, because you never knew if one would be maggoty. I think for all of our sakes we should have a contingency plan in place if Turok is treacherous. I have an inkling he means to win at any cost, and is not above a dishonorable act to assure this for himself."
Vulpert merely nods at Korgidd's answer, expecting as much. There was something to be said for the predictability of the dwarf mindset. Honor trumped all, and if you knew this, a dwarf more than likely could never surprise you. As he enters the inn, briefly wondering what a 'Gorlaz' is, and whether or not it's touch would be something he would like to experience, Vulpert admires the innkeeper's golden chain. One other thing to be said about dwarfs, they loved their shiny trinkets. It seemed Korgidd had taken an interest in the gaudy thing as well. If he was careful, correction, very careful Vulpert felt he would leave Dragon Crag far wealthier than when he entered. The trick was avoiding the scrutiny of the Lawgivers. In other circumstances, Vulpert would have endeavored to be mindful of dwarf custom and etiquette, but the days events had soured and exhausted him. Looking at the dwarf with the golden necklace he deadpans, "Tell me you have mutton here."
Vulpert tries to drive the nauseating image of two dwarves wrestling near-naked while covered in greasy animal lard from his mind. As the streets wind and turn, he tries to gauge Korgidd's mood. Unable to decide if the dwarf's anger over his honor being called into question has subsided, he decides to chance a question anyway. "I wouldn't dare call into question your honor or courage, Korgidd, but answer me truly, will the pit-fighter hold advantage over you if this bout is without weapons or armor?"
It almost pains Vulpert to believe the man was genuinely innocent, but his nose for truth is usually spot on. Lifting the man to his feet, he steps aside and gestures toward the throng. "Off with you then. If you in fact have the coin that the pit-fighter spoke of, be sure to bet it upon the crazed dwarf that just saved your miserable life for the sake of his brain-addled honor. I will expect my cut when you collect your winnings!" I sure hope our guide knows what he is doing...
Seeing Rikarus approach again, Vulpert eyes him sarcastically and answers, "Yes, quite the swirling undertow of humanity, I'm surprised you didn't get pushed to the base of the mountains." Looking at the wretch before him, and overhearing Korgidd's oath, the bonepicker lifts the man bodily to his feet, hissing in his ear, "First, tell me your name. Following that, we will be suitably introduced to one another. You can then tell me, as your friend, benefactor, and one of your rescuers who it was that forced you to agree to this wager. If you answer with haste, and truly, I promise, dear friend, that your secret will be safe with me." Vulpert, is lying, of course.
Trying to remain just a face in the crowd when the Lawgiver's arrive, Vulpert looks down his pock-marked nose at the grovelling man before his boots. "I should like to know why you owe the pit-fighter fifty crowns, friend. Your little mummers farce just now has put quite a crimp in my...errr... I should say our plans. I believe the least a fellow such as yourself should be able to do is provide your erstwhile saviors a bit of an explanation, eh?" Vulpert, seeing the nigh-oblivious Kol squinting into the crowd looking for him, waves back with a half-smile, pointing to the man crawling before him. Frowning, Vulpert then looks around for Rikarus. Spotting him concealed even deeper than he in the crowd, he grimaces slightly, and thinks, 'Best to watch that ferryman, his stomach for a scrap seems even less than mine. Wouldn't serve well if he skipped the fray before me when things come to blows.'
As Vulpert watches the crowd gather, the sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach evolves into a gnashing maelstrom of rollicking bile. He knows full well from experience that any grudge-mongering dwarf worth his salt, once the challenge has been issued, cannot back down, and the skinny human knew the moment that Korgidd met Turok's glare that things wouldn't end well. He walks to within ten paces of Korgidd, close enough so that he can show a scant measure of solidarity with the dwarf, but not so close that his burly adversary can see it as a threat. "A pit fighter, eh?" he bemusedly mutters for Korgidd and Kol to hear. "Then this wretch here, mightn't be his ringer to goad you then?" he points at the wretch wallowing in the mud. Vulpert sighs deeply. As if noticing something for the first time, he looks pointedly from Kol to his bag of cutlery and back again, one eyebrow arched sarcastically. "Kol. You dropped your silverware."
Perception test=87, Failed. Needed 36 or lower. He will also ask some folk in the assembled throng what they know of the dwarf pit fighter and this particular debt owed to him.
Vulpert elbows Rikarus sharply in the ribs. "No guards!" The guards will likely arrest or beat the lot of us if they show up. Let our grouchy dwarf speak to the infuriated dwarf and see if he can sort this out. I'm tired of being everyone's 'manling' anyway." Vulpert watches the dwarf closely just the same, trying to determine if he can be reasoned with or otherwise gives any sign as to what he intends to do.
Vulpert eyes the unfolding scene with an upraised eyebrow and more than a little bit of relief, seeing that it has managed to distract the players in Kol's little romantic drama. However, when Korgidd begins blustering about dwarven law while trying to intervene on the man's behalf, the smile on Vulpert's face disappears as quickly as it came. Here we go again. Walking a good distance behind the dwarf so that he can beat a hasty retreat if things go very badly, Vulpert stays close enough so that he can assist Korgidd with a well-timed bow shot if the need arises, and the risk is worthwhile. "Ah, Korgidd...Korgidd...perhaps, ummm..."
Vulpert winces when he realizes that in the second he was looking over his shoulder to make certain that Rikarus was keeping up, Kol has managed to begin sniffing around the skirts of some ragbound waif of a girl. Worse yet, he notices the pair of lean and feral looking young hoodlums that are even now watching the warrior with thinly-veiled enmity from the shadow of a half-collapsed porch of some alms house. If he is lucky they are only her pimps, if not, they could be her brothers. Trying to remain nonchalant so as not to upset the delicate situation, he calls over to the Norscan in a friendly and measured voice, "The dwarf is right, Kol, my friend, we must not tarry overlong. Truth be told, I am sure there are many more young ladies with a bit more meat on their bones that will welcome you with a tankard in hand." Grumbling to himself Vulpert wonders, '....how did he survive this long, how?!?'
Vulpert discretely peers at his surroundings as the group navigates the streets. By his very nature he finds himself looking for anything of value that may be unattended while simultaneously speculating on the severity of the dwarf penal codes. The uncomfortable thoughts of slaving away for the rest of his days in some forsaken mine did not appeal to him very much, so he turns his attention to their guide, "So, err, Korgidd, where was it that you said we were going?"
"Pfeh. I think that Rikarus has piss enough for the lot of us if his little act by the gate is any indication. Just the same, it will do these tired bones good to find a warm hearth and bed after such a long journey. I could also abide a round of spirits or two, as well..." Vulpert then mutters under his breath, "but Sigmar help me if I want to smell anything like either of you after a draught."
Vulpert smiles to himself when the dwarf sentry challenges the burly Norscan, pointedly ignoring him despite Vulpert's own height and eccentric appearance. Kol had been the one drawing the stares of everyone they chanced to meet on the road, and this was perfectly to Vulpert's satisfaction. It was better to be coldly disregarded than the focus of a crotchety dwarf with a crossbow. In truth, Vulpert was surprised that Kol had made it to Karak Azgal at all. Since they had set out, he had been waiting for the Norscan to anger someone he could not best in a brawl, or wench the wrong woman away from some bloodthirsty mercenary and get himself killed. Norscan folk art sold well in the Empire, and he certainly wouldn't need such trinkets in whatever wolf-worshiping afterlife he believed in. The drinking horn was a particularly nice piece. Very nice. Vulpert had befriended the befuddled foreigner, offering his services as a guide during his travels through the Empire. The Norscan had even been amenable to his ridiculous fee (Vulpert suspected he didn't quite have a handle on the rate of exchange yet, not a bad thing). Vulpert just never expected the scam to last so long. With his brash nature and poor language skills he fully expected to be pawning the brute's armor long ago. The funny thing was, every scrape the pair managed to get into (even the few Vulpert had inadvertently begun) they managed to survive. The Norscan was a beast when roused, and the bonepicker had lost track of how many men he had eviscerated already. That was when the seed of an idea formed in Vulpert's mind. He had suggested the wealth to be gleaned from Dragon Crag, and the Norscan had been so enthusiastic it had taken very little convincing at all. Now against all odds, they were here. Vulpert even thought the poor lummox genuinely liked him! Looking into his purse, Vulpert counted out five bent shillings leaving a solitary one behind. Whatever may happen, he planned to leave this place with his purse full again. Rubbing the coins together, he walks purposefully behind the hulking Norscan, trying to remain as unobtrusive as possible, whispering to the northerner: "Kol, show the dwarf the coin in your hand as you approach so that he does not feather us. I will happily translate if you wish, but the coin in your hand is the only real language dwarf folk converse in or understand." Vulpert crouches when Kol turns back toward the dwarf tollkeeper, unashamedly making a human shield out of the Norscan.
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