Follow the Flood Road (Inactive)

Game Master Transylvanian Tadpole

Fourth lap of six

Note that this is the lap preceding Bonegrit’s most excellent roll of two natural 20s out of three.

The Strander Stakes are beginning to take their toll, with only sixteen horses still in the running. Most of the fallers have been no-hopers pushing themselves too far at the back of the pack, but one of the four has been favourite El-Mehrik.

Arnisant’s Valour’s growing promise is finally fulfilled on this lap. Despite his undistinguished start, his rider Dundrin Seventoes has cannily kept him in touch with the leaders. Now the race has passed the half-way point, Dundrin has really let the bay-brown courser go.

For four laps, Tallaset Tarn has set a blistering pace at the head of the field, but as the stallion hurtles past those last Spookers not to have given up their antics in favour of a comfortable spot on the grass and a cup of good ale, Arnisant’s Valour sails serenely past into first.

A roar of excitement ripples along the course, advertising the change of position to the larger crowds at Henswain long before the two frontrunners come out of the shadows of the Great Golden Oak to twist around the dogleg turn that points them back towards the start line. As they run this stretch, Tallaset Tarn continues to drop away, and the commotion amongst the spectators just gets louder.

Further back, Isabellina’s Arrow surges on, but fast as the pearl destrier is might be, the wild hollering of the disagreeable young lady astride Halamay Eclipsed does not abate. In fact, it only grows stronger. Bonegrit doesn’t give her the satisfaction of a reaction as she retakes third with a drawn-out, crowing “Haaaaa . . . !”

Bonegrit also keeps a wary eye on the onlookers lining the track, the slopes of the Escarpment and the branches of the Great Golden Oak. For the meantime though, it appears the thrill of the contest has overwhelmed the prejudices of the Vigilants.

Further back, Samair finally seems to have recovered from his earlier collision. In short order, the Qadiran gelding blasts past Kellid Mead and Words of the Prelate, and by the close of the lap he’s not far adrift of Bonegrit and the Arrow.

“You see!” Kaleb shouts excitedly at Pellius. “The race is far from over!”

Fifth lap of Sixth

Led by Arnisant’s Valour, the horses turn at Henswain and head back out along the course, driving towards the distant Turning Post for the last time. Tallaset Tarn follows, then Isabellina’s Arrow, who is putting in a tremendous burst of speed. Presented with a mess of stragglers finishing their own lap, like his namesake, Dierik’s mighty steed fires straight through them without fear. Horses swerve and veer to avoid the Arrow. Kellid Mead is particularly unfortunate, dodging right to the edge of the unfenced course. Wobbling along the crest of the Path River’s steeply sloping bank, Kellid Mead’s halfling rider slips from the saddle and crashes into the river, to the derisive laughter of the watching crowd.

Again Halamay Eclipsed is forced to relinquish third to the Arrow, and this time her obnoxious rider has nothing to say in protest, finally muted by the awesome power of the thundering destrier. Nonetheless, Halamay Eclipsed slips into the Arrow’s wake and stays there doggedly.

Arnisant’s Valour, the flagging Talaset Tarn, Isabellina’s Arrow and Halamay Eclipsed seem the clear contenders for the win, and as their flying hooves eat up the torn ground beneath their feet, they close up on each other. Arnisant’s Valour reaches the Turning Post four lengths ahead of the others, but of the following three, almost nothing separates them as they wheel about to begin the final lap.

The rest of the field trail these champions. Despite his earlier turn of speed, Samair cannot close the gap with the leaders. Behind him come Words of the Prelate, Enliforis, Peculiar Pasara, and further back again the rest.

Bonegrit – please make a Ride check of 2d20+18 for the first two thirds of the final lap. Gain an additional +4 circumstance bonus to represent the momentum Isabellina’s Arrow has built on the previous lap (due to two natural 20s!). Thus your roll should be 2d20+22. You're also permitted to make another wild empathy check to increase your bonus yet further.

Also make a Perception check if you please.

We’ll make the rolls for the final stage later for added drama!

Finally, it’s worth mentioning you quite at liberty to use a hero point at this stage in the race to improve your chances of victory. This could be somewhat incautious considering it might be a while before you get another one, and there are dangerous times ahead, but it would certainly be heroic. If you are interested in burning a hero point, let me know and I’ll sketch out some ideas about how one could be used to help you.

Wild Empathy Check: 1d20 + 2 ⇒ (5) + 2 = 7

Bonegrit, now wary of attempting to steer the race at this point, seems to resign himself to the fact that this is truly Arrow's race, and continues letting the horse dictate his own pace.

Ride Checks: 2d20 + 22 ⇒ (4, 11) + 22 = 37

The half-orc spares a few glances over his right shoulder to Halamay Eclipsed and the small girl that sits atop the swift animal, though it distracts him from some of the action up ahead. She rides well. If it were someone as scrawny as her on the Arrow instead of me, he'd likely be a lap ahead of the others by now. Bonegrit smirks slightly and half grunts, half chuckles. "Maybe it's time to use size to our advantage."

Perception Check: 1d20 + 8 ⇒ (3) + 8 = 11 (+1 to avoid being surprised)

Bonegrit, aiming to remove an obstacle between he and the new frontrunner, Arnisant's Valour, leans forward and grunts strategy into the pearly ear of his steed. "That fop of a horse is half your size and taking your birthright, friend." Bonegrit's eyes seize Tallaset Tarn as he continues, "he's fast, no denying. But how's his grit? Make him heel! Show him your ire!"

I am not sure what tricks Arrow knows; Bonegrit is attempting to coerce Isabellina's Arrow into intimidating Tallaset Tarn with the Menace trick (DC 20 Handle Animal). If that's not the case, he's trying to "Push" him into performing the trick (DC 25); this is all assuming that this is an action he can perform during the race, of course.
Handle Animal Check ("Push" or Menace) 1d20 + 6 ⇒ (19) + 6 = 25

Bonegrit and Isabellina’s Arrow round the Turning Post and thunder through the Shying a final time. Most of the Spookers have grown bored with their task and given up, but a few persist, clanging discordant bells and flourishing flapping battle banners at the passing horses.

One Spooker, his or face concealed by a papier-mâché mask painted lurid green to resemble an orc grabs a rock – or is it a thunderstone? – and hurls it the half-orc.

A thunderstone it is – but a faulty one! Before the Spooker can even hurl it, the thing detonates in his hand with a loud bang. The sonic blast caused by its explosion is sufficient to blow his fragile orc mask to fragments, leaving Bonegrit’s would-be attacker wringing his scorched hand as he stumbles around drunkenly, the thunderstone having momentarily shattered his sense of balance. He’s lucky not to get ridden down under the hooves of Halamay Eclipsed; another quick-acting bystander jumps over to prevent him staggering into the middle of the race course.

Bonegrit sees none of this – his attention is centred firmly on his race as he encourages the Arrow to loom over the smaller Tallaset Tarn tearing along beside them.

more later, gotta go to work now

Hahaha, that is priceless.

Having established the Arrow as a horse of noble mien, I’d rule menace is not in his repertoire. However, Bonegrit’s roll is good enough for a ‘push’, so they’re successful. The effects differ a little from RAW as written, as described below. Also see the Discussion thread for revised standings.

Inch by inch, Isabellina’s Arrow gets closer and closer to Tallaset Tarn. Their proximity underlines the vast difference in size, the pearl Arrow over eighteen hands, the smaller Vigilant Courser barely making fifteen. Bonegrit now uses this added mass to his advantage as he draws abreast of Tallaset Tarn and crowds the dun coloured gelding to the edge of the track.

With the river on one side and the wall presented by Isabellina’s Arrow on the other, Tallaset Tarn's young rider is forced to relinquish his place to give himself enough space to jump the Ashelflow safely.

The leaders leap across the stream, Arnisant’s Valour still in the lead but Isabellina’s Arrow now firmly in second. Under the Great Golden Oak they go, Tallaset Tarn fighting hard not to allow Halamay Eclipsed past in the Arrow’s steps. They swing around the dogleg turn, the last stretch of the course ahead of them. The spectators have gathered in droves around the Henswain, and already their cheering can be heard in anticipation of the finish.

Much further back, Samair’s second wind continues, but his newfound speed has come too late. The Qadiran runs alone, too far behind the front of the field to catch up, but well clear of the remaining runners led by Words of the Prelate, Enliforis and Peculiar Pasara.

Bonegrit – it’s time to decide how to spend that Hero Point, if it gets spent at all.

With Delkaneth indisposed with work, we’ll consider him ‘lost in the crowd’ until he chirps up :-)

Kaleb casts an eye at the course one final time. For a moment his gaze rests on something, and then he turns his back on the Strander Stakes.

“I may not know a winner anymore, Pellius,” he says with a sigh “But I know a race. He’s running well, but he won’t come higher than fifth now. I’ll hold you to those drinks though, be sure of that. You can tell me if Arnisant’s Valour holds it to the line this evening. I’ll see you in at the Tiercel in the Hand.”

Kaleb starts to walk away, and for the first time Pellius notices the frayed and tattered edges of his clothes, the faded, washed out colours of the prancing ponies that decorate his waistcoat, the tarnished brass of the buckles on his belt and suspenders, and the limp, empty purse flapping against the halfling's thigh.

Bonegrit is going to blow a Hero Point to tie the leader.

Isabellina's Arrow is keeping pace with Arnisant's Valour through the last stretch of the race, and Bonegrit's expressions and gestures betray the overwhelming excitement that grips him as he comes within view of the Henswain for the last time - Gorum's garters, I can actually win this! His yellow eyes shoot instinctively towards Arnisant's rider, the pair's eyes locking for the briefest of moments before a tusky grin splits the half-orc's face. "Fly, Arrow, fly!"

The half-orc's eyes search frantically across the field ahead, now half in ruin from the onslaught of four score horse hooves - firmly packed dirt now chopped up and trampled muddy. Bonegrit attempts to gleen the firmest path available, knowing the soft dirt and muck will hinder Arrow's progress, whereas unyielding ground will allow the beast to leverage his unbridled power.

Perception Check (trying to establish a firm track on the approach to the finish line): 1d20 + 8 ⇒ (5) + 8 = 13

The half-orc does not snap the reins, nor gouge with spur, nor crack a crop; he just continues growling, with growing volume, "Fly. Fly. Fly! Fly! Fly! Fly!"

Okay; fingers crossed -- Ride Check: 1d20 + 9 ⇒ (14) + 9 = 23

*Edit: and on the off chance a Wild Empathy Check is permissable on the last stretch :P -- 1d20 + 2 ⇒ (15) + 2 = 17

Grumbling curses under him breath in Infernal, Delkaneth tries to push his way through the crowd to reconnect with his companion and their new 'friend'. Still curious about what he just interrupted, he presses on. His persistence pays off as he sees a familiar firm suddenly hoisted up into the air.

Ah, a beacon to follow...... With a smile the young man follows in Bonegrits wake.

With the Escarpment between Pellius and the Shying (which runs from the Ashelflow to the Turning Post), Pellius wouldn’t have seen the Spooker’s thunderstone accident. However, he does notice the following.

I believe I have a roll to make . . .

This will be a straight roll of almost equals, Arnisant’s Valour’s +10 against Bonegrit’s +9. We won’t factor in Bonegrit’s wild empathy, nor his perception check for the best path (good idea though it is). Equally, Arnisant’s Valour won’t get to use that unrolled tipster reroll. 23 is the number to beat, pretty good, but is it good enough?

Bonegrit rises in his saddle as he sees the Henswain ahead. People are packed close on both sides of the churned up track, the sound of their shouting and cheering rising to a din. Beneath him, Isabellina’s Arrow is blowing hard, but the mighty warhorse is undaunted, his strength and fortitude refusing to flag despite the long race. With long strides that speak equally of grace and power he keeps pace with Arnisant’s Valour, the lithe Vigilant Courser tearing up the muddied ground as he runs like a hare. Bonegrit and Dundrin Seventoes exchange glances, and for a moment the seasoned halfling jockey matches the half-orc’s grin, both riders sharing in the beguiling exultation of spurring their courageous mounts to the fastest speed attainable.

Then inch by inch, Dundrin’s stallion slips away. Ahead the lilac ribbon dances in the breeze, stretched loosely across the finish line. Isabellina’s Arrow snorts in victory, shakes his ears, accelerates yet more, and with Arnisant’s Valour just a length behind, crosses the line.
The crowd explodes, their cheering reaching fever pitch. So caught up are they in the drama of the moment Bonegrit can’t tell if they are celebrating or decrying his victory. To be truthful, the crowd probably does know either. Even far away in the caravan’s encampment, Crooked Callan and Dunagan hear the distant roar and know the Strander Stakes has a victor.

Behind them, the other horses come in, Tallaset Tarn holding onto third by just a nose from Halamay Eclipsed. After a few breaths Samair follows in fifth, then a little while later Words of the Prelate, Enliforis, Peculiar Pasara, and the rest of the runners trickle in.

The lilac ribbon still coiled around the horse’s neck, Bonegrit lets Isabellina’s Arrow wind down to a canter, a trot and then a walk. Around him the hubbub of the masses begins to resolve into differing cries and opinions.

“A champion! A champion!”
“An unheard of triumph! The drafthorse beats a field of coursers!”
“Shame!”
“Get that swinesired half-breed of the back of that magnificent beast!”
“The Arrow flies furthest!!!”
“A Stakes for the history books. What a nailbiter!”
“The pride of Vigil!”
“The pride of Vigil should stay in Vigil!”

A flimsy fence of willow stakes lines the approach to the Henswain’s winner’s paddock, and it looks in danger of buckling under the press of men and women jostling to get a view of the champion. A handful of Watchknights are struggling to hold back the tide of interest, but despite the vocal naysayers, the mood has yet to turn ugly.

In the small enclosure stands a temporary stage, where a handful of dignitaries are waiting to receive the victor. Bonegrit sees the beautiful maiden whose dropped handkerchief signalled the beginning of the race holding a trophy, the minstrel Sharina Legendsinger, and a portly, officious older man with a suit of fine cut, a tall hat and an enormous, grey handlebar moustache.

There is a commotion to the side of the paddock, Dierik and Santrian extricating themselves from the crush. As Dierik ducks under the railing, a bystander shouts “We’re happy to see the back of you, but kindly leave the Arrow here. You’re no loss on the end of rusty orcish spear, but that beauty doesn’t deserve to be butchered for horsemeat!”

Not a few jeers of support ring out at this statement, and it prompts Dierik to swing about and grab the heckler. A few low, snarling insults flash back and forth before Santrian drags his master away. Shaking his head, Dierik stalks into the paddock to a fanfare of boos. As his blue eyes meet Bonegrit’s yellow ones, his expression changes, and the derision fades to his ears. He strides quickly over, throwing his arms around the Arrow’s neck before extending his hand towards Bonegrit.

“My faith in you was not misplaced, my friend,” he says.

First Master Deramil also appears at Bonegrit’s side, the half-elf seeming to have found a way through the crowd without any fuss at all. He nods to Bonegrit in a cursory way, but it’s clear his real attention is on whatever needs the Arrow might have.

Dierik glances at the Vigilants arrayed about the winner’s paddock. Some people are still cheering, but numerous stony faces and sneering yells are also in evidence.

“I guess we’d better get on that stage and off it again in no short order,” he tells Bonegrit.

A quick round-up of where everyone is. Bonegrit is at the Henswain’s winners’ paddock. Del and Pyotr are near the finish line, presuming they follow the crowd to the winners’ paddock they’ll be present to see the events described above. If they linger with Mr. Limpy they’ll miss them. Pellius is still on the hill by the Escarpment. If his conversation with Kaleb is over he could also make it to the winners’ paddock in order to witness the trophy presentation. If there’s more to say he’ll miss it.

Although the crowd’s turning ugly, remember that most of those present (but certainly not all) are Vigilant citizens bearing at least the Shield Mark. They are Oathbound to treat people (including Oathless strangers such as Bonegrit) with honesty, fairness and respect. Although minor breaches of this code would not trigger the Shield Mark’s curse, they’re probably unlikely to show their displeasure with actual violence thanks to the prohibitions of their marks.

Delkaneth watches the man limp away until Pyotr speaks. His face becomes a mixture of pride and embarrassment at the compliment.

"My gut's always served me pretty well. But what did we just interrupt, I wonder?" Del turns his gaze back toward the limping man but he has already been swallowed up by the crowd.

"A question we may never be able to answer. But we can join our new friends in this victory!" They begin following the flow of the people toward the winner's paddock.

And hope my gut is wrong that they might really need a few extra hands if this crowd goes sour.

The thrill of his narrow victory washes over Bonegrit - a feeling as palpable as the heart that seems like it's trying to pound its way out of the half-orc's sweat drenched chest. As his nerves begin to settle, the remnants of a smile still hanging on his face, he offers a few affectionate pats to Arrow's neck. If I were a smidge more selfish, I might just ride you off into the sunset and never look back. The stallion shakes its head and Bonegrit perishes the thought, as if insisting he wishes to be rid of the grey-skinned pauper that dares to claim a saddle he is not fit to ride. So lost is Bonegrit in his own flights of fancy that he almost doesn't notice Dierik extending a hand up to him. The half-orc's smile deepens.

"I'm grateful, but not convinced. I don't think he found his feet until I stopped barkin' orders at him." Bonegrit accepts the proffered hand and vaults off of Isabellina's Arrow. His knees buckle and wobble a bit, and he nearly loses his feet for a brief moment.

Steadying himself at Dierik's expense, Bonegrit manages to find his feet and tries to joke away the embarrassment, "Shew! Win a race and your legs turn into pudding. Suppose there's some irony to that thought." He offers Arrow's reins to Deramil and gives the man a curt nod. "If ya got some apples about, I'd wager he's more than earned the whole lot."

His smile begins to wane as he finally turns his attention to the awaiting stage. "I think you're right. They haven't broken out the torches or nooses yet, but more than a few of 'em are staring murder at us."

Dunagan, although the roar was just about audible from the camp, the race course still some distance away – on the opposite side of Vigil to the dwarf’s current location. He might get there faster if he rides Cornalium (Crooked Callan can help him saddle her). Regardless of how he travels, he won’t arrive in time to see the trophy presented, but he might turn up in time lend a hand if any trouble arises.

To Bonegrit’s surprise, Deramil nods solemnly at his suggestion. “He’ll get as many as he desires.” It seems as close to praise as the half-elf is willing to offer for now.

With Deramil holding the proud horse’s reins and Bonegrit’s legs having rediscovered their equilibrium, Dierik and the Strander Stakes’ latest winner climb the slatted steps. The podium is no higher than a man’s waist, but the added height is enough for more of the audience to get a view of the contentious pair. An ominous, foreboding rustle seems to shake through the crowd, like the first gusting breath of an approaching storm.

“I’m sorry Bonegrit,” says Dierik quietly “The people of my city should greet you with nothing but cheers. Their fears have born a prejudice that masters them.”

The man of the great moustache bustles over to introduce himself. “I am High Ostler Morlandus, of Vigil’s Guild of Farriers, Breeders and Equine Geneaologists and Master of Ceremonies for the Strander Stakes today. You weren’t the favourite to win, and if you hadn’t noticed you’ve upset a lot of people. Let’s get this presentation over and done with before the day is marred by more drama.”

He turns impatiently to the gathered onlookers “And you all better behave yourselves with honour,” he bellows at the top of his voice “You’ve all backed the wrong runner enough times to know you don’t always get your own way. You might not like the man behind him or the halfbreed astride him, but Isabellina’s Arrow won the Strander Stakes fair and square, and I’ll see that it’s respected!”

He swings back to Bonegrit and Dierik, ushering them to the rear of the stage where the maiden clutches the trophy. She looks quite dismayed at the half-orc’s approach, but diplomatically holds her tongue.

The trophy resembles a three-pointed star formed by three silver horseshoes; each so large it could only have shod a giant’s steed. On the uppermost horseshoe is engraved the name of Isabellina’s Arrow, on the right Dierik Ironcoffer, but the third remains blank.

“The scriptorians never got your name, sir,” Morlandus addresses Bonegrit, “But if you furnish me with it now I’ll finish the job. The trophy will be displayed alongside those of all the other winners in the Guild’s Great Hall for posterity.”

The High Ostler holds an adamantine stylus in his hand.

-----

Delkaneth and Pyotr are in the crowd in front of the winner’s paddock. There it’s easier to gauge the mood of those around them. The feeling is not universally antagonistic, but it certainly seems the majority are unhappy to see Bonegrit and Dierik up on the stage.

“Wait till they present the trophy,” someone advises “Then let ‘em know what we think of their treacherous hides!”

Pellius, my apologies. Been at work for most of the day teaching surly teenagers. I was hoping to update for you and Kaleb as well this evening, but I think I'll need to leave that until tomorrow, as my brain shutting down :-)

Perception Check: 1d20 + 1 ⇒ (12) + 1 = 13

Pyotr, feeling very lighthearted after Bonegrit's victory, suddenly turns grave. "Delkaneth, be on your guard. This crowd means to pay the victory purse with curses and humiliations." Pyotr shakes his head regretfully. "Perhaps Ironcoffer has incurred this debt with his past behavior and his present hubris. But, this is an undeserved punishment for Bonegrit."

As long as it's only words and fruit, Pyotr will likely not attempt to intervene, out of concern of escalating the situation. However, he will be on his guard, and try to read the crowd's bearing as events unfold.

Sense Motive Check: 1d20 + 3 ⇒ (13) + 3 = 16

Pellius, if you do pursue the conversation (including asking Kaleb about the vial), I’d like you to make a Diplomacy check.

Perception: 1d20 + 3 ⇒ (7) + 3 = 10

Delkaneth returns Pyotr's grave expression with one of his own, swinging his head from side to side in order to scan the crowd.

"Not sure we're any good to him back here.....should we try and get closer?"

For the first time since his arrival in Vigil, he feels the weight of his position as Oathless as he tried to come up with a plan to deal with the crowd if it comes to that.

Sense Motive (untrained): 1d20 - 1 ⇒ (13) - 1 = 12

Do I have my weapons since we are outside the city, or are they enforcing the Sword/Shield mark here as well? I dont WANT to attack even if it turns bad but want to know what my options are if I need to scare some folks into easing down.

"Not sure we're any good to him back here.....should we try and get closer?"

Pyotr looks to the nearby hooligans as they grow more animated and begin to swell their numbers. "When trouble comes, this is where it will begin."

Del, you have your weapons as you are outside the city. Pyotr's advice is probably strong. Furthermore, you've the open paddock directly ahead, then the stage. If you got closer, it would be in full view of all, and it would probably raise questions. Incidentally, there are four Watchknights positioned near the stage. By their demeanour, they appear to feel the same way as most of the crowd, but they will be obliged to help keep order if necessary.

“The scriptorians never got your name, sir,” Morlandus addresses Bonegrit, “But if you furnish me with it now I’ll finish the job. The trophy will be displayed alongside those of all the other winners in the Guild’s Great Hall for posterity.”

The High Ostler holds an adamantine stylus in his hand.

Bonegrit shifts uncomfortably in his shoes as the man with the immaculate mustache and the expensive stylus addresses him. "Name's Bonegrit. No surname... sir." The half-orc's anxiety is plain enough to those on the stage with him. All of the fanfare and formalities are very foreign to him. He tries to shoot a reassuring glance and slight smile to the lovely lass holding the trophy, as if to say it's okay. I'm not as vicious as I look. Given his bestial features and jagged underbite, he's not sure it has quite the effect he intended. His eyes seem to carry a very genuine, pitiable look however. A look that could soften all but the hardest of hearts.

Diplomacy Check: 1d20 + 1 ⇒ (19) + 1 = 20

"This is a bit overwhelming," the half-orc chuckles out, attempting to disarm his own nervousness. He turns to Dierik and whispers into the older man's ear, "what's going to happen now?"

Pellius and Dunagan are still travelling towards the Henswain at this point.

High Ostler Morlandus seems momentarily perplexed with Bonegrit’s blunt moniker, but after a breath concludes it to be favourable.

“Well in that case, there’s plenty of room for a spot of calligraphy,” scraping an extravagant ‘B’ out of the silver as he begins to write the champion’s name on the trophy.

Meanwhile, Bonegrit’s encouraging smile succeeds in making some headway with the young maiden, who instinctively smiles back, before a blush explodes onto her cheeks and she quickly fixes her eyes on her pretty little shoes.

Morlandus works quickly, and soon Bonegrit’s name decorates the left hand horseshoe in ostentatious script.

"what's going to happen now?"

“You grab the thing with both hands, raise it above your head and turn to the crowd – and if they boo don’t look for a second like you care,” encourages Dierik, shoving the half-orc forward.

As Bonegrit attains the centre of the stage, the noise of the crowd peaks like a crashing wave, and whilst the jeers outweigh the cheers, there are at least a sizeable minority who don’t join in the vilification. Unfortunately, the winner’s presentation brings more than just heckles, for as the blushing maiden steps forward to offer Bonegrit the shining trophy, a barrage of rotten fruit and vegetables arcs in from the mob.

Bonegrit, make a DC 14 Reflex save to avoid getting struck by the stinking missiles, or nobly forego the opportunity for a save in order to shield the young lady.

Tempers are certainly up in the midst of the rabble, for many of the Vigilants, despite their jeering reception of the Arrow’s rider, are appalled at the crass hurling of refuse. Enraged shouts, arguments and not a little shoving breaks out around Pyotr and Delkaneth. Despite the yelling and the stumbling back and forth, both men sense that the crowd’s response to the unhappy result of the Strander Stakes has already reached its nadir, and that even the most belligerent Vigilants have nothing worse in store for Bonegrit and Dierik.

Pyotr and Del, in the interest of moving things further with one post, I’ve taken Pyotr’s summation of not intervening with words and fruit as read. I hope such assumptions are ok :-)

Agree. While his instinct is to grab arms and stop the throwing, Delkaneth can count so knows he is grossly outnumbered. If the shoving sends a thrower his way he might step aside to let the man fall but thats as far as he would go for the moment.

Figured as much. Bonegrit turns his back to the crowd and stretches his arms wide to either side before the young woman. "Sorry, ma'am. Hoped it wouldn't come to this; the garbage is meant for me though. No need to sully that pretty dress."

Despite the pelting stream of rotten goods, Bonegrit lets out a somewhat guttural laugh before he turns to call out to Morlandus, "The hospitality of Vigil is indeed legendary. They were thoughtful enough to use rot-softened food instead of firmer stuffs; the bruising will be less severe." And far less severe than the orcish arrows that sailed past or clipped me while I was scouting out the Belkzen tribes on the behalf of these so-called Vigilants. Maybe this caravan venture is a better idea than I thought.

Bonegrit weathers the storm until the fanfare of fruit and vegetables ends.

The young lass blinks rapidly as Bonegrit’s body mantles her, the wide spread of his arms protecting her. His back, though not broad, is sufficient enough to shield her from the rain of mouldy produce. The half-orc takes care to give girl as much space as he can whilst still ensuring not even so much as a sour currant touches her. Even so, it’s likely far closer than she’s ever got before to a man of orcish blood. Despite eyes as wide as a rabbit under a weasel’s charm, she manages to stammer a brief “thank you”.

Beside them, Dierik wades into the fetid storm without care, one hand clutching a heavy velvet purse of prize money. Uncaring of the rotten goods splattering the burgundy satin of his long-sleeved shirt, he looks out over the sea of people whose respect he so comprehensively lost long ago. His brow dark with anger, he begins to speak.

“And so you lend your arms readily to this dishonourable work,” he cries “Yet still malign me for abandoning your Crusade. Hear a truth Vigilants, if you will. You have built your walls too high, and allowed the beacon fires that comfort in the darkness to convince you that the danger in the night can be fought off without price. These beliefs have mastered you, if you really think you can entrust your safety merely to those knights whose courtly virtues are as well-honed as their blades. Well, the sons of Belkzen waste no time on chivalry, and when they come knocking on your doors, you’ll choose the knife-wielding ruffian in the gutter beside you over the shining-plate knight in his distant tower to save your skin!”

“Enough, enough,” interrupts Morlandus “You’ve said your peace, Ironcoffer, more will only enflame the situation,” It appears that the High Ostler is bleeding from his temple, but a second glance shows this is only the wreckage of an overripe tomato that has struck in the centre of his forehead.

Down in the crowd, the Watchknights as busy trying to restore order. “It’s all over, there’s no more to see, to your homes with you!” they cry, and the rabble starts to break up, the uncouth youths hurrying away from the guards chortling to themselves, their hands filthy with putrid bits of fruit, the more refined bystanders departing at a more sedate pace, shaking their heads at the ignominy of the whole scene.

“Still, perhaps Dierik has a point. He was one of 173 who charged Graukrad’s great horde without hesitation after all,” ponders one tradesman’s apprentice passing Pyotr and Delkaneth.

“Don’t be ridiculous Lander,” retorts his master walking beside him “The advantages Ironcoffer took with the fame he won, ugh, the actions of a savage with but a flimsy veil of civilization. You’re too young to remember the marriages ruined and the fortunes lost at his escapades. It’s silver tongued hypocrisy and not a dram more.”

Dunagan astride Cornalium and Pellius arrive to see the crowd dispersing, and Bonegrit and Dierik descending from the stage to reunite with Delkaneth, Pyotr, Second Master Santrian, First Master Deramil with Isabellina’s Arrow and a handful of the caravan’s men and women. Dierik and Bonegrit are of course covered in the stinking remains of the pelting they took. Morlandus remains on the stage, vainly trying to clean the trophy before he returns it his guild. The young lady Bonegrit so gallantly sheltered is helping him.

Santrian will introduce Pellius to the other characters, so this is a good chance to RP some introductions with him.

The PCs have the rest of the day free (lunch time can be had for free at the caravan encampment, spend the afternoon and evening as you will). They can make whatever preparations they might still think necessary, or say some final farewells. The caravan will depart at dawn on the following day.