You have been deputized as a Nova Roman Marshal by General Paddock Conroy. You were chosen after showing some relevant skill, and a willingness to risk your hide in the wild. You have been promised rewards for good performance. You and the rest of your posse have been charged with exploring, mapping in detail, and clearing for settlement a section of the Stolen Lands called the Greenbelt. You are to assemble at the defunct Fort Laramie (now a trading post), in the Dakota Territory. You were given the following official writ as proof of your duties:
“Be it so known that the bearer of this charter is charged by the Federal Government of Nova Roma, acting upon the greater good and authority vested within them by the office of the Consul Executor of Nova Roma, they have been granted the right of exploration and travel within the wilderness region known colloquially as the Greenbelt, in the Dakota Territory. Exploration should be limited to an area no further than thirty-six miles east and west and sixty miles south of Fort Laramie. The carrier of this charter is a deputized N.R. Marshal and should also strive against banditry and other unlawful behavior to be encountered. The punishment for unrepentant banditry remains, as always, execution by shooting or the rope. Native peoples unwilling to integrate into Nova Roma are likewise to be treated as invaders, and killed or driven off. So witnessed on this day, the 24th day of February, 1868, under the watchful eye of Nova Roma and authority granted by General Paddock Conroy of the Department of the Northwest.”
-General Paddock Conroy
The writ is penned on sturdy, expensive paper with an official seal and bound in a durable leather envelope for travel.
The ride (or walk) across Nebraska territory from the rail head in Omaha has taken nearly three weeks. They haven’t been pleasant weeks either. It’s bitter cold and few things wandering on the winter plains are friendly. The sparse shelter afforded by the hospitality of the hardy Nebraskan homesteaders has been the only comfort on your journey. Otherwise it ain't been naught but steaming breath, frozen mud and cold northern wind howling across the prairie, blowing snow into depressingly large drifts. But your journey’s end is near.
Fort Laramie is located at the western edge of Nebraska (and thus settled Nova Roma). To the west, the grey-green line of the Narlmarches looms only a few miles away. The fort was intended as a trading post, and refuge for settlers heading west. The built during the Great War and then later abandoned. The fort is now privately owned and operated by a man named Oleg Leveton and his wife Svetlana. The fort’s remote location and inconvenient distance from a major river have prevented it from realizing significant financial success. You can see it looming on the horizon, a decrepit wooden affair with no one manning the walls. As you approach you see the front gate of the fort is wide open.
”Deputy Marshal Treetopper. Deputy Marshal Treetopper. Deputy Marshal Treetopper,” he regularly repeats to himself along the trail to Fort Laramie out of earshot of everyone but Ozark who pays him little mind. He still can’t believe how far he has come from the Orchard. Maybe if someone else addresses him with his title, he would feel this trip is less a dream and more a reality.
When he recognizes the profile of Fort Laramie on the horizon, Treetopper puts his civilized face on: eyes squinting a little beneath the shade of his two-gallon hat, ears back a bit listening for trouble, and his mouth a thin line across his broad face concealing sharp teeth that civilized folk tend to find discomforting. He and Ozark approach cautiously. Like returning to an old hideout that may have been found by trespassers. He is eager for a warm bed and roof over his head but tries to keep expectations low, so he slides his Winchester from its leather saddle holster.
Treetopper and Ozark entering the fort
Treetopper dresses as an archetype cowboy with leather boots and a long coat. He wears blue jeans, a red scarf, and a two-gallon hat. His outfit is a sharp contrast with his green skin, large ears, and red beady eyes. His weapon’s belt holsters a Colt revolver, sheaths a small cavalry saber, and holds reloads for his revolver and Winchester pepperbox that he holds with the barrel pointing down. He keeps his head relatively still, wanting to portray quiet confidence, while his eyes flicker about surveying the landscape.
Ozark calmly steers them into to town. The large gray wolf wears leather barding, a goblin-sized saddle, and saddlebags. ”Let’s see how warm the welcome will be, Ozark,” he whispers quietly to his wolf companion.
Dolgren sighs in relief as he sees the ramparts of Fort Laramie in the distance, through the haze of snow and the drifts. He pats the flank of Manassa, his mule companion, in mute encouragement.
Although possessing the typical hardiness of most dwarves, Dolgren is glad of the prospect of shelter; his full beard is frosted with snow and his ruddy cheeks are scoured by the wind. He pulls his rich furs more tightly around his finely riveted leather jacket, wishing he had a little more bulk (he is, by dwarven standards, wiry), and does his best to ensure that his revolver is tucked to one side, away from the wet. His pepperbox rifle, obviously a companion to the revolver (the identical brass chasing and runic engraving are a dead giveaway), is resting under one arm. He checks the action every so often to ensure it hasn't frosted shut.
He frowns as he sees the wolf tracks in front of him; someone else is clearly headed to Laramie. Goblin, most likely; but then, it isn't his place to choose the marshals, he reasons. Still, best to be on guard.
Wary, but well-intentioned, Dolgren approaches the gates, which he sees are open. He doesn't enter, keen to avoid any misunderstanding. "Hail within! Marshal seeking shelter! Grant you leave to enter?"
Zort, a green skinned and yellow eyed goblin, wears a black top hat and black suit. He sits on his wagon’s jockeybox while his four donkeys haul the wagon toward Fort Laramie. Painted in red on the wagon’s cover: ZORT’S ELIXIRS AND HEALTH DRAUGHTS.
The wheels spew up dusty clouds which probably give away Zort’s position for miles away. A small rat crawls out from under Zort’s top hat and sits on his shoulder. “You frettin’, Gus?” The rat nods its head. Zort unconsciously checks his hip for a revolver as if it could’ve climbed out of his holster and walked away. Stranger things had happened, hadn’t they?
Now ol’ Zort has with him a letter from General Paddock Conroy hisself. Some would be honored at an official deputizing, but Zort knows better. He sold his magical wares, both true and false, in every town from here to Missouri. Seein’ as he hadn’t done anything technically ‘gainst the law, they slapped a paper badge on ol’ Zort and sent him out west to get hisself killed by outlaws or worse.
“Don’t worry your whiskers. They can’t get us, Gus. They ain’t never got us yet,” Zort says. Gus squeaks in agreement and then skitters into Zort’s jacket pocket.
Arriving at Fort Laramie's gates, Zort pulls on his donkey's reins and casts a curious glance at the dwarf waiting outside. "Hey 'warf, you waitin' out here to turn into buzzard food?"
Oleg’s trading post/Fort Laramie is surrounded by a wooden palisade that stands 10 feet high. At each corner of the palisade are 20-foot square watchtowers, each armed with a cannon mount left over from the site’s original use as a border fort. These mounts lack cannon, and are in no condition to be used. Repairing them would take many weeks of work. There’s one entrance through the palisade—a 30-foot-wide wooden gate.
Treetopper is the first to arrive, and heads into the Fort. He finds a large, open area where trade would normally take place. There is a fire pit with two large wooden tables beside it. Currently the tables are set for a meal. There are also four buildings (two dwellings, a storage shed, and a barn/stables) and a wagon inside the walls of the Fort.
A few moments after Treetopper arrives, Dolgren and then Zort roll up behind him. A slavic-looking woman in a modest prairie dress emerges from one of the dwellings at the sound of visitors. The smells of hearty stew, and warm bread drift to the nostrils of the Marshals. "Oh, hello! Welcome! I am Svetlana Leveton. Please, come on in and warm yourselves by the fire. We've been expecting you. I've got some food and wine ready." She motions over to a couple of tables situated next to a roaring fire. As the marshals move towards the fire, sizing each other up, a man stands on the roof of the stables. He has a hammer in his hand, and some nails in his mouth, and looks sweaty. He gives a stern look down at the marshals before shambling over to the ladder at the edge of the roof, and climbing down. He sets his tools aside, and wipes some sweat from his brow. Approaching the marshals and his wife, he nods his head. "Good day," he says by way of greeting. "Oleg Leveton." He makes no move to shake any hands or speak further, but merely watches the newcomers with a slightly standoffish air. Svetlana glares at her husband and then continues to smile, "Please, sit," she suggests again.
Dolgren nods courteously at Svetlana, and at his fellow Marshals - both goblins, he can't help noticing. (It's a difficult thing to miss.)
"Good day to you all, and especially to you, Goodwife Leveton. Dolgren am I, son of Thraenor, son of Ragmaal. Marshal of Nova Roma by the grace of Torag and the authority of General Conroy. I shall be glad to break bread and drink wine with you."
He bows, courteously, to Svetlana and his fellow Marshals. He notes Oleg's apparent mood but takes no offence.
As he rolls toward Fort Laramie, Didier sees the tell tale dust trail of another wagon ahead of him, bigger than his, by the size of the cloud. "Peddler, or well supplied marshal?" he thinks as he closes on the fort. Two mules draw the small wagon he rides, it's plain box covered with a half-cylinder of canvas, like a homesteader's wagon. He'd had to sell his violin for that cover, but he reckoned it worth the cost, the sun could positively bake a man during summertime in this place, and with a few blankets covering the openings it made decent shelter from the harsh winter snows.
As he pulls up to the fort, Didier eyes the garish paint on the other wagon and sighs, thinking, "A goblin that fancies himself a mendicant, hopefully just a peddler." He stands, stretching after a long bumpy ride on the uneven plains of the Dakota territory. He hops down from the seat of his wagon, and meticulously inspects his black leather gloves he's wearing, followed by the second pair tucked into his waistband. After a quick look over the revolver at his belt, he pulls a brown duster over his grey herringbone pattern suit and adjusts the black bowler hat on his head, then, after tying off his mules, strides through the gate.
"Greetings, sirs," he says, his French accent is obvious, but not so thick that it hinders one's ability to understand him. "I am Didier D'Everard, recently appointed deputy marshal and ordered to report to this... fort." With a short nod to each of the people around the fort, he sits near the fire and busies himself adjusting his brown mustache and hair using a small mirror and comb he withdraws from one of his heavy coat's pockets.
Oleg, seeing the abundance of mule flesh which has just wanders into his Fort, sighs. "I'll get them mules inta the stables. You all eat." He then sets about unhitching the animals and leading them one by one into the stables of the barn.
Treetopper relaxes a smidge with the pleasant welcome from Svetlana Leveton. The boiling stew seductively draws Ozark inside the fort. "Ma'am, much obliged," he replies to her welcome and pulls the brim of his hat, imitating cool cowboys that he has seen. Treetopper methodically holsters his rifle, dismounts, and digs a haunch of meat out of his saddlebag for Ozark before grabbing a bowl of stew.
To the other marshals and Oleg, he nods and tugs the brim of his hat in recognition and respect while trying hard to pace himself eating the warm stew. By the time Ozark starts fussing over the bone, Treetopper refills his bowl of stew and returns to his seat next to Ozark.
He is surprised that he is not the only goblin who's top hat and suit indicate civilization. The dwarf and human are obviously wary but courteous. Treetopper stays silent minimizing the exposure of his many sharp teeth that tend to unnerve the bigs.
Zort nods to Svetlana, Dolgren, and Didier, followed by a quick: "Howdy, howdy, howdy." He grabs a bowl of stew and takes a seat across the table from Treetopper and Ozark. Zort leans his head forward, his nose almost in the stew, and takes a few sniffs. It sure will be nice to eat something hot for once. Sure am tired of bread and jerky.
Zort reaches into the bowl and plucks out a chunk of something nutritious using the long nails on his index finger and thumb. Then he opens up his coat and gives the morsel to Gus, a small black rat, hiding in the pocket.
While eating, Zort tries to strike up a conversation with the goblin across the table. "Listen friend. I know we ain't blood, but we best keep an eye out for each other. I got a cousin who's says, 'Stick together as gobs, or go slaving to the hobs'."
Zort loudly slurps his stew before plucking another chunk from the bowl to feed Gus. Zort looks back at Treehopper. "Name's Zort. Read it on my wagon in case you disremember. What's your story anyway? I'm in the mood for a yarn."
Zort takes another obnoxious slurp of the stew.
"I'm Treetopper," he replies to Zort. "Not much of a yarn spinner. Just trying to make a better life. How 'bout you?"
Before Zort can reply, Treetopper interrupts, "Bit of advice, keep your pet close. Ozark finds them delicious, and he's not well-trained." He nods to his wolf companion.
After mussing with his hair and mustache, Didier puts his mirror and comb away, and stares into the fire for a few seconds before retrieving a bowl of stew. Finding it to be well made if rather bland, he sets the bowl down and walks to his wagon, retrieving a small number of peppercorns and a small mortar and pestle from his cookware. He returns to the campfire and grinds the small seeds into flakes, adding a few pinches to his stew. He takes another taste, followed by a small grin of satisfaction. "Black pepper, fresh, if anyone would like some," he says, his nod including all present, even the goblins.
"I'm so glad the folks in Omaha got our message. We've just been positively worried sick about the bandits," Svetlana says beaming at the marshals. "Thank you so much for coming so quickly to our aid."
Dolgren listens as Zort speaks to his goblin companion. Addressing both, he clears his throat to give him time to think before speaking.
"Belike you have little good report of dwarves, as I of goblins. Inasmuch as our foes will assuredly not discriminate, nor must we: as Marshals, we stand or fall together. I offer my pledge before the Most Holy not to leave you in battle, and to treat you justly."
Dolgren lifts his cup toward the heavens and down towards the earth, before drinking deep.
"Now, Goodwife, what report have you of these bandits?"
Dolgren listens as Zort speaks to his goblin companion. Addressing both, he clears his throat to give him time to think before speaking.
"Belike you have little good report of dwarves, as I of goblins. Inasmuch as our foes will assuredly not discriminate, nor must we: as Marshals, we stand or fall together. I offer my pledge before the Most Holy not to leave you in battle, and to treat you justly."
Dolgren lifts his cup toward the heavens and down towards the earth, before drinking deep.
"Now, Goodwife, what report have you of these bandits?"
Mrs. Leveton looks a bit surprised. "You mean you didn't get the message we sent with the hunter?" Oleg returns from the stables just in time to hear this. He looks incredulous, and then quickly angry.
"No, thank you." Treetopper replies to the Frenchman while holding an empty second bowl of stew.
To Dolgren, Treetopper replies in Dwarven, "Ich habe guten Bericht mit Zwergen gehabt." Then, he grins concealing his maw of sharp teeth.
"I too missed your message with the hunter. Why don't you repeat it, ma'am." Treetopper suggests to Svetlana.
I have had good report with Dwarves.
"Well if you aren't here to answer our call for help, why are you Marshals here?" Oleg asks angrily.
"Oleg Alexandros Leventon! Watch your tongue with our guests. I'm sure the fine marshals will help us. Won't you?" she asks the marshals, a note of desperation in her voice.
Zort dubiously stares at Ozark while handing Gus one last morsel. That's enough food for now, buddy. Don't want to fatten you up for the wolf.
"Can't say I got any such message. Could be he got to Omaha and they paid him no mind," Zort says. Bandits are the worst sort of folk, always fowling an otherwise pleasant wagon ride from place to place. "Of course I'll help you kind folks. Tell me all that you know about these outlaws."
Dolgren blinks in surprise as the goblin speaks in Dwarven: he had many good friends among humans, and would never have dreamed of teaching them his language - but to be fair, they never asked.
Gratefully accepting the offer of Didier's spices, he murmurs "I have some coffee in my pack; please do partake with me in short while."
Turning calmly to face Oleg, the dwarf counsels: "You did ask for aid, and it has arrived; doubtless General Conroy had overmuch on his mind and failed to brief us. Such is oft the way in matters military. Perhaps you will remedy this deficiency? And indeed, let me reassure you that our charter empowers, nay compels us, to act against banditry. So be of good cheer, Goodwife and fret no more."
"Well, there's a group of bandits who've been preying off us for the past few months. They are due to come here tomorrow to collect their "taxes". We've sent word to Omaha with anyone we could that we needed help, and recently got a message saying a group of adventurers were on their way to help. We figured you must be them...but I infer you all have only just met as well?" Svetlana asks.
Oleg throws up his hands, and begins cursing the "useless government" in a mixture of English and Slavic. He catches another glare from his wife and stops. His eyes still burning with anger and frustration he turns to the marshals. "You'll have to excuse me, gentlemen. My wife will tend to anything you might need, I've got some work that needs doing." With that he goes back to his tools and returns to the roof where he begins pounding noisily.
Svetlana has the good graces to look thoroughly embarrassed over her husbands behavior. "You'll have to forgive him. He's taken not being able to do anything about the bandits pretty hard. It's been a wound to his manly pride. But he'd never risk them hurting me by fighting back. You all are the first real glimmer of hope we've had."
Zort rubs his chin ponderously. "Well if your man is willing to risk it, I say this is as good a place as any for a showdown with these counterfeit taxmen."
Zort guzzles down some wine. Then he dips a finger in his cup, the drop hanging from the tip, and serves the globule to Gus. "We just close up that gate, use this here fence as cover, and shower these bandits with lead when they show up for their collection. We'll get the bulge on 'em. Whatcha' say boys?"
"Well, if we were to shut the gate they'd know something was wrong. That would only make them suspicious I think," Svetlana offers hesitantly. "I don't pretend to know the ways of battle, sirs, but they know we know they're coming, and will expect the gate to be open."
"Common sense is common sense, Miss. I says we leave the gate open as your notion suggests." Zort plucks another wine droplet from his glass for Gus.
"Maybe you could fix 'em up a fine stew. We could get 'em as they eat. Not the noblest way to handle a varmint but nobody ain't never accused me of nobility," Zort says, giving his rat another wine droplet in an ironic fashion. "Hide our wagons in the back o' the fort I suppose. But that's enough of my tongue waggling. Let's hear from everybody else and come up with a dog that can hunt."
"I should probably just start at the beginning and tell you everything that I know. That way you can make the best plan." Svetlana says. She pauses to eat a spoonful from her own bowl of stew. The stew is actually pretty good. There is not as much meat as might be desirable to some, but despite this, expert spicing has made it quite palatable. "The bandits’ first visit was about three months ago — they threatened to burn down the trading post, and I'm shamed to say, abduct me for their own amusements back at their camp. They wanted us to hand over all of the furs and trade goods we’d accumulated over the month from hunters and trappers." Svetlana pauses, a memory of fear and embarrassment passing over her face. "Since then, the bandits have returned twice more, each time within an hour of sunrise on the first day of the month. We learned quick to have our 'taxes' ready. Otherwise they get violent fast." The Marshals' hostess pauses again, needing a moment to clear her mind of the painful memories. "The bandits usually seem eager to return to their camp somewhere in the Greenbelt, which makes me think their camp must be about a day's ride away."
"The first time the bandits visited, there were a dozen of them — ten lower-ranking thugs led by a mustachioed man armed with a rifle, and a woman who carried a pistol and a hatchet. The woman did the majority of the talking on that first trip, and her black sense of humor and the way she smiled when she spoke of what fate would befall me if we didn't comply frightened me more'n anything else. The woman was sharp as a knife, she didn't miss anything. The man seemed to be a bit more crude and foolish."
"The woman quite nearly lopped off Oleg’s right hand with her hatchet when we were 'too slow' to give her the 'taxes' the first time. She's the blackest of the bunch by far. As it was, she snatched my wedding ring right off my finger and gave it one of her men. Said it was payment for not shortening my husband's reach." Svetlana's eyes burn with suppressed rage and shame for a moment before she continues on. "On the second and third visit, only the crude mustachioed man accompanied the bandits. The second visit, he came with only six other men, while on the third he only came with four. I suspect that they have let down their guard and think us to be completely cowed. Hopefully, when they visit tomorrow they’ll be even fewer in number, and hopefully that she-devil with the hatchet won’t be with them."
Zort listens intently, refraining from annoyingly sipping his soup, while Svetlana speaks. After she's finished, Zort takes off his top hat, places it on the table, and scratches his bald green head in thought.
"Jeg kan fortelle deg historien over bålet når vi har tid. La oss fokusere på disse bandittene først." Treetopper politely replies to Dolgren in Dwarven and turns his focus toward Svetlana.
"Unless they have a spy watching the fort days before their visit, we should plan for the usual arrival. If they bring five, they'll see even odds even if we're all armed. Then, the only way to avoid a confrontation is to convince them that fighting is certain death instead of what happens to them if they return to their boss without any taxes." Treetopper pauses to think.
"I doubt I would scare them too much, even with my Winchester and Ozark. Instead, I'm a good climber and hider. It wouldn't be a problem for me getting on one these roofs with my rifle and keep a watch for them and cover you guys when the lead starts flying." He offers tactics.
I can tell you the story over the campfire when we have time. Let's focus on these bandits first.
Dolgren nods. "A workable plan, but one best suited to an honourable foe. We speak here of bandits. Shoot first and offer any survivors a chance to lay down arms, is my counsel. As they enter the gate, they will be grouped together and make a pleasing target. From yon parapet we shall have advantage and may rain down vengeance as we choose."
Brushing down his beard with one hand, the dwarf waits patiently for the others to reply.
"I like the 'warf's plan. These men deserve no mercy," says Zort. He picks up his top hat, flips it end over end, and places it back on his head.
"A clean death is more than they should expect, they are no cleaner than buzzards squabbling over the juicy bits of a corpse." Didier says, with more force in his tone than previously witnessed by the group. "I say we let them in, then ambush and kill the lot of them."
"Jeg kan fortelle deg historien over bålet når vi har tid. La oss fokusere på disse bandittene først." Treetopper politely replies to Dolgren in Dwarven and turns his focus toward Svetlana.
"Unless they have a spy watching the fort days before their visit, we should plan for the usual arrival. If they bring five, they'll see even odds even if we're all armed. Then, the only way to avoid a confrontation is to convince them that fighting is certain death instead of what happens to them if they return to their boss without any taxes." Treetopper pauses to think.
"I doubt I would scare them too much, even with my Winchester and Ozark. Instead, I'm a good climber and hider. It wouldn't be a problem for me getting on one these roofs with my rifle and keep a watch for them and cover you guys when the lead starts flying." He offers tactics.
** spoiler omitted **
"If you gentleman want to have a look around the Fort while planning, feel free. You may go anywhere, but I'd ask you wait for my or Oleg's accompaniment before entering our home," Svetlana says, pointing to the house.
"You are of course welcome to stay in our guest house for free tonight, since you are so graciously offering to aid us. Thank you all."
"Much obliged, ma'am. Those bandits will get their just reward." Treetopper politely and grimly replies to Mrs. Leventon.
To the other marshals, he says, "I'm going to scout the roof tops for cover and lines of sight." Treetopper starts scaling all the buildings one at a time inspecting the roofs. Then, he inspects the walls and towers.
Market Yard: This open area is where trade takes place. The two tables near the fire pit are used to display wares and serve food to visitors, while bulky trade goods are offloaded into the storage pen.
Guesthouse: Oleg rents out the beds in this guesthouse to anyone who wishes to stay the night at a rate of 5 sp a bed per night (except the first free night). A rustic breakfast and filling dinner is included in that price.
Stable: Oleg keeps his jittery horse Claptrap here. He rents out the other stalls to visitors’ steeds at a rate of 2 sp per stall per night—that price includes a day’s worth of water and feed and a complimentary rub down for the horse.
Storage Pen: This fenced area has a wooden roof to keep off most of the rain and snow — trade goods like furs and other goods are stored here until enough build up to warrant a trip to the city to sell them off. The pen is currently empty, as Oleg’s been forced to turn over his stock to the bandits.
Middens: Three 3-foot-deep composting pits and
middens.
Main Hall: This squat but solid wooden building is Oleg and Svetlana’s home and the storeroom for the trading post. The double doors leading out into the market yard can be barred but not locked.
Dining Room: This is a comfortable room with a few chairs and a table — the Levetons use this room primarily as a dining room.
Office: This room is where Oleg keeps his ledgers and meets with important visitors — in theory. As of yet, no one of importance has bothered visiting the trading post.
Stockroom: This room is used to store the trading post’s stock. The stock currently consists of a suit of leather armor, a heavy wooden shield, two revolvers, six rifles, two dozen rounds of ammunition, a scythe, two spears, two potions of cure light wounds, a potion of shield of faith +2, two vials of antitoxin, six torches, two weeks of trail rations, a number of animal furs worth a total of 120 gp, and a money chest. Everything inside is for sale for the right price.
Storeroom: This room contains two barrels of drinking water, a half-full barrel of lantern oil, three common lamps, a dozen candles, a week’s worth of firewood, a hooded lantern, 70 feet of hemp rope, a tent, and enough food (mostly cheese, hard bread, and dried venison) to last for 2 weeks.
Bedroom: This modest bedroom is where the Levetons sleep.
The palisade's battlements are 25' off the ground. The roof of the stables is peaked, with the eaves being at a height of 20' and the peak being approximately 30' tall. Guesthouse and Storage Pen are about 15' high at the roof. They have simple slant roofs. The "Main Hall"/house has a roof which is about 20' off the ground at the eaves.
"Madame Svetlana, do you by any chance have a bit of hay or straw I could put down in the back of my wagon to hide in before the ambush? Didier asks. "I will, of course, pay you for it."
The fire and the warm food have done their work; Dolgren shrugs off his furs, revealing a comparatively lean frame. He stretches and then yawns. "By your leave, Goodman Oleg, I will tether Manassa here by the fire if there be no room in the stable. She is an army mule and used to outdoor life. I will move her out of sight on the morrow, ere our guests arrive."
Dolgren pauses, thinking. "I suggest that we set up a watch this night: military life has taught me to be on guard whenever possible. I shall gladly take first shift."
He isn't expecting trouble, but the goblin's mention of a possible spy has increased his usual caution.
"I found a couple good spots along the peak of the stables. It's the highest point in the fort for good lines of sight. I'll shimmy up there with my rifle when I take the last watch. Now, I'll unpack."
Treetopper removes the saddle and saddlebags from Ozark and makes them his pillows in one of the guest beds. He rubs the wolf down and plays with him. He also attaches a shoulder sling to his rifle.
His plan is to sit on the roof during the last watch and sunrise. He will direct Ozark to Defend Dolgren as they will be on the ground.
"Madame Svetlana, do you by any chance have a bit of hay or straw I could put down in the back of my wagon to hide in before the ambush? Didier asks. "I will, of course, pay you for it."
"We have some hay, of course. I'm not sure we should keep your wagons out in the open though. That will tip the bandits off that there are other people here," Svetlana replies. "Is that acceptable?"
The fire and the warm food have done their work; Dolgren shrugs off his furs, revealing a comparatively lean frame. He stretches and then yawns. "By your leave, Goodman Oleg, I will tether Manassa here by the fire if there be no room in the stable. She is an army mule and used to outdoor life. I will move her out of sight on the morrow, ere our guests arrive."
Dolgren pauses, thinking. "I suggest that we set up a watch this night: military life has taught me to be on guard whenever possible. I shall gladly take first shift."
He isn't expecting trouble, but the goblin's mention of a possible spy has increased his usual caution.
"As you wish Master Lundskjaeld," Svetlana answers the dwarf.
"A watch, eh? Reckon that's a good idea. I'll take up second," Zort says.
"A watch, eh? Reckon that's a good idea. I'll take up second," Zort says.
Zort gets Dolgren's attention: "So we shootin' these fellars up as soon as they come in the gate or waitin' 'till they head through to the middle of the fort here ?
Zort takes his top hat off his head and and begins to spin the rim around in his hands nervously. "If we're gettin 'em in the middle here. I'll hide atop the storage shed. If we're lettin loose as soon as they come through the gate, then I'll hide behind the wagon here," Zort says, pointing to the wagon.
"I'm for letting them get too deep in the trap to escape, personally." Didier says. "Our wagons out back in a gully or draw, and our hosts' wagon out of the way, so as not to give the bandits any cover."
Dolgren considers the options, weighing them carefully. "Well ... Zort, is it? There is merit in either. To draw them in ere we open fire means less chance of escape for them; but then are we reliant upon not being sighted or giving them cause for alarm, lest they turn tail and flee too soon. If we can achieve that, then I favour Didier's counsel."