By Silver Starlight (Inactive)

Game Master Mowque



Sunset in Starfall, a strangely quiet slice of time in the usual din of the crowded city. Nural sat, as was her custom, on a disused barrel, long polished from being the perfect seat, just outside her workshop. Due to her semi-nocturnal habits sunset was the mid-point of her day, dividing the more physical and social work of the day from the lonely drudgery of paperwork of night. While many in the city were headed either for a well earned rest or am evening of drinking (for those that could afford either) Nural was merely halfway through her daily schedule.

Around her the caravan loading area slowly cooled, no longer directly under the blazing Numerian sun. Indeed, that flaming sphere was out of sight now, hidden by the crumbling walls of her compound. It would be just sinking over the distant horizon now, slowly being hidden by the rocky crags of the outlands. The usually dull wastelands, spreading plains of rock and dust, would be shine like beaten bronze for a few minutes then plunge into dusky twilight. Nural had seen it all before.

Far above her, just visible if she turned her head, rose the murky mass of the Silvermount, the font from which all blessings in Starfall flowed. It was a dark pillar rising above the city now, a towering mass covered in windswept dust and grit reflecting little light. Only the very peak shimmering brightly, revealing how the artificial (or so the stories went) peak got its name. It was finest at dusk, Nural had long ago decided, gleaming like a multi-pointed needle hundreds of feet above the gritty plains. The hobgoblin could see how it had acted like a beacon to the first explorers, as well as the thousands of hopeful to this very day. And she also knew how much of a fool's hope it was.

Despite what the tales told from the Crown to Garund, Starfall was not a land where riches lined every road to be harvested by anyone, and where a great fortune awaited the curious or clever. Instead, Numeria's largest city was a strict oligarchy tightly controlled to only benefit the established elite of the Technic League and the Black Sovereign (its puppet Kellid leader) with only crumbs for the rest. Oh, of course the League claimed it was open to everyone and indeed they held supposed 'entrance examinations' every few years. They even let an occasional prodigy (or well heeled) pass and formally enter the the ranks of their society but it was little more then window dressing. Most residents of Starfall had a better chance learning to fly then joining the Technic League.

There were other businesses of course, hundreds of them in a city as large as Starfall, where a living could be made. The construction industry, the mining guilds, the various import/export firms, all of them hired hundreds of workers on a daily basis. More lucrative were the formal organizations such as the Aspis Consortium or the Pathfinder Society, both of which operated in the city. Still, even these jobs were in short supply and generally went to those with connections or were able to grease many palms.

No, the best place for a new arrival in the city to make a living was in the extensive underworld of the city. For those with quick hands, an iron stomach and a distinct lack of morals you could become a self-made man among the muggers, thieves, house-breakers and smugglers. Still, while it did provide a path to fame and fortune, it was a hard life, constantly in struggle with both rival gangs and the city government. While both the Technic League and the Starless Guard (the Black Sovereign's personal military unit) usually looked the other way and let the gangs run rampant, for suitable bribes, they did occasionally cracked down on smuggling at random times. These brutal violent actions usually lasted for hours in the poorer city districts with dozens of criminals being swept up, beaten and taken away, only to be brought back to a properly public location for a creative execution.

So, all in all, Starfall was not the city of promise and riches it was claimed, but for all of its problems it was Nural's home. And it was not a bad one, especially compared with the strict and fairly one-dimensional home of her childhood. Compared to the straightened, disciplined life of a hobgoblin legion, Starfall was a chaotic center of social and cultural life with opportunities abounding at every corner. Or at least it had been, for news had reached Nural today that threatened to change everything she about the city.

Kevoth-Kul was dead. The Kellid warlord had made a great name for himself in the wilds lands as a cunning leader and a formidable warrior. Decades ago he had marched into Starfall and claimed it his own, naming himself the Black Sovereign. In theory his will had been law and his clan had taken over the most lucrative posts. In practice however the city had been managed by the Technic League as always, with rumors about the extent of their control running rampant. But now the towering figure who had been the central pillar of the city for decades, was gone although rumor was not clear how he died. Some claimed it had been a final coup by the League, hoping to secure power in name and deed. Others hinted at plots within the Kellid community, clans rivalries perhaps. One man, deep in his cups, claimed it had been an assassination ordered by the Mendevian Crusaders, hoping for a more friendly ruler to take over.

Whatever had killed Kevoth-Kul, the timing was poor. The city had already been buffeted by rising tensions in the last few years, some substantial, others mere rumors. The Technic League had been more fraught with factionalism then usual lately, with rival Captains using brute force even within view of the normal citizens. Only two months ago a workshop owned by Merisk Kaffaun, a well-known Technic League Master, had been burned to the ground and his guards killed. Open clashes both in the streets and in the corridors of power were becoming common and Gods only knew what was happening inside the Silvermount.

This tension had reached the rival criminal gangs, many of which were being immeshed in the rival wars of the League, forced to take sides to protect contracts or business deals. Apart from the most violent thugs few in the underworld actually liked street wars or turf battles but they too were growing, especially in the rougher quarters of the city. Recruitment was up and many long standing truces and gentleman agreements were under heavy strain. Blood was running in the streets even now, and it promised to only get worse. Castillion had only given hints but Nural could tell the usually unflappable man was uneasy about the situation.

More fundamentally, there was rising unrest among the Kellid tribesman. Never very united even at the best of times, a deep rift was growing between the more urbanized Kellid with deep roots in Starfall and the more rugged outsiders new to the city. The former had long rallied around Kevoth-Kul, who epitomized the respected barbarian. However other rival figures had grown in recent years, druids and shamans calling back to a different tradition for the Kellid people. Ritualistic duels and challenges, not seen in Starafll for centuries, were happening again. Nural herself had seen two female warriors fight to the death not a week ago in the Road of Glass, using nothing but their fists. The most militant outgrowth of this conservative backlash was a radical group of druids who were outraged by the constant pollution and rape of the land under the uncaring rule of the Technic League. Acts of industrial sabotage were threatened and, it was rumored, employed.

More recent was the arrival only yesterday was a record number of Crusaders, heading north up the old road. Several hundred strong, it was the largest group of armed men to enter Starfall since Kevoth-Kul himself arrived all those years ago at the head of his armed legion. They were encamped just outside the now leaderless city. What...opportune timing. Narul found it hard to believe Mendev was involved in the death of the Black Sovereign and yet....Much was now uncertain.

What would happen now that Kevoth-Kul was dead? For now the streets were quiet, but it was the middle of the night and the news was racing across the city even now. It would take time for reactions to take place, and what would they be? Riots? Street fights? Parades? A quiet coup by the League or a bloody insurrection by the common workers? Would anything change or would some new Kellid barbarian take the old Sovereign's place smoothly? Nural doubted the last, considering the powder keg the city was these days. Dangerous times had come to Starfall.....

Nural's thoughts were shaken from these dark and complex thoughts by movement along the top of the ragged wall that surrounded the caravan complex. At first she thought it is an animal, a cat or a pseudodragon maybe, prowling for scraps, an all too common pest in the city. But no, it quickly becomes apparent despite the dying light that it is a human figure, scrambling over the wall. Nural stands up quickly, instantly alert. Burglars are not common in Gritforge, most of the local gangs and citizens militias keep them in line, but certainly not unheard of. They were rarely this bold however, simply scaling a wall.

The figure isn't very graceful either, barely managing to crest the uneven parapet, legs dangling. A rookie perhaps, overestimating their chances? Or maybe a young blood trying to prove their way into a gang? Whoever it was she wasn't going to let them-

The figure slips and falls to the inner court-yard of the complex with a crash. A small cloud of dust is kicked up by the impact, with even the hard-packed earth being dislodged by the heavy fall. Whoever it was, they might have some broken bones now, Nural thought grimly. The hobgoblin can see the supposed thief better now, being closer to the few night lamps she kept in the compound for late night arrivals. It was a thin human, gender undetermined, wearing stained but fine robes, cut short. Both arms are clutched about its chest, as if holding something.

The she hears a voice from the unmoving sprawled figure, weak and tired, ”Help...help....they are after me.”


Hobgoblin HP 63/63 | AC 21, T 16 FF 16 | Fort +10, Ref +10, Will +6 | CMD 24| Init +5 | Perception +13| Grit 2/2 | Rage 16/16

Realising she'd spent a lot more time than it felt, Nural nevertheless continues staring at the Silver Mount. Quill dripping ink on the workbench, itself widely marred by stains of grease, ink, wine and robot-blood, she grunts, absent-mindedly tossing a filthy rag onto the stains, before glancing at the gleaming mountaintop once more.

The Black Sovereign was dead. She'd been in Starfall long enough to know when a rumour is just a rumour. The unease in the voices, announcing it as matter-of-fact like the sun rising to the east, meant it was the truth. Staring at her page, she groans. At the manifest's route field, filled with her jagged, orderly handwriting, instead of the usual 'Starfall - Restov', sits 'Starfall - Unrest'. Snarling a toothy grin, Nural crumples the paper, sending it flying through the evening winds, tumbling through the piles of scrap and materials in the workshop's yard.

Leaning back on her favourite barrel with a weary sigh, she pushes her goggles up on her brow, enjoying the first moments of night and the departure of the scorching sun. Just as she reaches for the skin of kumis hanging from the worktop, she hears the rustling of the wall. Fangs snarled, her hand reaches on the desk to grab a brutal looking, goblin-crafted triple-barreled pistol. Striking the flints backwards, she takes aim at the figure on the wall, the reflection of the light on her eyes making them glow red in the darkness. Welcome excuse away from manifests., she thinks to herself, lounging even further back, bracing her arm on the fence with a refined gesture. "Hundred-ten, hundred-twenty feet.", she mutters to herself, taking aim at the figure as it ascends to the very top of the wall.

And, bye by-, she thinks, as her finger dances on the trigger, just to see the intruder collapse on the ground, the lanterns brightening their figure to that of a scruffy and panicked human, panting like a wounded dog. Without hesitation, Nural leaps from the second story, running across the darkened yard until she sits a step away from the human. The pistol casually hanging in her left hand, she stares at the human. "Hey, pinkskin!", she barks in her accented Hallit, before turning to glance towards the wall for any pursuants. "You were a second away from getting shot.", she hisses back, the tirade of questions continuing. "Who's after you? Cogs? Starless? Because I'm not picking up trouble with them, ya?" Extending her hand towards the figure to pull them up, the pistol darts between the walls and the dirty-looking invader. "You a wizard?", she quizzes suspiciously, shoving the gun in the figure's robe as she helps them get up.


I should note the man spoke Common (that is to say, Taldane), not Hallit

Perception: 1d20 + 12 ⇒ (10) + 12 = 22
Knowledge Local: 1d20 + 13 ⇒ (13) + 13 = 26

The figure doesn't respond to her hurried questions, merely lying sprawled on the hard ground. Up close, she can see more detail, although the dark mutes colors.

The robes are fine but better-made then she expected, stained with old grease and grime from work as well as a newer overlay of mud and slime. Clearly, this person worked for a living, even before their sunset jaunt through the city. A symbol on a chain hangs off their neck but Nural doesn't recognize it, at least upside down and in the dark.

Then Nural sees the pool of blood seeping out from under the figure, encircling a widening patch of dust. Already, the puddle of dark red almost reaches Nural's boots.

Without warning the figure whirls around and sits up, so quickly Nural almost draws her gun out of instinct. A pale, female face confronts the hobgoblins, stained with muddy dust. Her eyes are wild, roving this way and that, as if expected a predator to jump out of the shadows. Her hands are clutching at her chest, holding some small object out of sight. A stack of papers is poking haphazardly out of one pocket.

A very large ring of red stains the lower half of her torso, so much blood the cloth is dripping.

"Are you with them?" She says wildly in Common, bright blue eyes like sparks in the dark. "They are after me....I must hide it....."


Hobgoblin HP 63/63 | AC 21, T 16 FF 16 | Fort +10, Ref +10, Will +6 | CMD 24| Init +5 | Perception +13| Grit 2/2 | Rage 16/16

Nural's eyes widen as she sees the blood pouring from the figure. "Hey! Hey!", she responds in brisque Taldane. "I'm not with anyone. I'll hide you, but we get that wound looked at, ya?" Glancing at the wall, Nural's eyes narrow for a moment. Think, think. An idea sparks in her mind, as she stands up and aims her pistol at the distant wall.

A shot thunders in the darkness, the light from the barrel lighting up the compound, the broken carts and spare pieces lighting up like bones in the desert. The barking of hounds and shrieking of pseudodragons echoes for a moment longer. Another shot at the distant wall joins the cacophony, and Nural's smoking gun goes back in her toolbelt. "Now they'll think twice, whoever they are. Come on!" With firm grip, Nural pulls the woman on her shoulder, carrying her as gently as possible towards the stables. "Stay with me, longshank. What's your name? Who are you running from? What are you holding?" Focus her on now. Not on her wound. The one time Little Brother would've been useful.

Laying the woman down on a bale of hay, Nural starts searching for the wound, trying desperately to remember how best to treat deadly wounds. Apply pressure. Keep them talking, then wait for the alchem- I don't have a damn alchemist! Letting out a quick swear in Goblin, she continues putting pressure on the wound. "Okay, stay here, and stay quietly, ya? Don't move. I'll get help.", she says, standing up. Hesitating for a moment, she hands over her pistol to the woman. "Keep pressure on the wound, and keep talking to yourself. If they come back, just point and pull this, ya?" And I'll know to come running.

Rolls:

Heal to give first aid, no tools: 1d20 + 2 - 2 ⇒ (9) + 2 - 2 = 9
Knowledge(Local) to know who's the nearest shaman/healer that she knows.: 1d20 + 13 ⇒ (17) + 13 = 30


Nural gunshots cause a strange quiet to settle over the compound, as sharp and present as a knife. There is no sound from outside the walls, not the usual hurried foot traffic or late night carts, or the dull murmur if neighbor's voice. Just....silence. The hobgoblin had either scared off any pursuers or painted a very large target on herself.

Nural manages to manhandle the wounded woman inside the stables, the soft scent of manure, mildewed hay and dusty tack a contrast to the coppery tang of blood. Laying the crazed woman down on a hay bale,t he hobgoblin does her best to staunch the bleeding, but has little success. The wound is a chaotic mixture of blood, clothing and split flesh,constantly seeping. In moments the hay is stained dark red, right to the core.

"Don't leave.." The woman says, her voice already weaker. "Stay....you have to stop them. They want..." Without warning she grabs Nural's arm with surprising strength, hands callused and covered with the nicks and burns the hobgoblin usually associates with tinkering. A wizard perhaps, but a more practical one then most.

Nural manages to loosen the grip and hurries out, heading to find a healer. Starfall isn't known as a center of medical knowledge, with life being so cheap, and lacking the usual network of temples. There are rumors of medical technological marvels up in the Inner Sector, so called 'surgeons' but Nural certainly doesn't have access to that. However, there is a robust system of witches, rouge clerics and alchemists who live int he city and willing to offer healing for a price. Some are quacks, others drunks and a few just unskilled.

But Nural is no novice and has a particular one in mind, a middle-aged alchemist living just three streets over with a good reputation and some skill in wounds. She is just reaching her compound gate (locked for the night) when she hears a heavy knocking on the metallic grate.

"Open up, in there!" A harsh male voice says, rough with a street accent, "Or we'll cave it in. And keep that gun stowed, we heard the shots."


Hobgoblin HP 63/63 | AC 21, T 16 FF 16 | Fort +10, Ref +10, Will +6 | CMD 24| Init +5 | Perception +13| Grit 2/2 | Rage 16/16

S*+#. I hope she pushes through. "I will, but now just keep breathing and keep counting. You'll tell me later, ya?" Dragging away from the heavily wounded woman, Nural exhales, glancing at the blood on her clothes. Well that's enough about being inconspicuous about it. Grabbing a ragged, bitten blanket, left for the horses on a nail next to the door, she quickly wraps it around herself. Not going to fool anyone, but it's better than running on the street covered in blood. Quimble, you'd better be in, I don't have the time to go thrawling through bars to find you., she thinks of her healer of choice. A brilliant herbalist and perhaps the only person in Starfall with good bedside manner, Quimble embodied the stereotype of 'quirky old boy' to a tee, jubilant giggle included.

Running through the courtyard with all the speed she can muster, just as she's ready to pry the door open, the clanging on the door and the voice from the other side interrupt her rummaging for the keys. Her eyes flare and she bares her fangs. Oh you did not pick the night or the place, you slaghead. Reaching into her toolbelt under her cloak, her hand coils around a light mallet, feeling the familiar warmth of the forge around it as she unlocks the gate.

Hastily, she pulls back the bar, slamming it open with anger behind her as she stares at the intruders. "Good for you, duster.", she snarls back at the obvious leader of the group. "Your ears work fine. So you can hear me telling you to go climb Silvermount."


Well, it certainly isn't the eerie gearsman or the imposing Starless waiting for her outside (although their accents told her that even without seeing them). Instead she finds herself confronted with about ten figures, but the murky shadows of the street could hide a few others. Mostly human, they have the scruffy, haphazardly dressed look of the gangs that roam the streets (and control) much of Starfall. Nural doesn't recognize their signs or tattoos however, and she knows most of the local groups. So from somewhere else in the city....

More importantly, or at least more immediate, she can see they are armed. Most have the usual. heavy clubs, spiked chains, a few axes. The leader though, a boldly dressed half-orc with a mane of bright red hair, is carrying a laser torch, clearly as a weapon. Even more interestingly, he has a stun pistol half-hidden under his belt. This is very expensive stuff (at least the pistol is) for a ragged gang member and Nural senses these folks have powerful backers....somewhere. In the other hand he has a strange black metal box, blinking with slow red lights.

The half-orc smirks at Nural saying, "Cute. Save it for someone who cares." He jerks his chin toward the black compound behind Nural, "We were following someone, a thief. Think they are inside, blood trail leads right to your wall. We need to check out the place."

The half-orc grins, showing a mouthful of half-rotten teeth,"For your own protection." He is younger then Nural, but powerfully built with a barrel chest and thick arms. Worst of all, a reek of unwashed body odor comes off him in waves, even standing a few feet away.

The other stand back a few paces, letting the leader do the talking. Their eyes seem to roam the inside of the courtyard freely though, as if expecting to see something of interest in there.


Hobgoblin HP 63/63 | AC 21, T 16 FF 16 | Fort +10, Ref +10, Will +6 | CMD 24| Init +5 | Perception +13| Grit 2/2 | Rage 16/16

Oh, boy. An entire gang. A few more than I'd have liked. And, barghest-damnit, I've been to a feral goblin den and this guy stinks worse. Nural glances past the half-orc, then grins her own tusks back. "I don't care if you care. The Anvil Pounders have ears, too, and that's the people who provide the protection around here, and they just heard my gunshots, ya." Scrap. I got an injured person needing help and overwhelming forces. What would Centurion Gormak say... Goad an attack to your defended position, wait for reinforcements, and remember every hobgoblin is a match for five dwarves, ten elves or twenty humans. Maths checks out.

Nural grins a wide grin back at the half-orc. "So you can wait for them, or leave with the rest of these slagheads and your stink. But I'm taking that, pinkblood." A particularly goblinish gaze glints in Nural's eyes as she lunges to grab the laser torch from the half-orc, clawed fingers darting forwards with unnatural speed.

Rolls:

Raging Statistics Changes: AC: 23, Touch 16, Init +8, Ref +12, CMD 28.

Going into rage, Steal Maneuvre, Strength Surge: 1d20 + 7 + 4 + 6 ⇒ (15) + 7 + 4 + 6 = 32
That might provoke an attack of opportunity, if he has the torch readied. If he doesn't have it drawn, tough luck for him. Nural'll be staying in the middle of the gate/doorway.


A flicker of doubt crosses the half-orc acne marked face when she mentions the Anvil Pounders. No gang, no matter how well backed, wants to engage in a turf war with rivals. And this is Gritfroge, not some pissant Killbox district on the outskirts. What gang provides protection here will be large, well-armed and perfectly willing to mix things up. And Nural isn't lying, she pays good money for protection and they won't take kindly to other organizations muscling in on their turf, no matter who sent them.

Still, the gang leader recovers quickly saying, "I don't care who is around, I have orders-" He is interrupted when Nural darts forward and snatches the laser torch from the half-orc meaty fists.

The hobgoblin is quick and the gang leader obviously slow to believe Nural would actually go on the offense. In a moment the gunslinger has a new torch, standing in her gate.

The gang leader looks confused for a moment, and then snarls. Without taking his eyes off Nural he grabs a heavy club from one of his mates, who gives it wordlessly.

"All right, hobby." he says, weighing the club in his hands. "You are going to do two things or you're about to look even uglier. First, you put that torch on the ground, now. Then, you step off and let us inside. You have three seconds."

A long moment of silence fills the doorway, as all the gang members stare at Nural. Time for a deep breath and then, before Nural can decide what to do (fight, run, surrender), she hears a noise. A familiar rattle of wood and metal from behind the gangs. There, emerging from a grimy alleyway, a small rickety handcart appears, stacked with rags and bits of metal. Between the traces is a hunched halfling, dresses in the rags of a beggar. Nural knows him of course, Stim the Ragan, who collects the dregs and off-cuts from a few local forges and sells them. A bit touched, but a fixture in this district for many years.

"Miss Kules?" The old halfling says, a flash of white beard below his dirty chin, "Visitors at this hour? What's going on.." He trails off, mouth open as he sees the obvious intent.

The gang leader grunts and gestures to one of his men, "Take care of the beggar and then we can take care of the hobby...."

Then a new voice cuts across the dark street, "Busy night you have planned their, friend."

Nural recognizes this one too. From farther up the street a squad of heavily armed gang members appears (all human), the Anvil Pounders. At the head is their usual leader, the rather shabbily dressed Omar Barisk. Despite the semi-ragged look his voice is strong and calm, with little of the street accent so many of his colleagues have. Nural has heard, through the grape-vine, the gang-leader actually takes speech classes. Anyone who has asked about this publicly has mysteriously vanished overnight.

The half-orc intruder, now looking both wary and frustrated says, "And what's it to you, pinkskin?"

"This is my street, friend. Everything that happens on it is my business, especially after dark. Now, who in the hells are you?"

"This one is harboring a known thief. I got orders to bring them in, for justice." he says, pointing past Nural into the murky dark of her courtyard.

Omar raises and eyebrow and turns to Nural, "What's going on? Not like you to get into trouble like this." His voice is cool but curious.


Hobgoblin HP 63/63 | AC 21, T 16 FF 16 | Fort +10, Ref +10, Will +6 | CMD 24| Init +5 | Perception +13| Grit 2/2 | Rage 16/16

Breathing heavily, blood shooting in her eyes, Nural barely manages to hear the screeching cart through her battle frenzy. Exhaling loudly, she glances at Stim, torch still held firmly in her hand. The ragged halfling's appearance and the obvious threat almost has her lunge for the half-orc's throat, but the familiar voice of Omar Barisk shakes her out of it, and she quickly shoves her shaking hand under the blanket. A breather. And then, let it be what it be.

Upon Omar's question, Nural shrugs. "Town's gone mad!", she waves back at Omar Barisk and the Anvil Pounders, pointing at the half-orc. "Rotmouth here came around and started trashing on the gate, threatening to break it down. Threatened poor Stim." Nural gives a curt nod to the ragged halfling. Bugger's doing work. "I got customers' merchandise I'm responsible for, ya, can't let any slaghead off the street crash in. Don't know who's orders he's working on, and I'm not believing anything I see from there," she points towards the Silvermount and the direction of Kevoth-Kul's palace, "Until I know who's in charge of Starfall."

Turning her head towards Omar, she shrugs. "Look, Omar, you know I hate to be a problem, but this pile of slag insulted me and my house. If you chase the goon squad away and let me pay pigboy back in kind, I'll be real grateful, ya." Cracking her knuckles on the wall, the hobgoblin grins. "I'll drop him off at yours after I'm done, if you want to finish the job."

Rolls/OoC:

Diplomacy, Primal Magnetism: 1d20 + 19 ⇒ (1) + 19 = 20 If we rule gangs as tribal, that's +21. But, oof roll.


Omar grunts in agreement at Nural's report, but his eyes search her face, clearly not really satisfied. The hobgoblin has a feeling her 'protection' is going to simply solve her problems and go away. The human also obviously notes the hasty blanket around her body, hiding the bloodstains.

"Fair enough." he says simply and turns back toward the intruding gang leader. "She has a point, friend. Breaking and entering, not very nice. And, even more so, these are uncertain times. We should all be in our beds, mourning the loss of our leader."

"What?" The gang leader says, clearly confused at this turn int he converstation.

As if he was talking over a cup of ale at an inn, and not engaged in an armed standoff Omar says lightly, "Kevoth-Kul is dead, no one knows why. Gods only know what the streets are going to be like tomorrow."

Doubt and fear criss-cross the gang-leader's face more clearly now, and this news was clearly new to him. Slowly though his eyes narrow as he counts the mere four men behind Omar.

Nural's protection merely sighs and says, "Do you really think there are only five of us? I hear a gunshot from a quiet street and you think I come running without preparations? How do they run things in your district, friend?"

Barisk whistles and, out of the darkness, a crossbow bolt whizzes in, burying itself in the street at the gang leader's feet. A barely visible shadow in the murk of a rooftop shifts.

The intruder growls, but says slowly, "Fine, but I'll remember this. Folks don't cross the Wire Chewers twice." A pause and then, "I'll be taking that!"

he lunges forward to try and grab back the laser torch from Nural.

Do you take the OOC? Recall, this is a tense standoff and you may ignite a brawl here.


Hobgoblin HP 63/63 | AC 21, T 16 FF 16 | Fort +10, Ref +10, Will +6 | CMD 24| Init +5 | Perception +13| Grit 2/2 | Rage 16/16

Fighting something deeply ingrained in her nature, Nural tosses the torch back at the red-headed half-orc. "Well, you better not forget it, duster." Don't have the time now. Take a retreat as the breath of fresh air it is. Snarling back, she takes a step forwards onto the dust-covered street, locking up the gate behind her with a hasty motion. Doing her best to hold her teeth as the Wire Chewers begin withdrawing, she readjusts her blanket, starting to move down the street towards Barisk and his men. Don't start asking questions now.

"Great that you boys showed when you did. If I see him again, that torch is going in his better smelling hole. Riverfolk's word.", her pursed lips indicating that the sentence isn't a threat, it's a promise. Raising her hands and starting to move past the gang, she gestures nervously. "Look, I really need to run now. But you got questions, I can swing any time tomorrow, ya? Just come 'round or send someone over t'grab me. And thanks, again." Nodding, she begins to push past through the gang, sending grateful nods at the men.

Rolls/OoC:

I was thinking Nural probably has a reputation of being particularly good on her word, as that is one of the River Freedoms she kind of tries to follow. That's one of the reasons she was (rather) reluctant to let go of the torch. Other one is, well, she is a hobgoblin, and giving spoils away is not a thing they particularly like. Though, neither do adventurers.

Diplomacy to try and be excused without being held, Primal Magnetism: 1d20 + 21 ⇒ (12) + 21 = 33 11/16 Rage.


The Wire Chewer leader looks surprised when Nural tosses the torch back to him, but he recovers in time to snatch it out of the air. After a final look at the impassive Omar, he grunts to his own crew and they slink back into the inky blackness of the streets. Most times Nural was happy Gritforge lacked the bright night-lights like the fine streets of the Inner Sector. How could one sleep in such conditions? But tonight, with folks like the Wire Chewers lurking about, being able to see down the street would have been a comfort.

Nural does her best to put Omar off, trying to avoid being sucked into more questions. For, while everyone talks, Nural can only see seeping blood in her mind's eyes, and the pale face of a dying woman....

Omar steps directly in front of Nural, not put off. "Look, Nural. You aren't the type to cause trouble, and I respect that. You always pay on time and never give any problems. Still, I can't have enemy gangs roaming around my turf at night without knowing why. Give me something. Do you really have a thief in there? You starting a side business? I need some answers."


Hobgoblin HP 63/63 | AC 21, T 16 FF 16 | Fort +10, Ref +10, Will +6 | CMD 24| Init +5 | Perception +13| Grit 2/2 | Rage 16/16

Not this scrap again. You respect my rep, respect my word. Else it's just platitudes. Nural's nostrils flare out in frustration at being stopped, before raising her hands in the air, taking a step back. "Here's all of them.", she snaps back at Omar's request. "Someone jumped in, heavily wounded, said she's being chased. Rusthead came after.", her palm darts towards the dark alleyway where the Wire Chasers disappeared down. "Don't know 'bout thief, but we wax further, she's ratmeat, and I'm not having corpses around, ya? So unless you got a potion or a physician here, lemme go, and I'll tell ya if there's anything else later." Her foot tapping furiously on the ground, Nural raises her brows at Omar, giving him a chance to respond, before turning towards Quimble's workshop. Two steps away from being a Taldan bureaucrat, Omar.


Omar's eyes grow visibly as Nural levels with him quickly and totally. Clearly the gang leader had expected to have to muscle a bit to get the information. He takes a moment to glance at his allies then looks back to Nural.

"Well, you have your foot in the oil pan now, don't you?" The man says, scratching his chin with a stubby pair of fingers. "Well, like you said, we have time to jawing later. We'll stay here and keep an eye out in case our mutual friend changes his mind. Do you want me to send someone inside to take a look? I brought fighters, not healers but someone is better then no one."

Omar nods, "Going to get Quimble? I saw his light was on when passing through. Feel free to drop my name in convincing him, you know how much he hates to go out at night."

The man nods, stepping out of Nural's way but adding, "Slatty, go with her, just in case." A pale man with bulging eyes a long neck (giving him a fish-like appearance), nods and silently steps behind Nural, clearly intending to follow her.


Hobgoblin HP 63/63 | AC 21, T 16 FF 16 | Fort +10, Ref +10, Will +6 | CMD 24| Init +5 | Perception +13| Grit 2/2 | Rage 16/16

Shrugging heavily, Nural spreads her arms at Omar's assessment. It is what it is. Gesturing snappily for Slatty to follow her, Nural shakes her head at Omar. "Good to know. Don't go in, I told her to shoot anyone who's not me, ya?" She claps her hands. "Rather not give Quimble more work. Right, Slatty!" And I thought I was clear about nobody else inside. If a pistol doesn't keep them away, then an angry hobgoblin might., she adds to herself.

Without even a final nod, Nural breaks into a run, the dusty, beaten paths of Gritforge disappearing under her footsteps. "Don't trip now! Hurry!", she barks as the already faint light begins disappearing, making her way through the darkness towards the alchemist's workshop, the faint moonlight reflecting in her pupils, painting the alleyways pale and sharp. Be there, be there, be there... If I end up with a dead body and two gangs at my attention, I'm going to have a fit.

Rolls/OoC:

You said Quimble's three blocks away, but I can imagine there being another interruption for tonight, so I'll keep it short for the moment. I think Nural can run for... Pathfinder Maths... 1800 feet before needing to make Con checks, which should be good enough.
If Con Checks are requred, DC 10: 1d20 + 2 ⇒ (20) + 2 = 22
If Con Checks are requred, DC 11: 1d20 + 2 ⇒ (11) + 2 = 13
If Con Checks are requred, DC 12: 1d20 + 2 ⇒ (19) + 2 = 21
If Con Checks are requred, DC 13: 1d20 + 2 ⇒ (11) + 2 = 13
If Con Checks are requred, DC 14: 1d20 + 2 ⇒ (20) + 2 = 22
If Con Checks are requred, DC 15: 1d20 + 2 ⇒ (10) + 2 = 12

That's 2400 ft before she needs to stop running. Not too shabby, I suppose, and would take 2 minutes.


Omar nods, "Fine, we will wait to go inside until you get back." Clearly the idea that Nural might keep the Anvil Pounders out forever is not even being considered.

Without further discussion, and with the image of seeping blood in her mind, Nural hurries off, Slatty close behind. To the lank man's credit he doesn't slow her down, his big stride easily keeping pace with Nural's furious run. Hobgoblins, short and broad, were not exactly built to be natural sprinters.

The streets are dark and quiet, even to Nural's dark vision eyes. No beggars huddle around barrel fires, no late night revelers making their way to and from a party, or even the usual black clad thieves going about their work. Just empty streets and locked windows. Clearly the news of the Black Sovereign's death was altering behavior all over the city. The calm before the storm? In any case, Nural has no time to ponder this and simply pounds toward Quimble's house, only a few blocks away.

Contrary to Omar's words, Nural finds the house dark and locked, with shuttered windows (enclosed with iron bars). Living alone, Quimble didn't believe in leaving his security to chance. The gnome was pleasant, but not naive. No one was naive after living in Starfall for a few years.

Just as she reaches the heavy doors, Nural catches movement out of the corner of her eye. Down a side alley, a figure is hurrying away, quickly. Tall enough for a human, Nural sees no other detail before they dart behind a wall and vanish from sight. She waits a heart-beat but sees nothing else.


Hobgoblin HP 63/63 | AC 21, T 16 FF 16 | Fort +10, Ref +10, Will +6 | CMD 24| Init +5 | Perception +13| Grit 2/2 | Rage 16/16

As Nural turns, a mask of annoyance and anger dances across her face. We'll see about that after I'm back., she thinks. The thought of having the gang around the compound is not something she agrees with, but compromises have to be made, always. The run leaves her a little winded, but as she sees Quimble's locked door, she swears loudly through heavy breaths. Well that's not great.. As she spies the cloaked figure in the alley. "Keep an eye out.", she hisses quietly to Slatty, nodding at the alleyway. "Someone just walked there, and they didn't want to be seen.", she relays, before landing her fist loudly at the door. "Quimble!", she shouts in a distraught voice. "It's Nural! Someone's wounded at the compound, we need you now!", she continues, banging heavily on the door as she does, exasperation on her voice.

"You sure he was in?", she raises an eyebrow at the fish-eyed human behind her. If you've lied to me to get into the compound, Omar, enemy gangs will be the least of your worries., her fangs bare for a moment, the thought of betrayal sparking her anger. "S*%%, wait in front of the door and tell him to go there, I'll pay him triple his going fee. I'll check the back for that figure." If someone's grabbed the gnome..., she thinks, turning once again to check for a light in the windows before disappearing down the alleyway hastily. Like a barghest on the hunt., she thinks, crouching down, her run close to the ground, arms ready to support her weight.

Rolls/OoC:

Stealth, full speed: 1d20 + 15 - 10 ⇒ (17) + 15 - 10 = 22
Only moving if there isn't a light coming up from Quimble's place for a while.


Slatty doesn't say anything when Nural asks him about Quimble's light being on, but instead gives a useless shrug. He does nod when the hobgoblin instructs the pale man to keep trying to rouse the gnome healer.

Leaving him at the darkened front door, Nural heads off for the back door. The gnome didn't use it often, but maybe if there was trouble, the hobgoblin would find signs of it. Any clue of what was going on would be helpful. The gunslinger was on edge, rushing around the dark, empty streets with visions of bleeding women dancing on the edge of sight. Why the hell was Quimble not answering his door?

Her boots are loud on the stones (Quimble lived on a paved street), as she rounds the building. The courtyard there is just as quiet and dark as the front, with the (smaller) back door locked and latched. There is no one hanging about, and no signs of trouble. Nural is just about to pull her hair out when she hears noises behind her.

A door opening.

Around the front she hears Quimble's rather quavering voice, "Nural? Is that you?"

The hobgoblins dart back around to find the gnome alchemist standing in his front door, small lamp in hand. Slatty is also there, standing silently off to the side. The healer looks like he always does, a short gnome with a shock of blue hair fading to gray at the tips. He is dressed in comfortable casual clothes, covering a variety of fashions over the last few decades, instead of his usual working and blood-stained smock. Clearly the gnome had been content to spend this night at home, perhaps reading? Who knew what alchemists did int heir off hours? Brewing gunpowder?

Quimble looks releived to see it is indeed Nural stepping into the courtyard.

"Ah, it is you." He narrows his overly large blue eyes, the electric shade matching his hair, "What is all this? Can't it wait until morning?" The gnome glances around the dark street, nervously, "Tonight is not a night to be out and about, as I am sure you know."


Hobgoblin HP 63/63 | AC 21, T 16 FF 16 | Fort +10, Ref +10, Will +6 | CMD 24| Init +5 | Perception +13| Grit 2/2 | Rage 16/16

Darting out of the alleyway as soon as she hears the door, Nural breathes out a sign of relief at Quimble's sight. "Yeah, yeah, that's me! So glad you're here...", she answers quickly. "Look, Quimble, I'd love to explain on the way. I have someone injured in my compound, stabbed in the gut, and I don't know how long they've got.", she exhales in a single breath. "Please, just get what you need, we talk pay later, ya?" Shaking her head defiantly, she lifts the hammer in her hand viciously, revealing the blooded overalls beneath. "If you're worried about things in the night, I'm here and I'm angry and I'm nervous, ya?"


Quimble wavers on the doorstep, eyes like pale lamplights in the gloom.

"It isn't about the money, Nural.." he says, voice wavering. Stepping closer, Nural can see the gnome looks very old tonight. His usually elfin features look drawn and pale. Cheeks sunk in and covered with deep wrinkles more suited to an old book then a face.

When Nural mentions a person bleeding though, his face twists painfully, like a man receiving anticipated but dire news. "So, it had already begun? The death of the Black Sovereign will be the end of this city..."

Suddenly there is a sound like a footstep behind them, in the alley. Quimble yelps and actually jumps a foot in the air, hands waving madly in panic. Slatty's hand goes for his club at his belt, eyes wide. Nural turns and looks down the trash-strewn corridor, her eyes not defeated by the black gloom.

Perception: 1d20 + 13 ⇒ (10) + 13 = 23

Nothing, but she had heard something. Hadn't she?

Everyone was jumpy.

Regaining his breath Qumble says, "You are sure it can't wait till morning? This would be better under the light of day..." his voice trails off anxiously.


Hobgoblin HP 63/63 | AC 21, T 16 FF 16 | Fort +10, Ref +10, Will +6 | CMD 24| Init +5 | Perception +13| Grit 2/2 | Rage 16/16

Nural's eyes widen open at the rustle, grabbing her hammer. One. Damn. Night., she snarls, but a scan of the alley surrenders nothing to her sight. Sighing, she leans forwards. "There's nothing there I can see. Probably rats or something. Anyone dumb enough to start something tonight has a pissed-off hobgoblin to deal with, don't ya worry.", she smiles a tusked smile in the hopes of being a reassuring one, before gently puttting her hand on Quimble's shoulder.

"Look, Quimble, I know it's dangerous, and especially tonight, ya?", she adds. "And the whole world is going crazy, but if there's one thing I can do is save a life. If you don't want to go, then, please, please, give me something I can help her with, because I sure as Hells don't want to have someone dying alone if I can help it." Scrap., she swears in her head. Still. Complaining is useless when already on the path, right?

Rolls/OoC:

Diplomacy, Primal Magnetism: 1d20 + 16 + 3 ⇒ (3) + 16 + 3 = 22 I am not having the greatest of luck being a charismatically magnetic individual today.


Quimble seems reassured when Nural places a gnarled hand on his slim shoulder. "A rat. Right. Of course." he says, seeming to gain strength from the words. "Their life is at risk?" The gnome says, seeing the truth on Nural's somber face. Slowly, but with finality the gnome grimaces and says, "Very well. Let me go get my things. I will return shortly."

Without another word the gnome turns and scurries back into his house, leaving the heavy door open.

Time passes, and a night breeze wafts over Nural, bringing to her nose the usual smells of Starfall. Dust from the distant plains, reeking waste from Killbox, the sweet-sour tang of oil and grease, and the acrid scent of the ever present forge fires. For many years now this was the smell of Nural's home, and even tonight, she took comfort from it.

Wait? What was that other smell? Human sweat-

"Look, he left the door open! Get him!"

Instantly, out of a dark alley, human figures emerge at a dead run. Three of them, tall and dark, heading straight for Nural and the open door!

Combat!

Nural Initiative: 1d20 + 5 ⇒ (12) + 5 = 17
? Initative: 1d20 + 2 ⇒ (8) + 2 = 10

You are up. Feel free to give orders to Slatty, which he may or may not follow. There are three human figures barreling toward you, about 20 feet away right now, all next to each other.


Hobgoblin HP 63/63 | AC 21, T 16 FF 16 | Fort +10, Ref +10, Will +6 | CMD 24| Init +5 | Perception +13| Grit 2/2 | Rage 16/16

Sighing with relief, Nural squeezes Quimble's shoulder. Smiling wearily, the hobgoblin replies, "You're a good soul, Quimble. Can't imagine what I'd do without you." Bleed out. Or be in a lot deeper mess than I am., she adds to herself as the gnome disappears inside the house in a hurry, as she leans back into the shadowy alcove of the front door. Shrugging at Slatty, Nural exhales as she stares into the distance, her foot tapping impatiently as time goes on and on. Murmuring to herself in Goblin, Nural's nose picks up something familiar, something closer...

It wasn't a rat.

As the unknown robber shouts out towards the door, she pushes herself away from the door, turning towards the newcomers. "Slatty. Watch the door, ya? Should only be a minute.", Nural hisses out, as she draws the mallet from her toolbelt. Tossing it in the air, she flashes her teeth towards the newcomers, catching it as she closes by. "Come on, then, slagheads! You brought more?", she laughs out as her mallet slams hard into one of the thieves' torso with a crack, the bloodrage in her veins making everything sharper and slower, her heart pumping with pure adrenaline.

Rolls/OoC:

Rage: 8/16
Just working out the details.
Attack, BaB +7, Dex +8, Weapon +3, trait +1: 1d20 + 19 ⇒ (12) + 19 = 31
Damage, non-lethal - Str, Breaker, Furious, Spire Totem: 1d8 + 4 + 1 + 3 + 3 ⇒ (1) + 4 + 1 + 3 + 3 = 12


Nural's bravado and obvious lust for battle seem to make little impact on the charging attackers, which is worrying. Few people blindly charge an armed and angry hobgoblin, at night. This was no mere back alley mugging, something bigger was driving this.

Shouting insults Nural drove forward, hammer in hand. The thrill of battle hones her senses, and increases her speed. The hammer slams the first human in the chest, a perfectly square blow. She can hear the wind get knocked out of him as the weapons hit home. Still, the man remains upright.

Oh, non lethal?

The man looks down at Nural, surprise on his face. He is a young man, as humans go, with a downy thin beard and a mop of dark hair. His face is dirty, with wild raving eyes.

Nural Perception: 1d20 + 13 ⇒ (20) + 13 = 33

His jerky movements, gritted voice and wild eyes....and that scent about him. Nural knows the signs. This is a man deep in the grips of Eskelette addiction, a powerful drug. Nural has seen men go mad when unable to obtain the required quantities. This man, at the moment, was little more then a mad dog.

Oh, and besides his rusty knife in hand, he has a gun at his belt. A small, very grimy pistol that looks very poorly cared for. Perhaps nicked in a robbery without really knowing how to use it?

Behind her Slatty holds the door, club in hand.

The other two thugs hang back, clearly displaying less of the crazy rage of their addicted leader. Maybe they were here more for moral support?

The raving man roars loudly and slashes at Nural with his blade, screaming, "Get out of my way!"

Attack: 1d20 + 6 + 1 ⇒ (1) + 6 + 1 = 8

The addled man's blow goes wide however, and misses Nural by a good foot. He grunts angrily, cursing in some Kellid dialect.


Hobgoblin HP 63/63 | AC 21, T 16 FF 16 | Fort +10, Ref +10, Will +6 | CMD 24| Init +5 | Perception +13| Grit 2/2 | Rage 16/16

Nural's teeth bare with distaste as she notes the young man's features. The knife passing by her face, she hisses back in a bestial way. "Okay, bonepicker, back off, now!", she hisses, as she brings down the hammer with rapid succession onto the man's shin, her fist following with a dirty punch to his guts."You two don't Mount it now, you next, ya!", she takes the time to send a blood-curdling glare at the other two. "Slag off!", she hisses, grabbing the man's dirty coller in her claw, ready to continue her angry swings.

Rolls/OoC:

7/16 Rage Rounds remaining
Attack 1: 1d20 + 19 ⇒ (11) + 19 = 30
Damage, non-lethal: 1d8 + 11 ⇒ (2) + 11 = 13
Attack 2: 1d20 + 14 ⇒ (13) + 14 = 27
Damage, non-lethal: 1d8 + 11 ⇒ (7) + 11 = 18


Nural was busy re-arranging the man's organs when Quimble stepped back into the doorway. The small bent gnome was wearing his usual blood-stained apron, and shining spectacles. These were rather impressive actually, and rumor said the gleaming lenses had been made by a high-end artisan in the Technic League. Whatever they did for healing was usually overshadowed by the fact they usually made Quimble look like an owl though. This aspect was particularly strong as the old healer saw the violence happening, and his eyes went wide.

"Oh my!"

Meanwhile the drug-addled man had fallen to the ground, wheezing painfully at Nural's feet. The hobgoblin glared at his friends who stared back impassively. Finally one of them, taller then either stepped forward.

His voice was deep and rich, "All right, enough." Nural isn't sure if he is talking to her or the fallen man. Then he went on, "Sorry about that, but Brinden isn't himself. It is the burning of the powder. I told him he takes too much..." Then he sighs and waves a hand, "Ah well, such is life."

He turns on Nural and says, quietly, "But he has a point. The door is open and Quimble's stash is worth a pretty penny. You stand aside, and we'll take what is inside. Just the Eskelette, and we won't hurt or break anything. All respectful."

Then he frowns and taps his hand on a nasty looking bludgeon on his belt. "Or don't move and things get ugly. Is it really worth it?"

Nural glances sees the other man is setting himself and he has the look of some type of minor magic user. Interesting.

Slatty says nothing but looks un-sure about fighting to protect a drug stash.

Quimble however, whose ears have apparently not been dulled by age says, "Nural, you can't be considering this!? Letting me be robbed!"


Hobgoblin HP 63/63 | AC 21, T 16 FF 16 | Fort +10, Ref +10, Will +6 | CMD 24| Init +5 | Perception +13| Grit 2/2 | Rage 16/16

Of course he's a dealer. I'm a smuggler., Nural thinks to herself as the Eskelette revelation graces her ears. Snarling viciously, Nural grabs the pistol from the man's belt. Her eyes narrow at the component pouch at the weedier man. Weak. Lean. Magicker. In all situations, be they dwarf or elf or man, spill the wizard's blood first., the veil of her bloodlust tempering for the training drilled into her head for years to peer through. Teeth snarling, she pounces forwards. "Did I stutter, or are you deaf? Quimble, lock up.", she spits out angily as she stands up from Brinden's unconscious body, grimy pistol pointed square at the smaller man's head.

As she steps over the unconscious man's body, pistol first, she gives the taller man a glance before focusing her attention at the weedy one with intense hate. "Your hands move, you die, mage.", she grits through her teeth, the word spat like an insult. "Two seconds to run, you dirty bonepickers."

Rolls/OoC:

Rage 6/16
The Readied action is - when he starts to cast a spell, or they don't start retreating by the start of Nural's next turn.
Readied Firearm Attack, at wizard: 1d20 + 16 ⇒ (11) + 16 = 27
Damage, Pistol: 1d8 + 9 ⇒ (6) + 9 = 15


Nural's challenge and threat rings off the grimy stones of the Numerian street, as hot as any laser. The two thugs eyes her carefully, torn between her blazing eyes and the gun in her upraised hand. Greed was in a battle with fear, fear over what a firearm might do to unprotected flesh.

Then, in the silence, Slatty steps forward, club in hand. A vote of confidence from the gang member and an quiet promise of further retribution of violence against Nural. She was under protection, of a sort.

The two would-be drug dealers finally shrugs then begin gathering up the sputtering crazed leader.

"Fair enough." The taller one says, heaving the knife-wielding man to his feet. Without another word they shamble off into the darkness, quite loud in the night street.

Quimble comes out of the door, effusively saying, "Thank you, thank you! Nural, you just saved my life and probably my shop! Thank you, anything to repay you." A moment passes and then adds, in a rush, "I don't want you getting the wrong idea! I've never seen these men before in my life! I'm not a drug dealer. Please, you must believe me. My reputation..."


Hobgoblin HP 63/63 | AC 21, T 16 FF 16 | Fort +10, Ref +10, Will +6 | CMD 24| Init +5 | Perception +13| Grit 2/2 | Rage 16/16

Seeing the two back off into the dark streets, Nural's ire raises once more, this time quietly, in the distance. Sure. I pay for their protection, yet I'm the one ending up feeling owned., she bites her lip before holstering the gun in her belt. "Bet it isn't even loaded, slagging dusters..." Giving a semi-forced grunt of gratitude towards Slatty, she turns to Quimble with an appraising look. I remembered to put on my eyebrows this afternoon, right? The look changes to impatient indifference a brief moment later.

"Look, Quimble, first, you're welcome, my pleasure. Second, I don't give a slag about what you doing on the side, and I much rather keep it so, ya?", she blurts out between short breaths, arms open wide. Pointing up towards her compound, she puts her hands on her knees for a moment. "You go to the compound, now, please! I'll catch up when I catch my breath in a second, ya?", she adds, breathing in heavily once more then exhaling, ready for another fast run. Kevoth-Kul, your sense of timing is utter slag.

Rolls/OoC:

Following right after, just flavour of describing the two rounds of fatigue would work.
Sense Motive on Quimble being a drug dealer, despite overwhelming evidence: 1d20 + 12 ⇒ (11) + 12 = 23


Nural gazes at Quimble's tired, anxious face. Well, the healer was very intent in trying to convince the hobgoblin he wasn't a drug dealer. Did that make the old gnome sincere or just a decent liar? Impossible to be sure. Whatever the case, he was sure to carefully lock and bolt his door as they left.

Slatty, still silent, brought up the rear as they rushed back to Nural's compound. The empty streets stretched out on all sides, like tunnels in a dungeon, quiet but full of menace. What else would pop out at them this night? Gods only knew what was happening around the city tonight.

For now...nothing.

They find Omar and the rest of the Anvil Pounds at the front gate, weapons in hand. The badly dressed gang leader nods to Quimble saying, "Nice of you to join us. I hear we have someone hurt inside."

The human glances at Nural and waves her to her own door, "Nothing to report while you were gone. Any excitement at Quimble's home?" Again, his fine mannered way of talking clashed with his gritty appearance. "I assume you will brook no delay? Then let's go inside. You, me, Quimble of course and Slatty, in case of trouble."


Hobgoblin HP 63/63 | AC 21, T 16 FF 16 | Fort +10, Ref +10, Will +6 | CMD 24| Init +5 | Perception +13| Grit 2/2 | Rage 16/16

The run home was frantic, stressful, but the gripping chill on Nural's spine as the thought of someone's life seeping into the hay of the stables keeps her grounded. She glances up at Omar's eyes, her mouth curling in a narrow line. Not the time to argue. Not now.

Gritting her teeth, she nods as she pushes past the door. "Fine. Sure, you can come in.", she replies to Omar, choosing to obviously ignore the fact that the gang leader invited himself in. Pros and cons, Nural. Pros and cons. Pushing aside the heavy metal gate, she urges Quimble in. "She's in the stables, Quimble. Lots of blood, but let me go first unless you want to get shot.", she adds, before turning around to glance at the two Anvil Pounders, feet pounding the sun-caked dirt. "Just so you're warned, boys. Rep on the line, so I'll assume any finger on my customers' things as a finger you don't need. Slatty, close the gate behind you, please, ya?" A grin appears on the hobgoblin's mouth as she continues on towards the stables. Well, let's hope she's breathing. Otherwise, all this s+~% for nothing..., a stray thought crosses her mind as every step takes her closer towards the stables.


Omar gives a few whispered orders to his men, who nod. As they enter,t he gate is closed and latched, and while usually the sound of iron on steel gives Nural a sense of comfort, it offers nothing this night.

The gang leader grins when Nural recommends they keep sticky fingers to themselves, "Do you really think we would purloin something? You pay your money on time Nural, we are allies in this." Then he grins, showing a few gnarled, black teeth among the grimy whites. "Unless you have some things in there you should not have?" His dark eyes dart around the courtyard, taking in the parked wagons, heaped crates and other detritus of the working area. Nural, of course, did not leave anything incriminating out in the open but the gang leader's inquisitive nature made her uncomfortable.

They reach the stables quickly, Nural leading the way. Pushing the door open she finds the perhaps thief still lying on the hay bales, just as the hobgoblin left her.

Nural Perception: 1d20 + 13 ⇒ (5) + 13 = 18

That's a shame

The woman seems to be alive, judging by her soft, quick gasps of pain.

Quimble shakes his head saying, "I guess this is the patient? Gods Nural, why didn't you tell me how bad of shape she was in." Little bag in hand the alchemist hurried across the star-strewn floor toward the woman. In an instant the gnome is standing at the wounded woman's side rooting around in his bag, glass vials tinkling.

"You!" The aged healer shouts, waving a tiny hand at Slatty imperiously, "Get over here and help." After a glance at Oman (who nodded),t he fish-faced man ambles over toward the gnome.

Omar's eyes raked the stables over, before focusing on the injured woman. Without looking away he said, voice quiet, "What is all this about Nural? Speak honestly, please."


[Map of Seattle] [Map of Humanis Hideout]

"Don't know about purloining, but I know about fair warnings.", she replies non-chalantly mid-run. There's little but relief in Nural's mind as she enters the stables, followed by Quimble. "It's me! I brought the healer!", she shouts as soon as she rushes past the gates to the stables. Kneeling down next to the woman, she puts a hand on her shoulder. "You're a tough one, ya?", she breathes out a laugh, as she gently takes the blood covered pistol from the woman's side and holsters it in her belt. "I thought 'about to die' covered it, Quimble, ya?" Keeping a hand on her shoulder as Quimble fumbles to pick out the numerous potions and poultices from his bag, she stands up to let the alchemist work.

A good deed, now let it not go unpunished, huh., she thinks to herself as she takes a step away and next to the gang leader's side. Groaning out in clear exasperation at Omar's question, she puts her hands at her hips. "Like I said, barghest knows.", she shrugs. "Woman comes bleeding in my compound, I go and get the healer, ya?", she tilts her head, clearly indicating that she feels it's the right thing to do. "You want honest, Omar?", she sends a frown to the man's face. "I was sitting doing paperwork. That pinkskin bursts in bleeding, thought a gunshot should keep others from being too nosy. Was surprised you came in that fast, especially tonight, though." She pulls out her rugged, hobgoblin made pistol, and starts angrily loading bullets. "Then I was about to sprawl Rotteeth and the other gang on the side, you came up and saved me and her some time, which I had little intention on wasting waxing words with you, if you don't mind." Kicking the dirt on the floor, she adds, "Still pissed off 'bout giving back that torch. Don't want to guess how the duster got that."

Staring up at the much taller human's face once more, she leans back on the door, giving a glance inside to check on Quimble. "Now for real honest, I didn't feel it was all too important for you, I don't like any people in the compound at night causing a stir, and -", she frowns once again, "I'm sure neither you nor me are dumb enough to think I feel like lying to you, ya? And to, ahem, continue that thread of honesty, I'll honestly appreciate you going now, seeing as how you saw that I've been honest, and trust I'll come back to you if there's anything important for the neighbourhood." Tilting her head down to indicate that the ball is now in Omar's court, she takes another step inside, to get a longer look at the wounded woman and Quimble's workings.

Diplomacy to convince Omar that I'm a (rather gruff and surly) friend: 1d20 + 16 ⇒ (13) + 16 = 29


Omar's eyebrows raise ever higher as Nural both tells her story and, in a way, trusting the gang leader. Clearly the short man had expected to be lied to, or at least be given vague answers to his questions.

He grunts to himself and, still looking at the wounded woman says, "You shouldn't be surprised. Tonight of all nights I was out on the street. You never can tell what happens on a night like this, and it seems I was right."

Omar drops his voice, "Did she say anything? Those men at the gates talked about thieves. Did the girl have goods, any clues to why they were chasing her?" And dropping his voice lower, "Any guess if they will come back?"

Meanwhile Quimble was busy working, having removed much of the woman's shirt and inspecting the wound. Slatty held the weakly struggling woman, his protruding eyes fixed on the woman's bare chest. It wasn't much to look at, the thief was nearly as flat as a board.

The gnome suddenly pauses, peering through his lenses. Then he turns, fixing his distorted pupils of Omar and Nural, waving them over. As the pair walk-up (Omar still gazing around the stables as if expecting to see a flashing sign saying what this woman was doing here), the gnome speaks, voice low and fast.

"This wound worries me." the gnome says, gesturing to the bleeding hole in the woman's side. It looked deep and nasty, crusted with dried blood. "A puncture wound, deep and sharp. Probably a machine, not a hand. Too steady. It is bad enough, punching through her stomach into her liver, but I could attempt to fix that. I'm worried about this." He points one aged, wrinkled finger into the red mass of injury. There, barely visible, was a tiny swath of minute green crystals.

"Blightburn." The gnome says.

Omar, shrugging says, "Never heard of it. Poison?"

The old gnome nods, light flashing on his lens, "Of a sort. It is very rare and I know little of it but....it gives off the radiation sickness. You know it?"

Omar takes a step back, eyes hard. He turns to Nural, "Radiation? That means the League..."


Hobgoblin HP 63/63 | AC 21, T 16 FF 16 | Fort +10, Ref +10, Will +6 | CMD 24| Init +5 | Perception +13| Grit 2/2 | Rage 16/16

Grunting out at the incessant barrage of questions from Omar, Nural groans and shrugs. "She didn't have a sack full of adamantine ingots or a big bag labeled 'silverdisks', no. I was in a rush getting to Quimble, and then those Wire Chewers showed up.", she spits out. "And I'm warning you, I see those bastards in here again, I'm shooting first and asking questions possibly, ya? You know where they're from? Who they're working with?"

Crossing her arms at the gang leader walking around the stables, she leans down to look at the wounded woman. "Looks painful...", she adds, before Quimble's revelation about the League being involved in this sends her into a quick shock. Oh, hellfire., she sighs. "You can... you can get those out, Quimble, right? I'd-", she says, before turning to the poorly dressed human with an impatient look on her face. He still doesn't trust me... Time to seal the deal, because I think I made enough enemies in one day.

"Look, Omar. Like you said, I've been nothing but honest, I don't fuss about you coming in here, when you know I hate it!" She stands up, crossing her arms and stepping forwards. She continues in her nervous tone, "And you're looking at my mouth like I sold you a repainted horse and you're walking like...", she shrugs, "you expect a rival gang to be skulking in my stables waiting to pounce on Gritforge or something."

Raising her hands in the air in confusion, she adds, "Look, if there's some sorta thing you're worried about, ask, so we can figure it out together, because all this,", she gestures wildly at the gates and the stables, "Is pushin' me at the end of my slagging nerves, ya, and I don't imagine its the best for the stabbed girl. I give you my honesty, so why don't you do the same to me and tell me the real thing that's on your mind?" Shrugging in a deferential manner, Nural mutters one last sentence, "Less I have to get nervous about you and you worried about me, more time to be nervous about the right things, ya?"

Rolls/OoC:

Going for the classic diplomatic tactic for handling nervous bosses since time immemorial here, the 'please stop, you're making me nervous, you know I'm on your side, right'.
Diplomacy/Primal Magnetism: 1d20 + 16 + 3 ⇒ (12) + 16 + 3 = 31 Hope there isn't a fight later, since I'm pretty low on Rage by Empathic Diplomacy


For the first time Omar relaxes, clearly thinking Nural is being honest and direct. He tears his eyes both from the wounded woman and the stable confines, and turns them on Nural. They are still dark and small, quick as any pickpocket, but Nural senses a depth there. Street leader he may be, Omar is a bit deeper then a mere thug.

"Fair. Let us consider we are in this together and plan accordingly." Omar went on, rubbing his small, grubby chin. "Blightburn makes me think we have two choices."

"One, we silence the girl and dump her in a slag pit so deep no one finds her. We forget this ever happened and play dumb if the Wire Chewers show up. Maybe spend a few bars to bribe them."

"Or, we realize we are going up against the League at a time when the city is in turmoil." Omar takes in a shaky breath, "You willing to do that?"

Meanwhile, Quimble looks up again from the wound. His voice is as soft as old grease, "I can clean the wound, but the damage is done. Not to mention, dis posing of the blightburn will raise eyebrow. You can't simply dump it in a gutter and forget it." The old gnome looks ancient tonight, the dim light of the stables shading every wrinkle. "This woman is dying and there is little I can do. I might be wrong, some do recover from radiation sickness, but these crystals are inside her..."

Nural Perception: 1d20 + 13 ⇒ (17) + 13 = 30
?: 1d20 + 17 ⇒ (18) + 17 = 35


Hobgoblin HP 63/63 | AC 21, T 16 FF 16 | Fort +10, Ref +10, Will +6 | CMD 24| Init +5 | Perception +13| Grit 2/2 | Rage 16/16

Exhaling deeply, Nural stares back into Omar's eyes. He's scared and afraid. But he's not panicked, and he's on my side. Even if it's just for now., a thought crosses her mind, only for his reasoning to make her bare her teeth again. Oh, you... "Really?", she replies briskly, gesturing wildly at the scene. "We can't do that, Omar. Play dumb, when they saw us in here, when the League is probably breathing down their neck? We chase them out, and then when they come back we lie down, and all'll be fine, ya?" She tilts her head to the side. "Do you expect a gang bold enough to come here to go for that, and not just come back for more the next day? With twice as many people, paid with our money? Don't feed the dogs."

Cleverer than most, but, Lamashtu take him if that's low bar in Gritforge. And all I wanted was to save some money for a new caravan stall... Now I'm talking with the leader of the neighbourhood, and arguing his ideas. Because his ideas are stupid and narrow-minded. Times like these, I almost miss the Legion. She shakes her head, her feet stomping around the dusty stables. Leaning on a pillar, she sighs. "This is just the first day since The Black Sovereign's dead. Big players in the Mound,", she gestures towards the centre of town, glistening just minutes ago, and a dark pillar in the night. "They have big steps to take first. We have to keep a nose to the air, ya? See where the blood's coming from, and protect our own. I don't see her as being too important for the League. If she was, they wouldn't send that Rustmouth and his gang. They'd send a technomancer, and me and your entire gang would be happily sizzlin' on the road to be gnawed on by the strays, ya?" A fatalist grin spreads across the hobgoblin's face, before it wanes as Quimble looks up from the wound and makes his grim prognosis.

A saddened look spreads across her features, as she shakes her head, fury dancing across her lips. "Arrrgh! Slag it. She might pull through, but if it's poison as bad as Quimble says..." She glances up at Omar once more. "Leave her here to rest. But I think Quimble and I got a handle on her, and I'm pretty sure I'm not the only house having drekheads coming around tonight." She puts her arms in the air theatrically. "If she says anything, I'll let you know, obviously, but I personally feel chattier when the local gang isn't staring at my chest. Slatty. I can take over.", she nods, crouching down next to the woman's body. "I'll come lock in a minute. And no detours, you know I see in the dark, ya?"


Omar's face twists at Nural's logic that if the thief had been important, all of the Anvil Pounders in the world wouldn't be able to keep her safe. Clearly the gang leader doesn't like being reminded he is a big fish in a small pond, and that there is an ocean out there full of whales.

Finally the man nods slowly but then holds up a hand, "All right, I understand. I also understand you do not want me breathing down your neck while you play hero."

The gang leader nods to Slatty, "Fine, we will leave you to the life saving aspect."

Omar glances at Quimble, "You agree to that?"

The old looking gnome quivers, glances back at the dying woman, obviously nervous. A long moment passes before he says, "I'll help save the thief, or at least do what I can. But nothing more then that, leave me out of any 'discussions'." With that the healer turns away from that, back to his silent patient.

Omar shrugs, turns, then turns back, "But before we go..." he hand darts out and snatches the stack of papers at the wounded woman's belt. Thick white pages, obviously expensive paper, usually reserved for drafting and other large drawings.

"Do we go over these now or do I take them with us?"


Hobgoblin HP 63/63 | AC 21, T 16 FF 16 | Fort +10, Ref +10, Will +6 | CMD 24| Init +5 | Perception +13| Grit 2/2 | Rage 16/16

Nural's guttural, dark laugh echoes in the room. "If I wanted to play hero, I'd join the Mendevians, Omar. All I want is the slagging town to go back to normal so I can make a living, ya?", she adds, shaking her head. "Thank you, Quimble. We'll try and keep you from learning s+&# you don't need to know, don't worry." Giving the gnome an appreciative smile, she gives him a pat on the back. As she steps up, her eyes meet the wounded woman's. Can't imagine what's it like. Being injured, lost... alone. Slag it, even now you're not out of the sun yet. Her hand grabs the woman's, squeezing gently. "Hold on, ya? I need ya alive, someone needs to mop up the blood in here."

As Omar snatches the documents from the pocket, Nural turns around and stares at him, eyebrow raised. "Looks like drafts and drawings to me.", she shrugs. "Sure, we can figure this out now. Unless you know other siege engineers you can wake up on a short notice." Tapping the ground, Nural wipes away the blood in the sand. He's been here a while. If something else happens in Gritforge, I don't much envy him.
Pointing to a half-battered cart in the yard, Nural grunts out. "Let's go. Can't really throw those down on the ground, and you need to unfold them to understand 'em."

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