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Most cities in Cheliax can be summed up into a word. At one point the word for Westcrown would have been glory, though for the past few decades that has been changed to rot and it's still too soon to see if recent events changed that. Visitors to Egorian would say the word damned with little provocation. Each day its spires reach ever onward towards heaven while sinking deeper and deeper into the blackest hell.
Kintargo is different. Kintargo never felt part of Cheliax proper. Restless would be the term that scholars would give to this city without a history. Always moving, always changing, always looking for the best new thing and chafing at the bonds of authority or tradition. Most in the city will either avoid calling themselves Chelaxian or spit at the idea entirely. They are Kintargans.
But not all change is welcome. Even before word of the Glorious Proclamation reached the ears of sleepy tavern goers begrudgingly muttering into their mugs the house of Thrune sent in its thugs to remove Kintargo's disobedient spirit. The dottari were replaced for the most part with surly Egorians and Westcrown brutes probably washed out of those guard posts for being too savage. The Hellknights of the Order of the Torrent, never ones to care too much about the local populace, were replaced by a contingent from the Order of the Rack, book burners and rebel smashers only made more brutal by their ouster from Westcrown. The other changes came so swiftly and quietly people are still trying to figure out what happened. Business owners were replaced overnight, the salt manufactory went from an honest workplace to a prison camp, friends, loved ones, neighbors, all disappeared in the night. And to top it all off the former lord mayor, a woman who teetered the line between loyalty to the crown and utter disdain for it, vanished without a trace.
This alone would be cause to worry, to fret, to whisper in the corners of parlors traitorous speech. But not only has the new lord mayor, a slug from Egorian that's cousin to the queen, done all of this but he has taken residence in the illustrious opera house. Grand performances of elaborate costume and talent rendered into base street theater overnight. Then he issued petty proclamation after petty proclamation. This wasn't just a change of hands, this was an invasion of a hostile foreign power with no love nor respect for the streets in their care.
So word got around. The Shelynites were the first to act. The occupation of the opera house and the ceasing of performances were reason enough. Then came the spread to the recently unemployed, followed by the dock workers, the shopkeepers, the stablehands and house servants, then to the gangs and the outcasts, and more still. It didn't take much organization, just a date repeated again and again so all knew.
Today was that day. The day that Kintargans would bring their grievances directly to the new lord mayor himself, whether he liked it or not.
Even with the cobblestones of Argent Avenue and the foliage of Aria Park still wet from the morning’s light rain, dozens of Kintargans have gathered along the facade of the opera house to protest the city’s new lord-mayor, Paracount Barzillai Thrune. The city’s new leader was appointed by Her Infernal Majestrix, Queen Abrogail II, in the wake of the previous lord-mayor’s sudden flight from the city—an event that still has local rumormongers whispering furiously. In a scant seven days, Paracount Thrune has instituted martial law, a curfew, and seven outlandish and polarizing proclamations. There’s been no sign yet of Barzillai Thrune himself, and the opera house’s doors remain tightly closed—as they have since the man chose the landmark as his new home—but judging by the growing sound of the protesters, he surely can’t ignore the scene on the streets below much longer.
As the first hours wear on the Shelynites, all brightly dressed in colorful robes and outfits, set up an impromptu poetry session, with each new verse describing the crimes of the new government against their goddess and in some cases adding a bit of mockery to the new proclamations. Some even carry ceremonial glaives, though the flimsy cardboard and weak pine of the shafts would do little more than give a nasty bruise.
Before long more show up. Moat just observers seeing what the crowd is about. Some come holding signs demanding a legal election, others bring chants about a foreign usurper unlawfully taking power. Some come in with sneers of people who just want ro break aomething or someone. Once this crew is assembled the parasites arrive to feast on the life of this new organism. Street vendors, buskers playing to the feelings of the crowd, and pickpockets, always pickpockets.
As the sun rises further the counter protesters arrive. Keeping a safe distance from the much larger and angrier mob this group, many of these are dressed in the robes of the asmodean priesthood. Shouting dark litanies, calling out individual members on their sin, calling the mob traitors, sinners, hypocrites and worse.
Yet, despite the agitation the mob is relatively peaceful. The dottari have contented themselves to stay at the periphery watching the mob and only intervening when a brawl breaks out and even then only to scoop up and arrest the losers. The dozen or so dottari at the door to the opera house provide intimidating walls of pain and the hard woman at their head leaning on her glaive has an air of anxious attention like a vicious dog observing prey on the other side of their fence.
Actions you can do atm:
Listen for rumors and gossip.(Roll diplomacy or perception)
Pickpocket (Roll a sleight of hand followed by a bluff check.)
Rabble Rouse and organize the crowd.(Diplomacy or Perform)
Search for a contact.(Perception)
Attempt to silence the unwanted. (Bluff or Intimidate and select one group; Shelynites, anarchists, Loyalists, democratics, or the economic conservatives)
Watch the Crowd (perception)
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Perception
Variel kept his eyes peeled for Tiny. He knew she would show up to this event. Hellknights wouldn’t be able to keep her away. While he never hoped she would get into serious trouble part of him was hoping that she was in just enough to keep her away today. There was an undercurrent of tension. It wasn’t the Asmodean priest counter protesting. It wasn’t the Shelynites initial protests. It was something else that Variel could not place. As such he could only watch and wait and hope and pray
But hope and pray for what exactly? He wanted Tiny safe but a greater part of him wanted something to happen. He wanted an excuse to charge in and crash the front doors with scimitar drawn and find that murderous Thrune. Yet for all his training he knew he would not make it more than 5 feet in the opera house by himself. He needed others to help him, but who and when?
Perception watch the crowd
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The closure of the Opera House, was primarily on his mind as the protests got in full swing. Borgan looked at his fellow admirers of beauty and practitioners of art, the Shelynites. Although the group and he couldn't be much more different at this point.
Where they wore colourful robes and were good with words, Borgan felt he neither had need to stand out or the voice to project works of rhyme towards a crowd this large.
His attire for this day was the same clothes he wore if he wandered around the city not wanting to be noticed. A simple brown tunic and green pants, a motley old tan cloak. These clothes did more than just make him slightly more inconspicuous, it also concealed his armour and weapon he had with him. Something smaller, just in case. The glaive is too much of an eye-catcher. The mace will do for now.
Wandering around he smiled to the other worshippers of Shelyn he knew by name, nodded respectfully to the loyalists and democratic protesters in the crowd. The economic conservative ones left him feeling indifferent, though the Anarchists, they could prove more dangerous if they were spoiling for a fight. The Hellknights or guard could intervene any moment when this turns out violent, bringing more violence in return. I suppose someone should talk some sense into them before it gets out of hand.
Borgan makes his way towards what he thinks might be the lead instigator of the group of anarchists and speaks in a low tone to him. All the while he continously stares the man down with an icy look in his eyes.
"You the leader of this group? You know what you doin'? If there's any sign this protest gets out of hand, because your hands get itchy, it's the Hellknights that will intervene and chop those hands off. Maybe you will miraculously evade any retribution, but your folly might get others killed that don't want to fight. I'm to make sure those events don't even happen, you understand?"
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The problem with crowds, Litsy decided, was that they had far too many legs, and had no way of watching them all. Strange thing, really, how the human body worked. Adapted to its environment.
When left on his own, any man would think of himself as a four-limbed bodily mass carefully making its way through a world of obstacles. Am I walking too slow, or too fast. Shift the gait, change the posture. What do I do with my hands, where is my purse, my timepiece, my umbrella. Arms akimbo to ease back and neck pain, hold for six breaths, must be that bloody backpack again. All of that hyper-awareness that make it difficult for you to not know where your legs are taking you, or notice that the waist-high shape which has been standing next to you the whole time (also known as: a child) is sticking his hand in your pocket. Not that any of these events would have been visible from an outsider's perspective, as well.
Rather, if you're sharing Litsy's viewpoint, then you can't see bloody s***.
Litsy groans, but the ever-moving mob pays no attention to her. It makes her think of a caterpillar, this wall of flesh, with its hundreds of legs and its ridiculous little eyes. Just two in the front, the rest, on the sides, look like eyeballs but aren't. She can't even spot Variel in the mass.
It would have been such an opportunity for business if she weren't supposed to lay low. Not that she's naive enough to think that her partners would have listened to her, and stayed behind. She can't see them, but she's sure some of them disobeyed and came along to steal a few purses-or show their support to "the rebels", if she's feeling particularly optimistic.
If Connor had been there, they would have listened.
From her standpoint, Litsy reluctantly looks for some familiar faces in the crowd. Other gangs may be trying to discreetly pilfer pockets (alright, they very much probably are), but her little protégés aren't going to take such a risk today if she can help it.
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Paquen's tail flicks occasionally as she meanders on the edge of the crowd gathering in Aria Park. It's a tick of hers caused by being uncomfortable. Fortunately she wore a long jacket that helps to obscure her tail some.
She looks around to see if there is any sign of Strea Vestori, or any other tieflings at all really, at the protest. Paquen has come alone, and being this far out of Redroof to attend something controversial is a bit outside her comfort zone.
Eventually she decides she likes the idea of being among the Shelynites more than other options and joins them. As she moves through them she offers a couple of tentative hellos and asks if there's any news about what happening so far.
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Beorn huffed and puffed as he shouldered his way through the crowd. It was simply heartbreaking that the people of the city were at this point. Taking to the streets and at each other's throats.
Beorn looked at the opera and shook his fist. A place of culture and it now a lair to that failed family member of Thrune! DISGRACEFUL! Well there was no time to cry over spilt milk. TIME FOR ACION!
Beorn set down the wooden box he had under his arm and jumped on top of it. Clearing his throat with a swish of water, he began a impassioned speech against the foul oppression of tea. He spoke about the ridiculousness of it, of the history of tea as a refreshment in the morning before the people headed off to work and the bonds made during meals in establishments both common and rich. The bold flavor of black tea, the soothing taste of chamomile and the spicy bite of spiced tea. Let these be available for drinking anytime! LET THE TEA BE FREE!
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If there ever was a stark contrast to the colourful, mostly pretty Shelynites in attendence, it was Malgar. The old dwarf tried, as usual, to cover his mutilated face with the gown of his cloak. But still, sometimes someone would see, and they'd either:
A: Recoil
B: Run in horror
C: Offer a copper or food out of pity
D: Make some variation of a remark on how ugly the rest of his family, especially, his mother, would have to be.
'F*ck all of them,' he thought. All that was just noise. He was here for one purpose and one purpose only - and that was to shoot Barzillai with the longbow the minute the bastard showed his ugly mug.
Forty years! Wait, Sixty? Hm. Forty-six. Definitely. Probably.
It didn't matter. Too much torture. Too long in prison. Barzillai was known to be a sadist thriving on inventing new ways to torment the helpless. He'd been one of those. A plaything at best. He'd forgotten why it felt personal coming even from a monster like him. He'd hoped he'd shot his b*lls off somewhere during the civil war, so those rumors of him being a eunuch had some real weight to them!
But that wasn't enough - not by a longshot. He could vividly remember being slowly eaten by rabid dogs...
...Or was that Robin? Yes! Robin! Oh gods. The bravest halfling ever under his command, worth a hundred Thrune bastards on a bad day! He'd heard her being eaten, clear as day! Heard her pained cries for help while he was shackled in solitary!
Yes. It was definitely her. One too many! And today was the day he'd settle the score...
...He only had to be patient. Any moment now, he would show up here somewhere .
But he could always start asking. Like clockwork, he pushed his hood off and waited for the cycle to repeat. Perhaps predicatbly, a Shelynite came to offer condolances and repentence for whatever grievous crimes he has committed to the goddess of beauty. "Thanks for the offer," Ye a#@%%~&. "But I'm here to protest, not pray. If I were you, I'd get some better weapons. This a**!~## is going to unleash the hellknights on us any moment and you wouldn't want to have your wooden sticks out to defend yourselves with."
However you deal with the pickpocket something else catches your attention. Black hooded figures not so much moving through the crowd as shoving their way through it. Occasionally you see one turn to the other side of the square and make a strange hand signal before making an effort to try and blend back into the crowd. A quick glance to the other side of the square sees another similarly dressed man giving a similar response. You’re not entirely sure who these men are but they seem far less interested in the dottari or the protest itself as much as they are gravitating towards the more charismatic among the mob.
Over the rest of the hour as you go about your various dealings some voices start to die down. The group of anarchists, only a few god rock throws away from just burning everything down are quieted down by the harsh words of a particularly surly half orc. While the color and spectacle of the Shelynites own form of protest deadens as a particularly belligerent dwarf hammers into them about their less straightforward means of protest.
Yet, the chaotic rambling crowd of disparate ideologies starts to unite a s singular voice standing above the rest starts to lead the crowd in a catchy chant of his own devise. While oddly specific it seems incredibly popular and within moments all other screams and poems and chants are drowned out by a simple litany,
The chant continues for some time with many likely having lost their voice and possibly hearing from the sheer volume and ferocity of it.
Beorn is delighted at the reaction of the crowd and after some chanting, he waves to the crowd for attention. Dear folk, let us not strain our throats! The day has not yet ended and we must continue to speak against he many rules that stifle us! Beorn hops off his box and sips some soothing chilled tea before reviewing his notes for the next part of his plan.
He brings along a few people, one that has a dog with them and two others that he quickly briefs on their roles and then stands upon his box and begins his tale.
The tale is of two parents who wish to get a dog for there child and inquire the owner of the shop about the price of the displayed canine. The dog is friendly with a wagging tail and they speak of the benefits of a child learning the responsibilities of caring for the dog. The owner is moved and gives a reasonable price and extols the virtues of findings hounds good homes and hopes that every stray dog will no longer shiver hungry in the rain. The tale ends with a plea to the ruling body to reconsider their stance and enact positive social programs, while the populace is encouraged to start a community pound where dogs can be brought and cared for so people can come and find a family pet.
Alas, it seems Beorn's voice was strained during his last speech and the dog howls in protest.
Litsy stares in utter disbelief at the protesters, as the human caterpillar starts chanting as one man something about the liberation of hot drinks. Everyone in this bloody town must have gone quite insane when she wasn't looking.
At least Variel's here, and he's the only familiar face around, and he doesn't seem particularly preoccupied about the ignominious fate of afternoon scones, so she starts making her way towards him. Her fingers almost itch as they come very close to a couple of unwatched purses, but she's got cash enough, and the dottari don't have much of a reputation for leniency.
"Hey, Variel, what's up, long time no see," she greets him in a single breath, her face a little redder forom squeezing her way through the crowd. "Say, can you give me a leg up real quick, I've got a business meeting with someone and I can't find them."
It's not exactly lying, and she's quite proud of herself for that, actually communicating normally with people. Making sure none of her gang members are taking risks in the thick of the crowd is a business meeting of sorts after all, only it's a surprise for everyone involved.
Borgan easily ignores the boos and insults the group of anarchists hurls at him. If that's all they do, they're no threat to me or others. Now let's see about what's happening around the rest of the crowd.
Borgan gives his eyes the go around, noticing that the Shelynites have quieted down their poems of protest. Odd. Who's that calling them to different actions? Can't make him out from this distance.
Borgan makes his way over to the group of worshippers of Shelyn, when he suddenly hears the crowd pick up a chant of freeing the tea. His eyes glare over the crowd to find the source of the chant. An old acquaintance from the opera house, a performer himself with whom he talked a few times after a shows. If it isn't Beorn. He always was a tad eccentric perhaps, but he sure knows his way to grip a crowd. His heart is in the right place and this idea isn't half bad.
Borgan decides to stay close to Beorn's podium, figuring the attention of the crowd is primarily focused at Beorn and his makeshift podium. He looks around slowly to see how the crowd reacts to his new talking points.
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Such an interesting collection of people. So many different voices calling out without anything but frustration unifying them. To what purpose would this effort result in? His thoughts trailed off then as he saw a small figure moving adjacent to an unsuspecting man. The small figure did not look familiar and thus Variel assumed that it was not Tiny nor one of those that Tiny associated with. Moving towards the figure he was too clumsy and abrupt. The figure saw him and took off. Before he could reach out and grab him or her he or she took off dropping the coin purse. Picking it up he handed it back to the man. He was pleasantly surprised at the gesture of thanks for stopping the pickpocket.
His own expression of thanks was cut short though as he saw another disturbing sight. A couple of men were making their way through the crowd. What was unusual was that it seemed they were either marking people in the crowd or dismissing them. Variel made note to keep them in his sights.
Moving through the crowd himself now Variel tried to get closer to the cloaked men. Yet as he tried the throng slowly started to change into a cohesive unit. Variel stood there is stunned silence. Free the tea? This is what they are demanding at this time? Next will be the restrictions on mint. These are minor inconveniences compared to the harsh punishments for free thought and expression. I thought the Shelynites would at least continue to support those measures. Suddenly Tiny was there before him. How she managed to find him and appear so quickly when he was looking for her never truly surprised him but did annoy him sometimes.
Variel’s hand rose up instinctively but he resisted the urge to reach out and scruff up her hair. It was something he would have done if she was 8 but not now. As such he was left with an awkward attempt to bring his hand up to his our hair and run his fingers through it in exasperation. Oh hey Tiny. Figured I’d see you out here. What are you doing though? Looking for a business associate…ok I will keep my eyes out for them as well. What do they look like? After scanning the crowd Variel will point out the cloaked men to her as well. Keep an eye out for those cloaked men. There is another on the edge of the square and I don’t know what they are up to. They are using hand signals to communicate to each other.
Perception scan the crowd again for the men or Tiny’s contact
Malgar tries to get the Shelynites to take things more seriously a little longer until the "FREE THE TEA!!" chant starts in earnest.
He nodded; maybe this mess of different people could be unified to form a more effective protest. And if all they needed was a simple chant to follow...
"Say, you know Barzillai never had a lover? Probably doesn't even know the meaning of the word, being a torturer and all. Know how he likes to have his dogs eat people? And there's already an edict for those! Next edit, he'll forbid displays of affection *entirely* just to spit everyone. And to that we should say:"
"THROUGH WITH THRUNE! THROUGH WITH THRUNE!"
He shouts, though whether it took any effect in between tne ongoing chant remained to be seen...
"Oh hey Tiny. Figured I’d see you out here. What are you doing though? Looking for a business associate…ok I will keep my eyes out for them as well. What do they look like?"
"Oh, you know, the usual," Litsy replies with affected nonchalance. "About waist-high, between eight and thirteen years old, clothes in tatters, looking like they think themselves real smart? And if they've got their hand in someone else's pocket, it's probably them." An idea suddenly strikes her. "Hey, keep your eyes peeled for the ones with brown hair and freckles all over their faces, like someone just blew a handful of confetti right in their nose. Especially a girl about ten."
Cory Blacksmith and her siblings. A family of five children, with rarely enough money to feed them all, so the kids had taken to part-time larceny to make ends meet. They were occasional allies, at first, but since Connor had left, they had got ambitions of their own. Cory was smart enough, she was one of the few among the gang who knew how to read and write, and with her two older brothers as bodyguards, she was starting to feel stronger than Litsy. Sure, they were younger- but they were also five, and she was alone.
But they were also inexperienced enough to feel invincible, and view a street protest against the government as a golden opportunity for cutting purses right under the dottari's noses, rather than consider the dangers of being seen, or worse, getting trampled to death if things went suddenly south. And if they had brought other gang members with them...
From her newfound viewpoint, Litsy still has trouble spotting any pickpocket that might be zigzagging through the crowd. However, she does see a man she recognizes, standing on a makeshift podium.
"Hey- isn't that Beorn standing on that box?" she tells Variel. "You know, the one who sings at the theatre? I think he's stirring up the crowd!"
She recognizes the black and red robes of those Asmodean nutters, still yelling their insults at a crowd that does its best to ignore them. The white robes of the Shelynites, whose voices have suddenly gone quieter since they got yelled at by a hooded dwarf- hang on.
"Wait- Magdar the Mad is here?" Litsy chuckles. "Hey, Variel, remember Magdar? Can't believe there's crazier than the Asmodeans at this protest! Looks like he's been on one of his rants already... He wasn't one of the cloaked man you've seen, right?"
She keeps looking for those. The usually loud anarchists are looking more and more awkward as a burly half-orc walks away from them. Litsy thinks she can recognize him. An odd sort, that one. She's not sure she trusts him.
She tries to keep her eyes peeled for any street urchin she recognizes, and tries to spot the cloaked man on the edge of the square, with his hand signals.
Paquen is puzzled and a little taken aback when the tea chanting starts, then takes hold of the crowd. Sure, it's a silly and pointless restriction. But of all the problems and inequities in the city, it seems ironically predictable the humans would latch on to a minor discomfort they experience themselves as the central issue that must immediately be addressed.
She sighs, and continues to wander within the confines of the Shelynite portion of the gathering. Pagquen doesn't know what livery the two men might be talking about. She also doesn't give much credit to superstitious gossip so she doesn't pay them another further attention.
Next up in gaining the attention of much of the crowd is a dwarf who seems very angry about something. She can't really make out what though since he mostly tosses out personal insults aimed at Barzillai Thrune. Paquen give him about half her attention, in case he gets to some substantive point, and continues to search the crowd for any other tieflings.
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"Oh, you know, the usual," Litsy replies with affected nonchalance. "About waist-high, between eight and thirteen years old, clothes in tatters, looking like they think themselves real smart? And if they've got their hand in someone else's pocket, it's probably them." An idea suddenly strikes her. "Hey, keep your eyes peeled for the ones with brown hair and freckles all over their faces, like someone just blew a handful of confetti right in their nose. Especially a girl about ten."
Variel shakes his head ruefully and gives a small chuckle. That description only applies to about a dozen or so people here right now. At any minute any 1 of those dozen kids could be putting a hand where it doesn’t belong. If I see one that looks a little lost though I will send her to you…about ten you say.
Variel then does give Tiny a leg up to stand on. As she scans the crowd herself to find the men in cloaks she starts rattling on about different people that she sees starting with Beorn. Beorn…Beorn… Variel mumbles to himself as he is trying to place the name. Isn’t he the guy that passed out on stage during an audition? Or was that Brin? You know the theater better than I do. He does seem to be able to rally the crowd though.
When she gets to talking about Malgar the Mad Variel looks In The direction she is pointing. Sure enough the dwarf was there chanting up a storm. No Tiny that is not who I was talking about in cloaks earlier. However we should keep an eye on him as well. Rumors say he is not stable and we don’t need him causing a scene or getting other people killed just because he loses it. Although he does make life interesting according to those that have bought him a round.
It’s hard for your trained eye to spot the men Variel indicated. Between merchants and their own silent dealings, other gang members and at least a dozen even nastier sorts wandering the crowd you would swear there were at least a dozen or so shady dealings going on at once. So, every day on the streets essentially.
Without much clear direction the rabble goes back to it’s original form. Without the haranguing of the old dwarf nor the pointed directed insults by the half orc the anarchists return to their chest beating and violence incitement while the shelynites break out into rather scandalous hymns about the fate of those who denied Her will. The crowd is growing thicker and more restless by the moment and with them the more alert the dottari around the square get.
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Beorn stumbles about after his failure and fails to notice anything after his failure to defend the canine citizens of Kintargo.
Beorn mops his face due to the crowd drifting away from his failed attempt to draw attention to citizen-based programs as alternate approaches to Thrune's ridiculous laws. His confidence was shaken and
he wonders if he should just drift off for some strong drink to ease his nerves.
Just as he was about to turn away, the thumping of some drums caught his ear and he looked to see some performers rapping their sticks on some colorful drums in a certain beat and the seed of an idea was born. He then caught some harsh words drifting over the crowd about how horrible their current Mayor was and more inspiration bloomed.
Hurrying over to the drummers, he introduced himself and spoke of himself being the one who championed tea and how he wished to enlist their aid in a stirring rebuke of Thrune. He beat out a certain rhythm on the drum and spoke a few lines of his song and how his performance would be a praising of the people of Kintargo and a scathing
rebuke against their mayor. He then hurried over to the Shelynites and repeated his entreaty, urging them to spread amongst the crowd and encourage them to participate.
Pulling out some parchment, he wrote out some lines and notes and showed them to the drummers and the Shelynites before doing a hasty practice session. Time was short and they needed to work fast before the dottari tired of the spectacle.
His plan set, Beorn stood upon a table that some food venders had set up and nodded to the drummers as they began to thump upon their drums, drawing attention to Beorn as he raised his hands, noticing the Shelynites begin pointing to him.
Beorn then clapped his hands together twice before him and the drummers matched the beats.
Then he clapped them once over his head and saw his aides in the crowd also clap in time.
Twice before.
Once above.
Beorn then saw the hands began to move in greater numbers and smiled as his confidence came roaring back and so he opened his lips
He was clearly aiming this at the Mayor, assulting his integrity at his belief he could ever be worthy of his station and daring him to answer.
As the song began to come to an end, he phased into the next part. Speaking to the people of Kintargo and praising them as he again pointed an accusing finger at the mayor. Beorn spoke to the crowd to bring them into solidarity against the target of their ire and endure any hardship.
Garful does grab Paquen's attention with the mention of the murders. She bums a cigarette from him and asks if he knows anything more about them. as well as "seen anyone else here from the Nursery?"
She feeling a little more comfortable in her group, even if it's only now a group of two. Paquen decides to remain where she is and watch the people for a while. While she's not sure what she expected, things in the crowd seem be be turning toward ad hoc entertainment rather than any pressing injustices. She sighs again.
"You know Garful, with some stalls set up this wouldn't be all that much different from a typical market day."
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perception watch the crowd
Variel's mouth goes dry as he sees the men's movements change. No longer are they searching for prey but rather stalking their chosen target. That target it seems was the half-orc Tiny just pointed out to him, Beorn. Tiny, we need to move now and go visit your friend Beorn. Those men that I spotted earlier are heading directly towards him and something tells me that it is not to cheer him on. If they get the chance Beorn is going to get a knife stuck in his back. You know him better than I do. Maybe you can get a message to him.
Practically carrying the girl with him Variel heads directly towards Beorn and the Shelynites. Should he manage to he positions himself behind one of the cloaked men hoping that their focus on Beorn is such that they don't notice him. The stopping of feet and chanting by the Shelynites hopefully help distract from his purpose as well. Variel keeps one hand on his scimitar as the other tries to keep his own cloak from betraying his own actions.
stealth
As slightly deranged as Beorn is, in his own, special way, his sense of rhythm was flawless. Even Litsy could feel herself being carried away by the beat.
"Beorn?" she says absent-mindedly. "Yeah, I'm not sure he's the one who passed out. But then again, you know I haven't been allowed in theatres for a long time- wow, wow, easy there!" she exclaims, as Variel suddenly starts striding through the crowd, carrying her along.
She just about manages to climb down from her perch before she could lose her balance. "He's got dottari after him, already? Alright, I'll see if I can get to him... If you could create a distraction somehow, that might be a great help."
One look at the forest of legs surrounding her was enough for Litsy to guess that it would be was easier said than done. Beorn was visible enough, standing up as he was on a table, regularly beating his drums- but she had no clue where the cloaked men were.
Her chances to catch Beorn's attention, lost as he was in his attempt to make as much noise as possible, were very slim. Litsy resorted to move through the crowd as quickly and discreetly as she could, hoping to reach the musician before they did.
Try as he might, Malgar just could not overpower all the surrounding noise. Once, he might have. When he was healthy.
House Thrune had taken that away. Them and Barzillai!
That brought the rage. The flaggings. Hearing Robin get eaten by wolves! Eh, Dogs!
Yes - Robin, the bravest half-orc ever under his command, worth at least a thousand mindless Thrunites on a bad day! All of Golarion was worse for his loss.
His dying screams filled Malgar's indignant anger, and he steps away from the Shelynites in dusgust. Useless Poets! It was time for the REAL revolutionairies to take over!
He shoves his way to the anarchists and picks his targets more carefully, one by one, every word laces with acid, his ragged voice slowly regaining its power to where it was filled with almost unnatural zeal. Reminding the young among them how each and every one of their freedoms was being stripped by the day! The poor how breadcrumps falling from their plates could now end them in life-long debt! To the old how their culture was being opressed and spat on! To the women how many people had suddenly disappeared overnight - no doubt playthings for Barzillai to practice his sadism on in his private dungeons!
No. House Thrune, and this dictator, had to go.
NOW!
And he starts chanting again. More agressive. More violent. "THROUGH WITH THRUNE!!! KILL THEM ALL!!! THROUGH WITH THRUNE!!! KILL THEM ALL!!!"
After starting the chant, he hesitates but for a brief moment, when he thinks he sees Tiny above the crowd. Whether it was because of him or Barzillai, this place would soon be a bloodbath. The only question was: which among them had the first strike.
But Tiny was just a child...
...But so was Kayleigh! ...Right?
...Right!
He keeps on shouting along with the anarchists. "THROUGH WITH THRUNE!!!"
Paquen takes a couple of draws off her cigarette as she watches the dwarf.
"That dwarf is completely nuts." she comments to Garful.
"Fancy form of suicide that is, suicide by political theater."
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Finally beginning to understand the nature of his audience Beorn discards the melodrama and opts instead for more base forms of entertainment and satire.
The pieces were already in place. The instruments, the scene, the energy. All it required was some direction, rhythm and catchy lyrics, all things that a man with Beorn's theater training could provide.
As he stands up on the table to some choice insults from the vendor and customers below him Beorn ignores them. The show has to go on.
It starts slowly at first, a soft muttering of confusion before anyone jumps in. Some do so purely out of novelty, others out of peer pressure. But as a certain dwarf ignites like a furnace with the indignity of this pacifism the song and rhythm goes completely out of control. Beorn is no longer leading. He doesn't have to. The lyrics, the beat, the raw unfiltered anger come naturally.
It speaks of something far older than the current administration. It speaks of a frustration and the nagging feeling that the city didn't belong. That Barzillai truly was a foreign invader. The song grows in strength with their anger and for a brief moment the restless Kintargans are united in a singular mind and purpose. The damning litanies and accusations of the counter protesters withers away in its blazing heat and even thought becomes hard to focus. It's intoxicating and most of all dangerous.
For Malgar himself, fists white knuckled and stinging with the force of his grip on his hidden weapons, he melts away in the moment. The pain of years of punishment, the regret, the hate, all of it boil away in a wave of righteous anger that's larger than he. In this moment his god smiles upon him and tips his drink.
Taking a moment to mob watch it's easy to see why the Shelynites believe song and art are so important to living. With but a few beats, simple lyrics and the red hot rage of a half crazed dwarf the crowd of differing opinions and political affiliations comes together. The end result will not be peaceful but it will be effective.
Especially since you see cloaked men moving pointedly through the crowd hands hidden towards the two leaders of the mob. Made visible by their lack of participation.
Just as the song reaches its climax the velvet curtains on the third floor draw back in a slow and dramatic fashion fitting for the scene set. From the shadows within steps out a man clad in darkened full plate festooned with the symbols of the Prince of Darkness familiar to anyone in Cheliax. The armor itself seems far too large and cumbersome for a man of his stature to wear. The pauldrons too big and his head too small to fit the towering metal cowl that comes off the back. Nonetheless the ease of which he moves in it and the confidence in his stride suggests a presence that makes it fitting that he chose the opera house as a residence. Afterall a character like him could only possibly exist onstage.
His face is handsome and the few scars on it do little to diminish his looks as much as add promise to the threat of the mace on his hip. His hair is cut nearly down to the scalp and his eyes even from down here show neither anger nor fear but an almost contemptuous amusement at the display before him.
Placing one hand on the railing he sips from the golden goblet in his right hand while the crowd flounders in it's uproar to a dead silence. When the silence takes hold he speaks in earnest in a deep baritone that's again fitting for his choice of residence.
"Ah, my adoring little chickadees. I am sorry to say I have not yet adapted to your quaint, country ways, being accustomed as I am to the sophistication and learning of Egorian." A contemptuous sneer appears on his face as he continues. " Nonetheless, know I have heard your concerns, and that I appreciate your valued feedback, and I know we shall eventually find a mutual understanding in the fullness of time. I take pride in updating Kintargo’s quaint, outdated laws to the modern standards the city deserves, and strengthening its ties with the empire in these cruel times, but obviously I have approached my duties too aggressively." He pauses to add weight to his coming words. “You say you chafe at the presence of nonnatives in positions of power? That authorities not of this city have no place as its leaders? That you will not be yoked by intruders? Your lord-mayor hears you. And so it is with a heavy heart that I issue this proclamation, in response to your demands: all ships’ captains are hereafter barred from leaving their vessels and setting foot on Kintargo docks or streets, under pain of... let’s say… He lifts a thoughtful finger to his chin as he mocks deep thought and with a flourish he points to the sky as if in the throes of revelation "squassation!”
At the casual mention of brutal torture in a form Malgar is all too familiar with something in the dwarf snaps. Thoughts of the previous few moments vanish and a strange calm overtakes him. The bastards head is exposed. His crossbow is already loaded. Everyone is looking up and no one would miss him. A clean shot between the eyes would put paid decades of abuse. Never mind that this man seems much younger than the one who had you on the rack. Nevermind that to do so would be signing your own death warrant. A smooth pull of the trigger, some kickback, and it'd all be over.
And so it was. Before anyone had time to cry out, before rational thought could take hold, fate snatched Malgars hand and made the bolt set sail with the inevitability of death in flight.
But fate is whimsical. In another time, another place, the bolt landed squarely into the nose through the brain and into destiny. But not today. Today the bolt slammed cleanly into the gauntleted hand holding the goblet. Rather than penetrate, it shatters and the shock of it spills the contents across Barzillais breastplate. Throwing himself back in dramatic fashion and putting a hand to the struck arm as if it was suddenly cut off the crowd explodes and various missiles of other types start flying to the balcony though none bear the mark of fate that one bolt carried.
Enraged at the danger to his wardrobe and dignity, Barzillai roars his contempt above the crowd. "You dare!?! Enough of this! Nox, run them off, arrest them, or kill them. I don’t care which! And bring me the head of the assassin if you'd please!" with a billow of his crimson cape the villain of the play exits the stage and reality comes crashing back in as a dozen dottari move in truncheons raised with only the woman guarding the door abstaining from pushing into the fray. Worse, the cloaked men positioning themselves to take out the mob leaders throw back their cloaks revealing drawn clubs of their own. Wearing plain clothes and w
Bearing crimson armbands with the symbol of house thrune upon it the loyalty of these men are as clear as the danger they represent. Beorn suddenly finds his table palace under siege as two of the men beat back the crowd and attempt to rip him off his feet. Another pair lunges towards Malgar with clubs raised matching his anger with some of their own. Brawls break out all over and the dottari move in to add their own version of brutality to the carnage. For better or worse the inevitable has come.
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The warning that Litsy had prepared for Beorn never comes, as the Mayor himself steps outside of the opera house. A mere glimpse at his smug face is enough to overwhelm her with rage and pure hatred.
When the goblet shatters in his hand in the blink of an eye, she has a surprising moment of clarity.
Well, she thinks dryly. This must be the part where we all die.
Then all hell breaks loose.
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"Safe travels Garful, watch yourself. Thanks for the smoke."
Although she sort of knows better, Paquen stays where she's at and continues to watch. The intensity surprises her, but the flying bolt leaves her gawking in shock.
"Oh s%**, now the hammer comes down hard."
She's late to get moving, but she goes toward the trouble rather than away. There are going to be people who need help getting out of the park safely.
Keeping a vigilant eye out across the rest of the crowd is diligent work and Borgan was too set in his way to try to register anything coming towards Beorn from opposite way of the opera house, that he didn't see the crossbow bolt fly towards Barzillai.
Only when the glass shatters and Barzillai is covered in wine do the events click in Borgan's head and he turns around quickly.
O come on, this was exactly the think I had hoped to prevent. Who actually made that shot?
After a quick glance that was surprisingly more thorough than his initial watching out for Beorn, the half-orc notices two things rather quickly.
One, the angry dwarf Malgar that he heard ranting and raging against Thrune, holding a crossbow.
Two, the quickly approaching Dottari making their way towards Beorn.
Good thing I packed lightly. It's tough fighting in a crowd with a long weapon.
Borgan loosens his cloak and fastens his shield, drawing his out his mace from under his cloak to face the Dottari and protect his half-orc brother-in-protest.
As the mayor poses and pontificates, Beorn is about to respond with a cutting response, but the bolt and thugs revealing themselves gives him pause.
My goodness! I didn't think that I would get stage rushed so soon!
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Variel was taken aback as the sudden assault upon the Lord Mayor. Yes he expected protesting and even rotten vegetables and fruits thrown at him but not a direct attempt at an assassination. He could well understand the desire to kill the Lord Mayor, the gods above know how often he prayed and wished for such a thing to happen but not like this in broad daylight for everyone to see. Yet a part of him recognized that even the Lord Mayor realized something like this would happen. He was ready for it. The fact that the men in cloaks were aligned with him and doing his bidding to kill lead protesters spoke volumes. While he did not wish for blood to be spilled this day he sure wasn't going to let the Lord Mayor's thugs be the ones spilling the blood with him standing idly by. This Beorn and Malgar had stirred up the crowd and perhaps, just perhaps, they could be the voices needed to rally Kintargo to eventually overthrow the Lord Mayor Barzillai for good and fulfill his oath to his deceased wife and daughter. Swinging his cloak wide Variel had his scimitar in hand ready to protect Malgar and Beorn from assault.
init
Players 13
Chelish Citizens Group
Dottari: Going last.
In the chaos that immediately follow several things happen at once. The anarchists jumped immediately hurling prepared fire bombs into the crowd of loyalists cheering on the heroic dottari bashing in the traitors. Unfortunately this does not have the desired effect and loyalists respond in kind as both join in mutual combat. Everyone else is attepting to flee, fighting back, brawling with other protesters for some percieved grudge or another, looting the vendors, or getting their heads bashed in by the dottari who swing wildly trying to disperse the crowd.
In the middle of all this a certain group of loyalists try to take down the percieved leaders and head conspirators of the mob.
Variel, Paquen, and Tiny can act in the surprise round followed by Chelish Citizens Group. Normal initiative will continue next round.
Have at thee, scoundrels!
Paquen has to fight the crowd since she's moving toward the center, where the people seem to really be in trouble, rather than away from it.
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Str check
Even with the crowd stampeding and all hell breaking loose Variel is able to make his way through the crowd. He steps to the northwest a pace before bringing his scimitar around striking the cloaked man confronting Malgar. Malgar, get down you are a target right now!
Scimitar attack vs agent if Brizallai for
In the general panic, Litsy thinks only of trying to get away, before the protesters take that "we will rock you" chant a little too literally, and start throwing cobblestones around. Everywhere she looks, she is surrounded by civilians, or dottari forcing their way through the crowd with the well-practiced air of a farmer reaping his wheat.
She thinks she can hear Beorn screaming, distantly. She decides he'll probably be alright. No reason to worry.
Hearing Variel's voice, she attempts blindly to reach him, but the terrified bodies pressing against each other considerably restrict her movements.
Variel's call is almost unheard as his weapon slips out like a snake and strikes true leaving a band of crimson across the thugs back. Hissing in rage and pain the thug turns to swing wilsly at Variel only succeeding at knocking the teeth out of an unlucky protesters face.
As Malgar looks up from his reveriw to admire his grim work Variel's warning barely registers. He turns to see just in time to sidestep an incapacitating blow ripping Malgar back to the present.
On the other side of things Beorns adoring fans attempt to rip him off the table and club him into submission but the high ground of the table offers some safety as he dances around snatching hands and inexpertly swung bludgeons.
The dottari move in with the confidence of fish in a river with none of the hurry. Some stop give medical attention to the more grievously wounded or to manacle those too injured to run. Most, it seems, they are content to let flee.
It is the 1st round. Players are up.
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Variel continues his attack on the thug before. Only this time he quickly channels a bit of arcane power into his blade maki g it that much more deadly.
Swift imbue weapon +1
Scimitar attack vs agent w/ flank for
Should the henchman go down Variel tries to move to the other side to give Tiny a flanking opportunity.
Str to move
Lets go Malgar…we can’t wait around forever after that shot.
Variel's thug dies in brutal fashion.
Malgar, completely absorbed in having *just* missed, stands on the podium in a daze until Variel's cries rouse him from it. Seeing the bloodshed going on all around him and a couple of thugs swift approching, he joins the magus in the fight!
After all; he had to survive. He HAD to make another shot - one that wouldn't miss! He couldn't die before that!
"Ah, you have a plan for running, lad?" He cheerfully asks Variel after the other man brutally kills his first victim, seemingly at once both entirely sane and entirely crazy. "Good idea! Just let me ask good ol'Cayden for a boost!"
His chant goes off, but despite trying to get to Variel, there were too many brawlers around him to make it any closer.
As all hell breaks loose as the crowd tries to move, get away but some also fight at the same time, Borgan tries to keep his head cool and focus at one thing at the time. For now it was to protect Beorn.
He throws back his cloak somewhat, revealing the shield and the mace. He taps the brawler in front of him lightly with his shield.
"Hey! If you're just spoiling for a fight with no purpose in actually fighting for freedom, then you're in the way."
He then swings his mace towards the brawler.
Borgan tries to maneuver his way closer to an advantageous position with Beorn, using his shield as a ways to force people to move out of the way.
"Beorn! I hope you can fight as well as you can sing. If not, you can get behind my shield."
Beorn is dismayed at the fans demanding he autograph their clubs with his face and ponders what he should do.
Making his choice, Beorn opens his mouth and begins to sing an uplifting chant, one that will clear the area of Thrune's lackies.
Yo Kintargo!
We'll fight for freedom where ever there's trouble.
Kintargo is there.
It's Kintargo against Thrune the enemy
Fighting to save the day.
We never give up.
We're always there,
Fighting for freedom over land and air
Kintargo- A real Chelish hero
Kintargo is there
We never give up.
We'll stay til the fight's won.
Kintargo will dare.
Kintargo- A real Chelish hero
KINTARGOOOOOO!!
Litsy doggedly keeps making her way through the crowd, which thankfully becomes a little more sparse and more navigable as she moves away from the thick of the fight. As soon as she sees an opening, she slips between protesters like water through a fork.
She quickly reaches Variel, drawing her blade as she helps him flank the thug. She overhears his conversation with Malgar.
"I've got a plan for running," she shouts over the cacophony of the crowd. "Let's get these ones down fast and then just leg it!"
Paquen keeps trying to fight her way through the crowd. The people are so knotted up into groups pushing this way and that she can hardly slip through anywhere.
Borgan
Variel
Malgar
borgans ouchies
Things begin to deteriorate as more of the armbanded thugs start filtering into the square from other parts of the city.
Paquen curses and shoves her way through people attempting to run the opposite direction of violence. Ducking here and there to dodge an errant punch or thrown objects she doesn't even see the passing dagger as it deflects off the top of her horns with enough force to nearly knock her off her feet. Ducking down and reaching a hand up to check the damage shes astonished to see where the dagger found a home.
The head of the woman at the door, Nox presumably, whips back as the dagger embeds itself deep into her throat enough to poke slightly through the back. She lurches forward eyes wide as blood sprays onto the cobblestone with only the grip on her glaive keeping her standing. She opens her mouth but nothing but a wet cough comes out as blood and fluids spill out onto the cobblestones.
Grimacing just at the point where it might have been dramatic for her fall, she reaches up with a shaking hand and grasps the dagger's handle. Twisting it and wrenching it free of her flesh with the sound of tearing meat she stands up and lets the dagger fall to the ground. Nox wipes the gore away from her throat with her sleeve as Paquen catches the final vestiges of the wound closing up and leaving unblemished flesh. Eyes full of naked fury she turns and enters the opera house while the dottari next to her close ranks to prevent entry.
On the southside of the square one of the thugs just barely manages to dodge out of the way of Borgans heavy blow. With a quick mental calculation the thug sees the mismatch of his light armaments versus Borgans shield and mace and calls back to his parntwrn on the other side of the table.
"Mel I need a hand here!" The other thug comes around the table truncheon raised and both men lay into Borgan shoving his shield aside to land solid blows where their truncheons can find an opening The resulting melee gives Beorn enough time to find his way off the table and to Borgans side as his voice washes over the riot in a juxtaposition to the fire and screams.
To the west the threat of Variels sharp blade is clear as one of the thugs tries and fails to respond in kind. The other thug roars at Malgar as he foolishly attempts to take the dwarf alive with blows meant to subdue rather than kill. "Submit to justice traitor!"
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Hearing the sounds of an uplifting voice above the shouts of terror Variel renews his efforts against the second thug. Before he swings he sees Tiny appear on the other side. There you are. Did you manage to warn Beorn in time?
Scimitar flank inspired imbued attack for
I’ll wound them and you finish them. Once we clear them off Malgar then we need to get out of here. I’ll follow your lead.
"Haha, just like the good ol'days, a nice tavern brawl! ...In the streets. Wait... Hm? Ah, probably qualifies! Thank you, Cayden, for this fine gift. And Little Tiny too! Good. I thought you might have gotten hurt there for a second! Haha, ha..."
Marlgar stops laughing for a moment as he seems to study the situation going on around them. And for the smallest of moments he looks serious and sane."Not good. Almost surrounded. Openings to the southeast and southwest... southwest is quicker, safer for us. But they're killing that half-orc over there. You say you know him? Then southwest it is. But first..."
In a burst of strength, he is able to navigate through the melee and reappears in the back of a foe facing Variel from the side. Then, he viciously thrusts at the man's exposed neck with a skill and brutality thoroughly mismatched to his shoddy appearance.
Borgan takes the truncheon hits well enough, even though he's suddenly faced with two brawlers focusing their attention on him.
"If that's the most powerful hit you two have, I'm not worried."
The half-orc looks frustrated at the pair of thugs, darting already out of the way as his attacking motion is slowed down and obstructed by several protesters in the crowd, hitting one on his shoulder as he tried to swing.
"Sorry about that." he calls over his shoulder as he glimpses s man grabbing for his shoulder. He looks back to the brawlers and readies his shield.