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Potion or Scroll at 10% normal cost.
Magic Item of your choice at 10% cost.
Gear, food, drink, or trade good at 10% normal cost.
Weapon at 10% normal cost.
Gear, food, drink, or trade good at 10% normal cost.
Snake-Eyes arrived only two days ago. He is staying in the Rampant Reefclaw. He can afford it at the moment, as he had sold the horse that he came here with for good coins. He needed the money for buy-ins at the Creekside's gambling tables. Roderick's Cove was not known for being a s$!&hole with crooked tables and criminal enterprises. Nevertheless, it was on his route and he better check the place out. Might be a nice change of pace for once.
He played only small games last night, didn't want to draw a crowd too soon. Thus only some silvers changed their owner yesterday.
Today is the Cove's famous market and John Maverick was among the first guests to stroll the busy town center. He had heard stories about this place and his morning prayers to Nivi where extra long - maybe his luck would strike once again.
A junk shop caught his eyes. The merchant had a little bit of everything and seemed to have vome from far away according to his accent. Most of his stuff looked like self-made wanna-be jewelry or talismans. But there was a necklace made out of spent firearm bullets shaped into a rough holy symbol of Abadar. Maverick wasn't opposed to the Master of the First Vault and therefore took a closer look. There was something about this amulet that made him want to have it. You wouldn't mind, Nivi, would you? he asked his patron deity.
“I couldn’t.”
“I insist.”
“You want my horse to be fancier than me, is that it?”
“Eunice, I want them gone before Galdsbredtha comes back. They’ve been on the shelves for almost three months now; she mentioned it the last time. She’ll be disappointed that no one wants them.”
E. held up a gleaming horseshoe to the light, then glanced out the window, where Raqi — who had apparently untied himself again — was peering into the armorer’s shop, head pressed against the glass.
She signed. “Well, thank you. He’ll love them, I’m sure. And make sure to have something ridiculously expensive and frivolous when I'm back, because I’ll owe you.”
Although most would not suspect Bella Blue to be a mage, she did walk around town on market day with a nice casting of detect magic active. It had never produced results except once, but Elmer Podlach had gotten to the brooch before her that day. Today was different, she was the first out and about. Most "activity" takes place in the evening, so she was given free rein to wander about.
Dressed in a beautiful green getup, her satiny shimmering hat and dress can be seen from a way away, and if not that alone, her blue-tinted skin. Fortune smiles on her as something triggers her spell close by and an ordinary yet pretty pair of white gloves registers as magical. She holds them up and observes them for some time.
"I could very well be interested in these, darling... she pauses a moment, reconsiders, and then pulls out her coin pouch. "In fact, let me snag them from you right now before I get any less than reputable sorts coming in and tryin' to buy them away from me."
To the seller, asking what they were asking was too low. To them, it seemed to be just a pair of gloves. She decided to pay a healthy sum for them, but not near what they were worth.
Wes was starting to regret staying at Creekside. He was pretty sure that if he'd have stayed at a nicer place, he wouldn't have lost half his coin at a poker table. And here he was, ambling around on market day looking for something to buy. Would it be better to blow all his gold on something nice? Maybe--at least it'd be a fairer trade.
And then he saw it. A beautiful Sharps Rifle at an absolute steal of a price. He picked up the gun, testing its weight. It felt nicely balanced. The sigil on it was a bit odd. A seven pointed star. "Yer tellin' me this here's magical?" At the price it was listed, Wes didn't believe it for a second. But it didn't matter--it was a good deal even if it wasn't. Right? He wasn't getting fooled again, was he?
He lets out a long sigh, resolving to take the chance. "Alright, you got yerself a deal." He dropped down the gold, and picked up the gun.
"Let's find a place ta try you out." He starts slowly ambling onward, vaguely looking at the wares but mostly looking for a shooting range.
“I couldn’t.”
“I insist.”
“You want my horse to be fancier than me, is that it?”
“Eunice, I want them gone before Galdsbredtha comes back. They’ve been on the shelves for almost three months now; she mentioned it the last time. She’ll be disappointed that no one wants them.”
E. held up a gleaming horseshoe to the light, then glanced out the window, where Raqi — who had apparently untied himself again — was peering into the armorer’s shop, head pressed against the glass.
She signed. “Well, thank you. He’ll love them, I’m sure. And make sure to have something ridiculously expensive and frivolous when I'm back, because I’ll owe you.”
Lyndwyn smiles and says, "You want to take those with you, or have Lonny here run them over to Perick's to have them Raqi shoed?"
Eunice has been around enough to know that Lonny is a boy who hangs about looking for odd jobs and loose change, and Perick is the town blacksmith, a halfling man who is known to be skilled and honest.
Roderic's Cove smells of mud, manure, and a strange mix of weathered wood and fresh wood shavings. Most buildings in two are built from the timber that comes from the timber mill up the creek, and a keen eye can tell how old and how well kept a building is from the growths on its shingles. The streets are dirt lined with plank sidewalks in most places. The giant circle of stone know, cleverly enough, as The Circle stays strangely clean and so is a great place to hold the monthly market day. There are often vendors, wagons, snake oil salesmen, or even buskers in The Circle of a day, but once a month people come from far and wide to trade their wares, see the sights, and marvels that have come from the East or into the ports.
One standard is a local codger known as Possum Coots, who lives in the woods across the river and there makes what is known as Possum Punch. Rumors are that it is a mixture of apple brandy, rye whiskey, and whatever Possum finds in the woods. It is known to be refreshing and have a kick like an aurochs. Possum sets up his rough home made cart near the well at the edge of The Circle.
Those of you who have been around notice that people are on more on edge today than usual. Just last week 5 members of the Horn Fang Gang were found dead right here in the Circle, having died in the night. All manner of rumors have flown about what happened to them, but no one seems to know for sure.
At the northeast edge of The Circle sits Creekside. Girls lean on the railing of the balcony of the second floor, looking down on the goings on, both seeing and advertising their wares.
It looks like the rain might hold off today.
For a moment, Wes wonders if he should just head back to Creekside, grab his trusty horse Midnight, and ride to a place to shoot. But it was still awfully early, and the weather seemed like it'd hold. So he wanders around, seeing if anyone was selling a bite to eat. He ends up next to a small building right to the north of him--one he hadn't noticed when coming into town. He takes a look to figure out what it might be. If it's a public place, he'll head on inside.
Despite the gloves seeming magical, they were, in fact, quite cursed, and so she put them back with a warning to the seller. The rest of the market held some appeal to her and so she sauntered casually from stall to stall. While there were many things she could buy for great prices, nothing strongly appealed to the sea elf.
Upon finding Possom Coot's stall near the well, she leans upon it with a flirtatiously casual smile and with crossed arms and legs.
"Well if it isn't my favorite forest dweller. How are ya, ya ol' possum?" she asks, provoking idle chit-chat from the man. He knows why she's there...for a drink!
In a mixture of hillbilly rambling and some dialect of some long-lost heritage, he produces a slurred drivel of a comment:
"Hewdie der my Bella Blue! Howdoggit!?"
"Oh ya know...," she replies with a casual shrug. "...near the same as the last three years, darling. I'm still working at The Creekside. I just came by for a drink. Are you coming by later?"
"Reckon I might, Blue. Hope fer a good day sellin' afore then."
For a moment, Wes wonders if he should just head back to Creekside, grab his trusty horse Midnight, and ride to a place to shoot. But it was still awfully early, and the weather seemed like it'd hold. So he wanders around, seeing if anyone was selling a bite to eat. He ends up next to a small building right to the north of him--one he hadn't noticed when coming into town. He takes a look to figure out what it might be. If it's a public place, he'll head on inside.
A thin human man with pale skin and a glorious black mustache and a spotless white apron greets Higgins as he enters. The floor is covered with fragrant cedar shavings and the air is faintly perfumed with the smell of soap. He has a straight razor at the throat of a portly halfling with prodigious side burns who sits in a fancy chair.
"Welcome, stranger. Hot bath is 5 copper, shave is a silver. Hair dye, health tonic, cigar 2 copper. Whatever you need I'll be with you as soon as I finish with Mr. Porter, here."
Eunice nodded at Lyndwyn’s suggestion, and with another thank-you handed the horseshoe to Lonny. “That’d be a help; I’ve got a couple more things to do,” she said. “I’ll see you again before I go.”
Heading outside, she handed Raqi’s reins to the boy and spoke to the horse, “Go on, get your shoes. And no mischief.” Raqi could be stubborn when it came to shoeing but he got on well with kids.
She walked alongside them in silence across Olivia’s Creek. She never knew what to say to children.
”You’ve gotten taller.” She remembered that one from years ago. The last time I was in town you had to run to keep up with Raqi. So what else have I missed?”
Once across the creek, Eunice presses a few coins into Lonny's hands. "That should cover the shoeing; keep whatever's left. You can find me at the Creekside. Outside the Creekside. Have to meet my brother."
As he hands her a drink, she can already detect the offensive strength of it. A swig later, her senses tell her not to take another draw of the liquid, but then it is followed by that delicious aftertaste that makes you want more. She procures some coin for him from somewhere, but it's anyone's guess.
"Good batch, Possum Coots...," she states with a smile as she tries not to cough. For a while, she seems to enjoy the man's company with idle chit-chat (which in truth becomes easier very quickly), but before long, she wants to continue her search. After saying her farewells, she will continue walking the circle.
There are numerous attempts to sell property or to invite people in for investment opportunities for gold mines or to far-off get-rich-quick-schemes, but she isn't taken in by them. One stands out to her. A man in a brown wool coat, attempting to look like an authentic businessman, stands tall holding a small sign that says "invitsmet opurtoonti". It's a noble attempt at spelling, but not everyone is a scholar.
"What is the investment?" she asks as she casually moves up to the man.
Studdering at seeing the beautiful Bella Blue inquiring, he explains:
"Roderick's Cove is growing. We need a new Saloon. One with the best girls, the best drinks, and the best games. I'm calling it the "Red Lantern". The problem is that my partner died the other night, leavin' me a whole heap of mess, and...I don't read so good. I sure could use someone who can do the books and other important stuff on occasion like he was going to. I can run the business sure enough on the day-to-day, when we get built up, but I just need some help."
"I could not only help you out of your dandy of a predicament, by setting things in order with the contracts and paperwork, darlin', but I
can also see what I can do to get you to read better. I also can see though forgeries pretty well, so that might keep us from givin' away more than we need to to disreputable folk. If that is somethin' you're interested in...just tell me how much you need to buy in, where you are going to construct, and how long that will all take."
"Howdy there." Wes Higgins heads on in the barber shop. "Hair could use a bit of trimmin'--don't touch the 'stache, though. After Mr. Porter's done, of course."
Grabbing a seat, Wes helps himself to a cigar. "Name's Wes Higgins. Just came into town. How's things been--any trouble in town lately?" There he was again--poking around for problems to solve, perhaps for a modest fee. Wes always felt like he was at the right place at the right time.
"I'll say, Creekside is its own kinda trouble. I'm sure yer gettin' lots of folks from there. Any regulars?"
That's an interesting conversation to overhear. Maverick thought, when a blue-skinned woman, apparently well-to-do, talked to the man in the brown wool coat. Maverick had an eye on him for a few moments as the guy didn't look very kosher and his lawman senses tickled.
"A new saloon, hein? Make sure, you start with your liquor license and gamblin' permits asap. These things can take a while with the paper shufflers down in Magnimar." He entered the conversation. "Just a little heads-up from someone who has seen a lot of saloons. Maybe too many." He moved his view towards the Creekside and one could see an unhealthy craving in his face. He put his hand into his pocket and counted the coins that were left. Not enough to leave this place on a good horse...
"I could not only help you out of your dandy of a predicament, by setting things in order with the contracts and paperwork, darlin', but I
can also see what I can do to get you to read better. I also can see though forgeries pretty well, so that might keep us from givin' away more than we need to...
"Well, you definitely look like you know a thing or two about hospitality. We've just about got the place together. Just fitting out tables and gettin together all the needs. Course with the business last week with those Horn-Fangs gettin kilt, it spooked some of the boys who were doing some of the carpentry. They haven't worked for the last few days."
"Howdy there." Wes Higgins heads on in the barber shop. "Hair could use a bit of trimmin'--don't touch the 'stache, though. After Mr. Porter's done, of course."
Grabbing a seat, Wes helps himself to a cigar. "Name's Wes Higgins. Just came into town. How's things been--any trouble in town lately?" There he was again--poking around for problems to solve, perhaps for a modest fee. Wes always felt like he was at the right place at the right time.
"I'll say, Creekside is its own kinda trouble. I'm sure yer gettin' lots of folks from there. Any regulars?"
"Been nothing but trouble since that Gildersleeves lass turned up and pulled together her gang. Horn Fangs, they call themselves. Why the sheriff hasn't run them out of town I don't know. But someone is working on it, probably the ghost of Captain Roderic himself. Oh, you haven't heard, last week something went and killed 5 of the right out there in The Circle in the middle of the night. Nobody saw nothing, but I saw their corpses, and most looked like they had not a mark on them. And the look on their faces! If that wasn't a ghost I'll eat this comb."
Nempura isn't a stranger to having people listen in on her conversations, particularly when working in the Creekside. When Snake Eyes comments, she flips her reddish hair and turns to angle him into the conversation. Her slim body is inviting not only to his words but to the eyes.
"Thank ya, suga'" she flashes the man a kind wink. "And you are?" she asks, offering her genteel feminine hand. She could see his need. They were encouraged in the Creekside to empty the pockets of desperate men like him. She never liked the thought.
"I would also wager the owners of the Rampant Reefclaw are makin' your trouble. Tell me what you know about these Horn-Fangs and what happened with that?"
"Well that's somethin' fer sure, five folks just gettin' killed off like that," agreed Wes. He had heard the stories--seemed like everyone had. "Yer the first person I met who actually saw 'em after, though. Yer sayin' there was no blood or bullet wounds?" He takes a long drag from his cigar and blows out smoke, not sure what to make of it.
"Well, you'd think Gildersleeves and her gang would get the message and skip town. But I take it them folks're still 'round though and causin' trouble, huh?"
When it's his turn, Wes will put out his cigar and grab a seat on the barber chair.
"Thank ya, suga'" she flashes the man a kind wink. "And you are?" she asks, offering her genteel feminine hand.
"John Maverick, ma'am." Snake-Eyes bows courtly while taking off his hat and holding it in front of his chest. "Like you, I'm, well, looking for opportunities." His hand makes a circular movement as if showing her the Circle Market.
"I'm also interested in these Horn-Fangs and your story, sir. Please go on. I didn't want to interrupt." He steps back two feet, but obviously stays in listening range. To demonstrate his indifference he took out a deck of cards and played with them.
"Well, you'd think Gildersleeves and her gang would get the message and skip town. But I take it them folks're still 'round though and causin' trouble, huh?"
When it's his turn, Wes will put out his cigar and grab a seat on the barber chair.
The barber pulls a towel from a rack over a wood stove and wraps it around Wes' face, careful to avoid the mustache. "Heard tell that one of them was stabbed, but the rest just up and died. No wounds, no burns, nothing. As for skipping town, they've been laying low a bit, but still roaming around town like they own it."
After running a razor over a leather strop, he sets to work on Higgins' neck.
To Maverick and Blue: [b]"You not heard? Few days ago some of them Horn Fang boys got themselves into trouble right here on The Circle. 5 of them scared right to death in the middle of the night. Lonny found them out there right before dawn as he was coming in to deliver some fish to the Creekside up from the docks."[b]
Maverick didn't move or twitch at the story. He merely raised an eyebrow. "Scared to death, hein? Sounds unlikely, doesn't it? I wonder what the sheriff and the coroner have to say about this..."
Maverick's trained gambler senses watched the market scenery, which was steadily growing more busy, while multitasking with the deck of cards and the conversation.
Her dark blue eyes wander over the figure of John Maverick as he introduces himself.
"Well met, John Maverick. Some call me Bella Blue or Nempura, whatever is your fancy."
Her eyes catch the harrow deck and she seems to easily recognize it before turning back to the businessman.
"Well, darlin', I work at the Creekside currently, and it's a hub of information. If I haven't heard of it, it's likely they were trying to hush it up."
Wes bends his head down as the barber starts working on his neck. "Reckon I'll have to ask the Sheriff if he's lookin' fer some help on this one," he says, half to himself. "Any idea where he might be? And what's his name?"
He eventually moves on to another topic on his mind. "Say, you know a good spot 'round here for some huntin'? I wanna try out that pretty new thing I got from the market. Ain't she a beaut?" He nods toward the rifle that he's leaned up on a nearby wall.
Maverick and Blue notice a group of 5 men and women wearing the same symbol somewhere on their clothes (embroidered on a pocket, stitched on a handkerchief, cast in gold on a brooch, etc.) converge on Possum's cart. They buy cups of punch and are commiserating over the loss of their friends in the slaughter last week.
Five other toughs move toward them through the crowd from all directions. These fellas look rough, cowboys and mountain men.
Wes doesn't see anything from the barber chair, but he can hear the tone of the voices change, the energy of the crowd shift. There is trouble out on the square, no, here it is a Circle, but the sound is the same.
Out of the corner of her eye, she picks up on the symbol on one of the ladies' hats. It's clear as day that she's a member of the Gildersleeves. In rapid succession, Nempura notices the others converging from the same gang. In fine habit, she takes in her surroundings and it is then that she notices the Nightthrush Boys circling in.
"My dear...," she comments to the potential partner of hers (and perhaps Snake Eyes'), "...I would locate a place with good cover sooner rather than later. I'm thinking something is about to go off..."
He can tell by her tone that danger is nearby, and if he cares for his own skin, he'll be making haste for the nearby barrels for cover. With a gentle grace, her own hand reaches down into the frills of her dress where there is now clearly seen a pocket divided and opened by her hand. She seems to grab hold of something and begin to pull it toward the breach.
They engage in idle chatter for a few moments more until they reach the other side of the bridge and Eunice turns away to make for the Creekside. She slaps Raqi’s haunch, telling him to follow Lonny and be good.
Wes is momentarily annoyed as his barber suddenly stops cutting and just freezes. Until he realizes that it's trouble. "I'll be back to pay," he says, picking up his gun and stepping outside. Seeing the action centering around Possum's cart, he starts walking there, and spies the players.
"Must be them Horn-Fangs" he mutters to himself. He wasn't sure who the other folks were, but he was starting to suspect the Horn-Fangs were about to get hurt a second time.
"My dear...," she comments to the potential partner of hers (and perhaps Snake Eyes'), "...I would locate a place with good cover sooner rather than later. I'm thinking something is about to go off..."
"You have keen senses. I noticed the same. I've heard of both these gangs last night, but this seems an unfortunate encounter. Unfortunate for bystanders that is."
He moves into cover with Nempura and murmurs some religious words. Reaching the safe position behind a cart, he also has his revolver drawn.
Most of the Night thrush move closer to the Horned Fangs, arcing in a flanking maneuver. Once he is close enough to be heard, one of them grunts, "Mama Nighthrush and her boys was here first. You Gildersleeveses better clear outta here before you get more of what is coming to you." His hand moves to the grip of his sidearm, a Brastlewark revolver.
The Horn Fangs turn toward the remark, one dropping his cup onto the stone. It shatters loudly, and by now the crowd has quieted and is beginning to make room for whatever is about to happen. His hand, too, drops to the grip of his pistol.
Round 2
"They are bold to openly come into view. It's likely because they have a grudge and numbers at the moment. Also, the sheriff might be distracted elsewhere at the moment, I reckon. I feel all of these here are in danger of getting hurt if we don't take them out quickly..." She gestures to the great number of people around them who now are rushing to clear the circle.
In her sight, she has also noticed Wes make a stand of action in the distance. As she scans him, she doesn't notice any insignias on his garb indicating him as a member of these gangs.
With a quick casting of a shield spell, she hikes up her dress and rushes along the stalls and shops toward Wes and to get closer to Possum.
In a loud demanding voice, she commands, meaning for him to duck and hit the floor behind his cart. She is aware that by calling out like this, she may become the target of a quick-drawing villain, but she is ready to deftly spin out of the way of their intended firing zone with elven grace.
"Everybody stop where they are!" Maverick shouts out loud while standing up and reducing his full cover behind the cart to partial cover.
"We don't want to do things we might regret later." He aims his revolver at the goon next to him .
While standing up, he draws two cards from his deck, looks at them and sticks them next to the feather in his head.
"Drop it. I'm faster."
Wes was mighty glad to see another man trying to lay down the law here. He jumps in as well.
"Y'all just need to calm down, fellas," he says, turning the corner of the building and aiming his new rifle. "First person who tries to draw a gun gets shot." Wes had no idea who was right or wrong here, but the first order of business was to avoid a shootout in the middle of a crowded market day.
The Night Thrush gang draws, spurring the Horn Fangs to draw. As they are about to fire, a scream rings out, distracting everyone. A figure appears in The Circle and the skies seem to darken. You see an indistinct hazy humanoid form, wearing the jacket of a cavalry captain complete with saber and antique pistol. The figure wavers as if through a haze of murky water. It cries, "NO! MY COVE! NOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!"
At the terrifying cry, the outlaws drop their guns and flee in all directions. The townsfolk quicken their pace in their flight.
*-1 due to fear-based
Fortunately for her, all she had in her hand was her revolver not yet drawn fully from her pocket. As the cry goes out, bemoaning the cove, she screams, covers her ears, and panic-strikenly runs away.
.
As the strange cavalry captain appears in the sky, Wes completely loses it. He drops his pretty new rifle and runs in absolute terror!
Like everyone else, Maverick drops his revolver and retreats in fear.
"This way!" she calls out to those nearby, including John and Wes. The Creekside is nearby, and inside she goes, pressing with the masses of people into the swinging doors. Where most people stop and huddle behind chairs, the bar, and tables, she rushes right up the stairs to her room and (unless the boys follow her all of the way) she closes the door.
While there, she grasps her head as thoughts of the oppressive voice echoes in her mind, shaking her heart.
"Okay, breathe...focus. Get control of yourself. What was that? Use your brain, not your heart!"
Myrandya happened to be inside the tavern and saw the confrontation go down from the doorway. Like everyone else, she screams bloody murder and retreats into the building when she sees the apparition.
"Vhat vas zhat?!" she cries, when she is able to calm down. "Did you shee it? Like shome kind of shpirit, a night-geist as my fazzer might have shaid. How fery disturbink! I sink I shall need a shtiff drink to calm my nerfs." She looks around for the proprietor, and frowns, unwilling to pour for herself and not wanting to seem to be stealing.
Vhat vas zhat? she wonders. A ghost?
The folks on the balcony of Creekside looking over The Circle flee, jumping through open windows and doors to seek safety. The Circle clears nearly to a man and woman, leaving only a stunned looking Possum and a woman named Bonnie with a cart full of mushrooms.
Your own panic gradually wears off, your heart rate returning to normal and the burning sensation on your skin gradually fading. Your breathing slows.
By the time you recover enough to make any sense of things, a few folks have returned to The Circle, mostly merchants moving to right their upturned carts. The festive mood has died like embers doused with a bucket. Two sturdy figures stand taller than the rest. They were not here before, you note, but you recognize Sheriff Freson and Deputy Macrosh.
Freson is a gruff, no nonsense woman with the stub of a cigar shoved in the side of her mouth. She has the figure of a woman who was once a hell of a fighter but has gone slightly soft in middle age. She wears dark high boots, black pants, mid length black coat faded to gray and a matching waistcoat. A lawman's star (the standard 5 pointed variety) and a watch fob provide silver accents. She has a pistol at her hip and a lever action carbine in hand.
The Deputy is younger, probably in his twenties, darker skin a robust chevron mustache, dark jacket and red waistcoat.
The two of them survey the scene, kicking aside an apple here, picking up a scarf blowing across the stone floor.