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Rolled 1 + 1 (1d4 + 1)

>>6068523
Now, with your Ghost Bride's altar ("Marital Home") in your basket-pack, and Seafood ahead of you calling you inventive names, you head towards Plague Town.

Your new "wife", now Gui Li, 鬼 礼, "Ghostly Propriety", appears after one Conjugal Performance Ceremony ( pastebin https://rentry.org/x8a6vnmo ) and communicates her grievance against you for ending her young life through sweet deceit.

Despite your Seafood's cold observation that Virgins, Women, Children and children make the most vengeful Ghosts (Gui Li was all three), you elect to give her the doublebarreled finger and a guts-to-gullet BRAAAP in reply (to be writan)

On the road, you also suggest to your Seafood that he might want to kill some small groups of commoners (1d4 + 1d6 LM worth of them; rollan), because you remember that the Humies in Plague Town are pretty weedy and sick.

Seafood applauds your idea... and tells YOU to do it! You just made work for yourself!

You and your fuggen mouth!!

Nevertheless, all your interactions with your Seafood have made you stronger smarter and meaner in all the ways that count. Seafood's fuggen GREAT! He's a big bully, a rotten bugghole, and a BIG BAD BOSS! And one day you'll be just like him!

You get to ambushing (71+4; >>6068434 ) immediately, because Young Seafood's OR ELSE might kill your green ass if you don't.

The rabble gaggle you encounter, for their part...

WRITAN WILL BEGIN ~14 HOURS OF THIS POST

NO MORE ROLLS OR CHOICES ENTERTAINED

Goblin Cultivator Quest originally started by GoblinBreederQM.

GoblinBreederQM got ended by a boulder. None of him was found except an ankle.

KinoPhageQM is now terrorizing the community in his stead.

Follow the trail of destruction here:

http://thisisnotatrueending.com/qstarchive/2024/6051761/

Rolled 3 + 1 (1d4 + 1)

>>6068533

taking previous 1d4 = 1 and current 1d6

Rolled 3 (1d4)

>>6068535

Rolled 6 (1d6)

>>6068536

>>6068537
1 + 6 = 7 LMs worth of nobodies.

QM still can't roll multiple types of dice.

Rolled 2, 5, 3, 2, 1, 4, 4 = 21 (7d6)

>>6068539

You are now 7 days from Plague Town

Seafood has 38 days before his Pall Body is destroyed.

Seafood still needs 84 LM

rollan for rabble total HP

Rolled 43 (1d100)

>>6068549
[TOADY'S COMBAT LOADOUT]
>Sky Pokey Dagger (Ruined), 1d10+1
>Shoddy Hatchet (Old), 1d3-1
>Shoddy Medium Armor (Kludged: 12/12 durability; usually 20+); -4 physical damage (usually 6-8); (Fitted; usual -2 penalty to hit negated)

>STUFFS (materiél) = 2

[THOUSAND SEGMENT CARRIONPEDE FORM]
Toady gains +4(/4) to hit in melee, and +0(/4) to damage in melee.

Rolled 5, 3 + 12 = 20 (2d8 + 12)

>>6068551
75>43

The fools were not alert: taking 12 (max normal damage) +2d8 damage

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Rolled 8, 6 = 14 (2d10)

>>6068555
>21hp-20dmg when YOU happened to the laadeedaas
>gibbed most of them
>assume one of them limped away to die

>You, Gui Li and Young Seafood are now 7 days from Plague Town

>Seafood has 38 days before his Pall Body is destroyed.

>Seafood still needs 84-7=77 LM

rollan 1st 1d10 for days to next encounter, 2nd 1d10 for luck

writan will begin ~13hours from this post

>>6068523
i hope you keep at it QM
and after this quest i would love to see you run an original quest
too many quests get abandoned sadly

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Rolled 2, 2, 1, 4, 3, 4, 2 = 18 (7d4)

>>6068568

Two days after your genius suggestion Seafood suddenly plops down on the ground and starts killing the greenery with his presence again.

You don't ask why, you just set your things down and prepare to make camp. Quietness, unobstrusiveness, and keenness of observation lengthen one's life and shortens those of those one does not like. The lumps on your head taught you that.

Only when you have gotten a fire going and hung up the kettle does your Seafood say,

"Tudi. The road, Eastly. Go."

He flings the Wondrous Pillager Pouch at you, over you. You have no idea what he means, but questions shorten the life of those that ask them. A swollen mouth and several loosened teeth taught you that.

You immediately kneel to both knees and pick up the Pouch, and bow to him from the ground, raising the Pouch with both hands above your head in his direction. Only when he waves you on with his pinkie do you rise and get going. Your kludge armor, shabby axe and Dagger are on you all the time.

You both know you are not sincere, but it needs to be done this way. You must always flatter whom you hate, and demand it from those that hate you; the first to erode and create weakness, the second to break their spirit and reveal betrayal. One can neither give nor get flattery enough.

You are LEARNING.
You are learning WELL.
You are learning EVERYTHING.

*****

A Time (~40mins) later, down the road Seafood pointed you, a small train of two caravans comes in your direction.

Noisy, rickety, just serviceable to make the two day trip on full lade and back. You can hear the women talking two trees deep from the road, even above the wagon wheels and the clopping of the mules.

>7 LM broken down = 2 mules of 1.5 LM each and 1 adult man of fighting age, 1 old man, 1 old woman, 3 women of childbearing age

You remember the Wondrous Pillager Pouch that Seafood threw towards you. You thought you'd needed to fight and beat him for it, never expecting to get it back for free for nothing.

You put the Pouch, the travellers, and your genius suggestion together.

Ohhh. That's what Seafood meant. Gibb them, take their blood back to him, seven Men's worth.

Theyre locals, back from Market Day in a nearby town; small traders going home with empty baskets and fatty purses. Theys got STUFFS.

If they have been successful in their venture might have deposited theirs at the Cash Holders for peace of mind while traveling (meh STUFFS). Or maybe their venture was just unsuccessful (little STUFFS). Or maybe they were moderately successful fools who thought all near roads safe (big STUFFS). You'll find out which it is soon enough...

The old woman sleeping in the rear wagon gets it first, both sides of the throat with the Dagger.

Her old man, watching the road and drowsy himself, doesn't notice; in two heart beats you put two through his heart.

You manage two women before the third screams.

>QM rollan 7d4 for STUFFS looted.

>>6069098
thank you for the encouragement.

this quest should keep going with one postdump per 24 hours unless the boulders get me.

Fuck boulders.

RIP GoblinMolesterQm

TBD

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>>6069215
You plant the axe right in her screaming mouth, and two from the Dagger into her heart, upwards from under the ribs.

Nrrrh, noisy BICH. Now you HAVE to fight the Humie man proper.

He's unnerved. He just heart a short scream and leaned to one side and back from the muleteer's seat to look, and saw a bloodbath: his woman, his woman's friend and her offspring, gutted, dead on the ground.

He's stumbling and shaking when he confronts you, holding a pruning staff. You wave your weapons, make slight feints to test him; he doesn't react, doesn't even register that they were feints. The Thousand Segment Carrionpede is BOSSER!

You inch, he braces; you run at him, and he lowers the pruning hook to his waist to poke you as you come. He really thinks he has a chance. He really thinks!

When you suddenly drop and dive on your fours (the handles of the weapons are tied to your hands with cloth) he's bewildered, and when you keep going at him, somehow faster, he panics. He thrusts the pruning hook, too early, too high, and you have him! Instep, knee bend, kidney, groin-guts, then neck neck NECK[/]!

You kick off of the back of his neck, letting your Dagger run one final slice of him, land ready, and! Watch. Listen.

The birds have all been scared away. The mules dragging the wagons you will catch easily. There's just the wind, and the sound of lifeblood slowing.

You get out the Wondrous Pillaging Pouch and start shoving the bodies in it, the bloodied soil, every scrap of red you find.

When you chase down the two wagons you find a trail of red coming down the backboard. The old woman. So she wasn't dead. Drat. Must have run off somewhere. You do think of chasing her, but fuggit: she left most of her blood behind anyway, drying on the wagon floor. You use any cloth you find to sop it, and scrape as much as you can with your shoddy axe into the Pouch.

Then you hitch the two shivering mules together, and the two wagons one behind the other, and get the lot down the road to where Seafood's resting, and then into the trees.

While Seafood helps himself to BLOOD , paired with some hoarapple-beer in a small cask, you get to sweeping the tracks breaking from the road into the trees.

When you get back the dead bodies are shriveled and dumped in a pile. And the mules on top of them.

You'd thought he'd keep the mules. At least you won't need to carry your "Marital Home" on your back. If anyone else did this you'd call them stupid. But you think everyone who ever called Seafood stupid is dead.

You take a short while to come up with a construction that will not result in a broken rib. Or a shortened tongue.

You manage, "Young Seafood, derrs lotsa useful dings in da cars. If we leave dems behind people will find ems, mebbe clews to us. You wants I burnem fore we go?"

He smirks idly. You're safe.

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Rolled 1 + 1 (1d3 + 1)

>>6069236
whoops

fudged format. Carrying on.

I ask for grace, fellows.

"No. Load everything in the larger car. Break up the small wagon for wood, and load it all too. Leave some space for me."

He waits for you to ask the obvious, how you will draw a mule wagon with no mules. You arrive on the answer just before he says it.

"You will draw it. For training. You seem adequate in movement, but your fingers and toes are too weak to hold weapons while performing the Devouring Transformations. Merely binding your weapons to your hands causes other problems. If you need to change grip or throw your weapons, you cannot; if one becomes trapped your hand is trapped with it. With a weapon tied in each hand, what will you do then? Cut off one hand? Fool.

"After you are done moving the chattel and breaking the wagon. I will teach you the Serral Ring Mandibular and Sickle Splay Incisor, the basic offensive component of the Thousand Segment Carrionpede Form. Do not fall asleep in front of me again; this time it will not be a pebble that wakes you."

A pebble, he says. That granite chunk was bigger than your fist.

But you bow anyway, low, to the waist, as if he said nothing weird. As if he wasn't bullybugging. This is Lying With One's Face; another useful lesson learned.

"Yah, Seafood. Imma do."

>Gained 18 STUFFS from the fight
>CURRENT STUFFS BALANCE 20

*****

[S T U F F S]

Or, the goblin conception of suspended value.

STUFFS ( § ) are readily usable or tradable items without immediate combat or medicinal value, including small coins, lesser herbs, cloth, and tinkerware.

As gobliny Stuffs are considered mostly junk by the Weak Races, bartering is done at a poor exchange

>QM rollan 1d3+1 to establish current rates of exchange for Stuffs § per Grain Ꮆ.

GRAINS ( Ꮆ ) are a common traderoute tender of the region, acceptable on most parts of the continent. Their mintage is of dulted silver (~20% actual silver, remainder nickle) the size of an American 25¢; (<2.5cm diameter, <0.2cm thickness).

Cash Holders have a toolset called Treasury (col. "Dare Usury") Tines: a pair of identical tuning wands and a set of plates of various alloys and sizes. To test for accepted compositional purity one wand is struck against a plate with the same composition as the tender, and the tender is struck with the other wand. The resulting notes from the two wands are compared. If they match, the coin or piece is good.

Ꮆ coins in small denominations are not often tested, but if a large quantity is given to the Cash Holders, or a small consistent amounts from a suspicious source, the CHs will have their junior clerks do checks by random selection of up to a third of them.

Stampers, aka coinforgers, usually try their luck doing larger non-local coinage; stamping small just wastes everyone's time. But any CH staff will tell you that small value bad stamps are still in circulate, though dwindling. Seems the stampers succeeded and stopped.

>>6069275
>"There Usury"

edit: Fair Usury.

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>>6069275
>current § : Ꮆ rate of exchange is established as 2 : 1
>the most favorable that might be expected.
>the recent Wars in this region seems to have caused the Ꮆ to inflate, losing value.
>the peasantry is suffering.
>but good for YOU!

****

The night Gui Li first addressed you as her Groom always brings a smirk to your face.

She was all

>ooooOOOO!
>I'm so spOOOOOKY!
>i'm weak and dumb and you KEEEELD MEE
>OOOOOOOOOOOOO

In reply you gave her the doublebarreled middle finger on both hands and a guts-to-gullet BRAAAAAAAP so loud and disgusting you woke your Seafood in the bargain.

He had already got up and wrenched a small tree off the ground to stop up your flappy bugghole, but he sees you taking the elephantine piss out of your Bride and changes his mind.

You stop BRAAAPing once you see Young Seafood, but he gestures with a pinkie for you to carry on. The sneer on his face has teeth; it widens vertically, the closest he gets to a smile. He wants to see this.

Gui Li has not taken her eyes off you this whole time. They had gone from tiny white globes with a haze of red, to pinpricks of startled red, nearly half as bright as the shattered rubies of your own Seafood's eyes.

You ain't scared of her, this dumb bich. She can't kill you. Seafood said so. He said a few other things, but you only remember the IMPORTANT.

>ffffBRAAAAP
>fBRAAAAAAP
>APAPAPAAAppp
>puhp

Gui Li's about to respond, but you hold up a finger, demanding a pause, close your eyes and concentrate.

>....s s s s s s..t

Then you quickly use both hands to fan that utterly noxious waft at her vacuous form. Wifey deserves the best, and hoowhee, that one won medals!

She starts moaning and crying as she understands her predicament, a part of her neither of you can name destroyed by your absolute heartlessness. The noise is so weird and scratchy and annoying that you start to rag her, loud as you can, like she was the runt of a grubling brood, and you are just one bit less runty, and the bigger ones want some entertainment with dinner.

Oooh you lay it in GOOD!

>wanna know what dumdum?
>This all YER fault!
>Das right. Das is RIGHT!
>YOU did this to you!
>by bein WEAK
>by bein DUM
>fibbing you is me fuggen you
>killen you is me fuggen you
>The ce-re-mo-ny is me "fuggen" you
>an slaven you FOR EBER is me REALLY fuggen you!

>You want to blame ME for YOU bein weak? >Ehh?
>For me being SMART and you bein DUM???

>Your plopper (mother) left you to die crying! >She don't want you! No one wants you!
>Who gave you food? Who gave you roof?
>No one! Because you not USEFUL!
>Because you WEAK and DUMB!

>But I STRONG! I SMART! I BEST!
>You eat MY food now!
>Sleep MY roof!
>Like I promise!
>you DUMDUM
>Seafood MAKE you useful, and I USE YOU!

Her translucent shape has been turning jittery and visible as you heap contempt on contempt extempore (Seafood's zingers! BEST!!), when her moans start sounding different

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>>6069316
Her fully visible shape jitters as she tears at her face, her hair, disappearing with a SHRIIEEEK that goes right through you. The jitters of that; so muggerfuggen weird. hr-rr-rr-rr. nnyrh. Ugly. Ugly Bad.

You wait, as does your Seafood (he's never seen anyone dare this before), but nothing happens.

You puff your chest a bit and dare a swagger.

"I did alright, en Boss?" You almost flinch, catching yourself. Seafood wants to be called Seafood. Not Boss. Shit.

But he's... smiling? One side of his mouth is fully up; the other is indifferent, his usual dedder face.

"Perhaps your unworthy old Shifu should be the one to call you Boss. Go to sleep. And turn your filthy asshole away from me when you fart, disgusting demon midget."

You're...surprised! Pleased! Your awful and terrible Seafood thinks you're BOSS! He called you a muhhfuggn DEMON!

You are on the muhhfuggn YESNESS EXPRESS!!!

>YEEEEAAAASSS!
>DANK YEW YOUNG SEAFOOD!
>GOOD NIGHTY! GOOOOD NIGHTY!
>YEEEAAAAAAHHH!!!

"FOOL! GO ABED AND QUIET OR I WILL ENSURE YOU NEVER WAKE UP!"

>ssss
>Yas Seafood
>(fuggn bugghole)

******

youve gone and done it now, you based and monstrous bastards

[UNWORLDLY MATRIMONY]
[ YOU HAVE REALLY FUGGEN DONE IT] ]

>basedanons roll 1d1000 vs YOUr dysfunctional marriage DC700, average of 3.

******

>distance to Derreschston 7 days
>rolled 8 days to next encounter

>Yang Wuhan still requires 77 LM to secure his Pall Body
>Yang Wuhan freekills 1LM worth of living things per 3 days
>two days since the last freekill have passed
>7 days = 3 more freekills
>77 - 3 = 74 LM
>38days - 7days = 31 days left

You make on towards Plague Town meeting no other persons. Market Day doesn't seem to get good traffic any more, looks like.

Seafood makes you pull the cart in Carrionpede stances and movements. It's hard and slow going, and Seafood is always lounging on the driver's seat, pointing out your faults in posture, niggling little things, and whacking you on the back with a little whip he made for the purpose.

wht-tsh

"Hips! Lower! Palms close cheeks! Elbow narrow!"

...wht-tsh!

"Lower still! Rape the ground! Ah-ah! Knees OFF!" s-tsh!

This goes on through the dark hours as you trundle that fuggen wagon through gaps between the trees.

And you still have to scrounge your own food, and you still have to do the Ceremony, even when your hands and toes are bloody and numb. At one point you were so exhausted you just collapsed in a faint.

Seafood lifts your crotchflaps and crams some (nyaaak) medicine in your bugghole, and that wakes you up to continue suffering.

You have the worst life ever, you and you alone and no one else ever. Nothing can convince you otherwise.

Ever.

Rolled 826 (1d1000)

>>6069335

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>>6069335
"Stop."

The Plague Town is in sight, just two Times (~1hr20mins) distance off. You're glad of the rest. As to the why, you wait, try to figger it for yourself, maybe go snooping later, when you're scrounging. Like food given freely, or a morsel found in an Immortal's lair, information there for the asking is dangerous. Who knows which mouthful might contain a poisoned nail? Which word call forth a fist to the teeth? You've learned. You're quiet.

Seafood stays standing, looking, not seeing; feeling.

"Tudi. We go into the forest. Bring the wagon. Sweep our trail from the road." He's seen fit to remind you of what you usually do any, sweeping the road of your tracks. There's a note of hurry in his words. Hrnn. Must be Bad. Or Weird.

He snaps at you after two measly moments.

"Did you hear me, you miserable waste of time and space? Or do I need to score your earholes a little bigger? Pull us up the rise, off road! Into the treeline! Go!"

Your whole body's muscles are aching. Everything's aching. Your tendons are harpstring taut. Hungry, thirsty, barely a brea-

wht-TSH!

" 'YYYASSsss! Yas! Im doin it! M doin! sssss muhhfuggn Shitfool"

"What was that??"

"I said Yas, Sweetfood. M doin."

"Hm."

You stop thinking and just put everything you have left into cresting the hillock.

You're stronger now, from everything.

You've pissed and shat yourself empty pulling this wagon since days ago. Your kludge armor's leather underrigging stinks, and the ropes holding the planks have started to rot and fray. And stink a different way.

But you're stronger.

Killier.

And the next bugghole you fight is going to get all of this week taken out on him.

>[THOUSAND SEGMENT CARRIONPEDE FORM IMPROVEMENT]
>[4(/4) MELEE HIT CHANCE, 0+2-1=1(/4) MELEE DAMAGE]

*****

Your Slutfoul has you break up the wagon and cobble a hovel for you both.

>§20 - QM3d4

While you silently work, your Shitpool wags a foot over a knee, musing whimsically. You pay complete attention, even steaming with sweat. It's instruction. IMPORTANT.

"The air is heavy Yang (positive), but the streets are quiet...

"The Yin is not in retrograde or pressured, suppressed; it is not deficient, but gone.

"The air does not circle, to or from; why does no one move?

"If I feel further I will be felt, and if I don't I might be found...haaai...a bore, a bore. Tudi! Go to town. See if anything is interesting. Ask if they have blood and wine!"

[ONE ROLL AND TWO CHOICES TO MAKE]

[R O L L]

>ROLL 1D1000 vs YOUR DYSFUNCTIONAL MARRIAGE DC700
>ROLL OVER, AVERAGE OF 3
>>6069347 rolled 826

[C H O O S E]
How will you approach Plague Town? Pick a combi.
>Day / Night
>Skirts / Mains
>kill / no kill

>Yang Wuhan needs 74LM / 31 days

Rolled 1, 4, 3 = 8 (3d4)

>>6069373
rollan for hovel cost

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>>6069374
hovel cost 8
>§20-8=>§12 balance

edit:
>>6069373

[ONE ROLL, ONE CHOICE]

QM out of mana.

Writan may begin ~12hrs of this post.

QM will report if unable to deliver.

>>6069382
on account of the empty road yielding no more victims to cull, YOU have had more time to practice your Form.

>[THOUSAND SEGMENT CARRIONPEDE FORM IMPROVEMENT]
>[4(/4) MELEE HIT CHANCE, 1+2-1=2(/4) MELEE DAMAGE]

>>6069382
QUERY FOR THE THREAD:

Is 12hrs too short to wait for responses?

What is the best gap time between QMpost and Anonreply?

KinoQM F5F5F5F5F5 when lurking threads it likes

>>6069394
i guess you can wait a day if only 1-2 people reply

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>>6069868
I will do that. 24hours between postdumps.

>>6069347
>rolled 826 vs dysfunctional marriage DC700.
>SUCCESS
>Gui Li does not make her move.
>DC for the next dysfunctional marriage check will be DC 680
>in about one week of Goblinslayer Time.
>You may wish to get stronger before that happens, or make an effort at the Conjugal Performance Ceremony to delay it.

Both anons (if there are two of you), please choose how Toady will go about investigating Plague Town:

choose one of each:

>explore by day / night
>explore skirts of the town / mains of the town
>get BLOOD for Shitfool / not

>Yang Wuhan requires 74LM / 31days
>QM rollan Derreschston present living population

vote to be called 12hrs from this post

post dump due 24 hours from this post

Rolled 11, 4 + 70 = 85 (2d20 + 70)

>>6070027
Derreschston population is: ^

>>6070027
>explore by night
>explore mains of the town
>get BLOOD for Shitfool
We'll probably have only one chance to find a lot of people in the mainparts

>>6070027
>explore by night
>explore mains of the town
>get BLOOD for Shitfool

>>6068523
will we encounter The Goblinslayer at some point?
also i am opposed to just go in guns blazing
>explore by day
>explore skirts of the town
>not get blood
i have a feeling it wont go so well

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Rolled 15, 3, 4, 1, 20 + 30 = 73 (5d20 + 30)

You spend the rest of the day preparing yourself for the excursion.

The kludge armor you restring to maintain the fit, then run through mud and dry in a spot of sun to dull the light yellowy wicker color, tie some rags over and around it to mask the angular pattern of the weave; the Dagger you scrub dull with fat and soot, put some resin on and burn it over fire to mask the blue glowy bits; the shoddy axe you grate serviceable against a flat rock. Simple things.

You do all this from just behind the treeline, in sight of Plague Town. When you snooze, it's in a big tree, tall enough to overlook the road leading into the town.

Shitfool was a little off and a little right about there being no movement: no one's travelling in or out of town; no one on the road, and you've been watching the best part of the day. A town of this size (~140-320LM before the Plague) should still have perhaps 20 or so coming and going a day. This one has no out-traffic whatever.

On the other hand, inside the town it looks busy. You make out Humies pushing wagons and barrows out of the town mains and dumping it in wide, regular heaps past the skirts. There's a lot of it.

When you've snoozed enough you practice the new Carrionpede killy killy (Serral Ring Mandibular and Sickle Splay Incisor) that Spitpool taught you, and some skritty skritty (Eight Devouring Transformations) to limber up.

You keep it up till Sun-drop Moon-up (~6pm), when you start doing the Ceremony.

Gui Li takes more than an hour to show, and she feeds you the Oath Dishes she half shoves them in your mouth. Dat bich.

You return the favor with variations of "fugg you too, trash bich. I still win. I win for ebah. Fugg you and your slagg ploppa," when it's your turn to feed her.

Then you do the 99 steps, blah blah, set the Altar down, the candles are gone out, you restock the Oath Dishes, relight the Groom candle, and chant the Nuptual Greeting again. And again.

You want to rest and grub up you before you go about your Sleeppoop's business, and Gui Li wants her Six Times per Thirty Six Times; no way you can do all that without cutting corners. Fugg Sincerity, YOU want efficiency. You don't care what Gui Li wants, because fugg dat bich.

In fact, you grab your studd and gools in front of the Altar after the last Ceremony and show her what's what.

>see dis? eh? see it?
>SUGG. IT.
>SUGG. ME.
>FUGG. YOU.

The air around the Altar slows, gets a little darker, but you give your buggs and stuggs one last tug facing the Altar, and rearend a solid BRAAAAP right into the Home to really drive your point in. You wait a minute. Nuffin. Yehh, dats wat you thoughts: bich ain't do SHIT.

***

"Bootiful Sweetfoods, m goin na town now."

He flings you the Pouch carelessly, as before, but this time you catch it on two hooked fingers, without raising your face from the floor; the Fishing Sickle. He does not deign to acknowledge it.

>bugghole.
>Shitfool.

>QMroll5d20+30 for nightscouting

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>>6070308
vote has been locked.

postdump will be completed about 12 hrs from now.

next vote will be open for 24 hrs from next post dump.

The Party is Evil, but your QM isn't. The Goblinslayer, a silver ranked Adventurer with levels in Favored Enemy: Goblinoid (4, probably), should not be here.

Toady the goblin was smart enough to put the rest of his nest of gobbs between the Incarnate Goblinocide and himself, then fleeing top speed for several hours. The Goblinslayer was just passing through that place; it wasn't near his home town or a long term base. And now, as of Plague Town, Toady is more than two weeks distance from the killsite.

Your cautious approach is justified in the absence of all other information. But, Toady and Slutfail have only Derreschston (Plague Town) to consider at this time.

If Toady causes enough destruction in his kungfu career and becomes a menace of note who is *also* reliably identified as Goblinoid, the Goblinslayer may take notice.

Take care.

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>>6070327
>>6070308
Correction: Toady is a smidge under THREE weeks distance from the killsite as of now. Because Shitfool forced-marched him the whole way to Derreschston (~20days reduced to ~15days).

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Rolled 1, 4, 1, 3, 4, 2, 2, 3, 4, 4, 1, 3 + 30 = 62 (12d4 + 30)

>>6070317

Night in the mains is best. Humies are halfblind at night, even when awake with lanterns; now they're all sleepybye or pluppen, and you're fresh fed and awake and gobblen.

The Stophouse is at the head of the mains, naturally:

B E D
&
B O A R D

it says simply. Someone shadescrawled
>N BROADS
in white chalk under B O A R D , which makes you kekkle.

>rolled 15 sneekibreeki

It's closed but not boarded; you smell candles, a wood fire, some kind of meat stew with reed onion and garlic and guts in, probably pork. You hear rumpypumpy going on from under one of the second story windows; the rest of the place is quiet. Great.

You ease a kitchen window open and help yourself. You go through the cabinets and take the old stuff. Tin pot with handleless lid, wood plate, big spoon, twine; two snausages, gram flour, bit rotty taters, nunyuns; dis n dats. All in da Pouch. You don't touch the pickles though. A broom to the head taught you that while Humies always count their jars, even if they rarely check the goodies they put inside. You do open one up and swirl the pickle juice with your unwashed chubber though. Pickle that ! Nyerrrr!

>+5 over DC10= gained 5§

You listen at the Innsman's door, a big room adjoining the back of the bar; no sound. Maybe he's a light sleeper? No big smells neither, just grime and faint old coitus. It's locked from the inside.

This being an inn, the door to the one-way cellar should be in there too. Shoot. No free booz. You help yourself to a little on the tap barrel. Just two mouthfuls, because there's not a lot inside, and it's half stale.

Business bad; serving just locals, probably.

If business were good the barrel would be half full at least, ready to foam glasses. And the ale would be fresh, got that pleasant spike at the lips, that cold bitter wash at the back of the throat. That stuff Axebeard merchants always got stashed near the money; Sonnegild! Ahhh! That stuff! Not this: slightly sloppy out, bit burp of foam, then thin soury wet for the rest. Beckh.

A local brokebich would just grumble at poor beer, tip the hat at good; a Fighty One might throw good money for good beer, and fists for bad.

So, really no traffic. Nothing in it, nothing past it. A dead ender.

>rolled 3 and 4 sneekibreeki
The shoesmith's and the Cash Holders next, also at the edge of town.

Both locked up pretty good. The Cash Holder got barred windows like a prison, and the shoesmith actually got no windows. You guess that you'll know if you ever meet him at random: muscled, hands like mallets, hardworking, and deaf as a post.

There's nothing much left outside for you to nick, but you nick it anyway, for spite's sake. Bit of frayed straw rope, some lead slag, a broken saddle buckle. Peh.

>gained 1§ total

>QM rollan Township to spot YOU
>12d4+30 for nightmains alertness (12d20+30 for daymains, 6d20+15 for dayskirts)
>+0 bc no alert vs YOU

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Rolled 2, 1 + 1 = 4 (2d4 + 1)

>>6070401

edit:

>A broom to the head taught you that [DELETE] Humies always count their jars, even if they rarely check the goodies they put inside.

>...really no traffic. Nothing in this town, little past it. A dead ender.

/edit

>QM rollan 2d4+1 for YOU killen gibs in the mains
>(gibbing in the skirts would have been 1d4-1)
>Plague Town pop. 85 per >>6070034
>QM keeping certain odds hidden by /QTG/ recommendation

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>>6070410
>gibbed 4LM worth of worthless lives
>Derreschston pop. reduced: 85 - 4 = 81LM

>Yang Wuhan still requires 74 - 4 = 70LM
>30days remaining

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Rolled 3, 1, 1 = 5 (3d3)

>>6070401

>rolled 1 for sneekibreeki
Once past the edge of town, the mains open up to a streets of shops. Just houses with expanded sitting rooms mostly, and a large headboard over welcoming glass-paned doors. Fragile and respectable. Fuggen Humie. Fuggen DUM.

Why do they like putting windows up the front? Even if it's a business, it's dumb: it lets people see right in, count the defenders, see what's good Stuffs for lewts. AND the whole front wall's just thin wood and glass. Hard to make and prone to break. Several hours work by a trained glassman for a nice big sheet, and a small rock off the street can break em. Why? The headboard already says what's sellen, right? Humies double dumb and no cure comin.

None of it's welcoming now. There's no lights in the rooms, no sounds of living. No smells. Down the whole main street, the same.

Probably the plague goddem. Bad Magic.

You shift the Dagger in its belted sheathe from your side to the front of your belly; easier to draw.

You do your thing: sneak into houses for lewts n killz. After the fourth house you stop bothering. Everywhere's been broken into already; everything worth taking already sacked.

Lots of fights: dead blood on the floor, on broken barricades, furniture broken and torn to shit, bash and slash and chop holes in the walls. Your darksight lets you see everything.

There's some places where a dead body rotted open, blackening everything around it. The bodies are gone, already removed by someone, but there's no work to spare to scrub the black print of death from those. Huh.

No people. hrnnnn. No people on the main street. It doesn't seem like what ever Bad Shit happened's left yet.

Just sleeping.

After all that, fuggen noth-

There's a moment of thick animal smell, a padpadpadpad recognizable as a runup, and just enough time to half turn when something clamps on to your neck and shoulders and starts to ((((shake)))) you! It's got your Dagger arm! You can't get it out to give it some!

>uuUUuu-aaAArrr
>nrrr-rrR
>RRnnyYAH!!
>derr ye CUNT
>ye MUHFGN
>YAHH!!!

Your heels go backwards, your toes gouging into meat like they've been doing to the soil these past few days.

The pain of it makes whatever's holding you loosen a little, just enough for you to panic swing the shoddy axe backwards, the flat end of the ax head landing a solid
>B O N K ! ! !

HOWR HOWR HOWR HOWR HRRR!...!...! HOWR HOWR HOWR HOWR HOWR ! ! !

It's a DOG! Old! Huge!

A piece of wood from your shoulder and some basket weave from the side of your neck is gone! That fuggen fourlegged bastich ripped it!

And there's blood! He got you, even through the armor!

There's a rope on it's neck, and a wolf-collar: a wide, hinged iron band with long iron thorns screwed on, facing out.

The letters on the front say

>T O W S E R

>critical oof!
>BITE! & SHAKE!!
>3d3 of damage vs YOU
>durability discounts damage to HP by 2HP per Dur every 3HP physical damage incurred

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>>6070441
>5HP dmg received
>discount 2HP per 3HPdmg for kludge armor
>Lose 1 Dur per 3dmg rounded up
>armor loses 2 Dur, 12/12Dur to 10/12
>Toady loses 1 HP, 12/12HP to 11/12

Dat mudderfugg dog sneeki! Big sneeki too, gobbdamm! Fugger HUGE! It was watchen you from it's shelter or smth, jest waiten, not barken nuffin, and then it lowered its head and charged up silent, and it GOT you! Mudder FUGG!! AND on the Dagger arm too! It knows which arm is the sword arm! Dis fuggen DOGG!

It's only the thick rope around its neck and the tree it's tied to that stops it from making a second try at turning you to gibbs.

Not that you fear (ok may be still a little) DOGS, now that you know the Carrionpede Killykilly, but Towser is a whole other category of DOG, or DOGGG, and he's barking his giant mutt head off. What you can see of the face in the middle of a riot of mane is psychotic and intelligent. Somewhere in its ancestry a grand mastiff fugged a Tiger. Then their offspring fugged a Bear. Then THAT offspring got pregged by a Ratel, and here he is, Towser.

Fuggen 'ell.

You hold where he nicked you, nearly got you. The skin got parted deep. Owch.

Double plus sized tornado bastich. Ain no bich tho. ssss, really: owch.

You get your Dagger out and point it at him. He stops BOARKing to meet your eyes in a growl. He knows you're going to leave after talking. He's smart enough to read tone and body language. Not that he's very interested in parleying with a filfah ffeevon GOBLON. He just can't uproot the tree to get you right this minute.

>ligg yer grotch a little more borkboy
>pizz n jizz much as yez can
>cuz after I'm done wiv bizniz here?
>finisht feeden n fixxen Sleepful?
>im dubblin back for yer manky doggy BWOLLZ

Towser, snorts, huffs at you, sits on his haunches just at the limit of the rope. Front legs crossed. Alert. You know what he means.

>LL B WOIDON
>GOBLON PONK

sssss. nrraHH.

>Towser recognizes you now
>This is where the Mains join Mart Street
>Towser belongs to someone who holds a business at the back of Mart Street.
>It stinks there.
>Towser's owner has taken up residence in one of the emptied houses on Main to pretend to be civilized.
>And also it's a free house.
>Towser's owner is a Tanner-Huntsman
>From the quality of Towser's collar, he is friends with the Shoesmith, or a good customer.
>Be careful in Mart Street by day
>Be careful at End Main by night

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>>6070457
>rolled 20 sneekibreeki
>NICE
>also gain 10§ rollover from DC10
>combined with previously harvested gibbs, 4LM from 6070410, for this writan

Huh. Interesting. A big hole right in the middle of town, with two earthwork ramps on opposite sides laddering up and down, and several worksheds surrounding it.

The laborers sleep in a big workshed with low walls, all together, with their few belongings under their bedding. The worksmen - carpenters, layers, sleucers, allsmiths and that sort - sleep in domicles made according to their professions: carpenters in cabins, layers in cottages, and allsmiths in corrugate shacks with the cord wood and coal, to keep the others from stealing it. The sleucers lived in almost proper houses: they had built a big Soil Convenience (public toilet) with a crankpump linked to a watersource, and charged everyone else labor and work to use it with a Tokenage system (coupons).

Something had been built on top of the hole before it collapsed into the hole. The laborers have been steadily removing the rubble, while the worskmen have been building a little beside but within premises of the collapsed building. The new structure is solid brick and solid wood, flat roof, functional. The old building, from what you can see, had a lot of plastry; shaped fine grain cement, white and smooth.

You sniff the air a little, prick your ears. Doesn't feel like Bad Magic; nothing badder here than the rest of town. Whatever happened has diluted with time.

You start to go closer- and smell culc. Not culc, se, but related. Faint. You follow it to a little cabin shoddier than the others. Built earlier, with less material.

A dwindling lamp light is shining inside. You peek through a gap between the logs: four grown Men in a nearly empty cabin. Their travelling bundles are packed on their sleeping spaces; their bedding, tables, chairs, store boxes and shelves all given away. They're just sitting on a big rag on an empty floor, with a pile of BIG beer (liquor) bottles strewn around. Theyve been saving the booz for this day, and now they've got too much to finish. They're all out and it's not even a third of their combined pile.

You get in and turn the light down to nothing. Then you gibb them, quick and good - none but one wake up, too LATE - and toss them still bleeding into the Pouch. Their travelling bundles (all their ready money had been changed at by a Cash Holder representative; pity) follow after them.

Then you take a look at the booz. Wowzaz:

>Toe Bend's Thin-It Ide: Minereal Turpencamphide Delectable Solvent
>Blind McDougall's Bathpipe Clearer
>KAMKHATKA XKØLL
(no apv, no bottler's print, no introduction, nothing.) (Just the brown-red ink on the cheap sheet paste-label tells you all you need to know: VOLCANO SKULL)
>Nacht Zugsteig
>Gnoll Glenns Bale Muur 12 Year

You pour the half empties together. Sipfill won't notice, and if you stagger dishing the bottles out, he'll have wine every meal.

Nice.

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>>6070501
>search total 73, general success

You have a Time or so before cockcrow, you think; enough to take a peek over the pit and the new building before you go, plan for tomorrow night.

The rubble in the pit is more than half cleared; you can see the walls of the lowest cellar. Apart from one section, which you suspect is the stair access, all of them have remained upright. Where the section is broken, you see that the concrete has been bedded with metal rods and plates. Someone built the cellar to last. Digging around the foundations to that depth and at that width under a building would have been dangerous...unless the cellar had been planned and founded beforethe original building. hrnnn. Seafood will want to know.

The new building is actually two, built close together with the same scheme; built heavy, too, as if to say there is nothing underneath. Where the facade of masonry fell and shattered, it said, brick would stand and stay.

You go around the outside, look for symbols that Humies like to make. Tells you if it's their Schools, or Armies, or Chiefs, or Books in there. You know a few.

You don't find any symbol about and you have to pat your head to think. No symbol? It's clearly not a private house; not thick enough and too few towers to be a fortress at peace; and it has no big build yard for ships or cars. How can it have no symbol?

Then you twig it: the two buildings ARE the symbol. It's a Church.

'''Ш'''
''''Ͳ''''

Fugggg. Some kind of Whities, for sure. Doesn't seem like very strong tribe of them, or really rich, judging by the building materials; likely they won't have much voice with any Chief of the Weak Races.

But the Whitey Ones always gang together. Even if they quarrel all the time about letters and words and stories, they band together fastest when their world starts to end, and of all the Weak Fighty Ones (non-Barbarians), Whitey Knighties (Paladins) are the most eager to charge first into death, and Whitey Sissies (Priests) second. Martyrs. Seafood will want to know.

*****

"Mmm. So we are at the door of a weaker Righteous Sect? Doubtful. Though they begin their cultivation based in Yang, there is no Righteous Cultivator of any level who will deliberately empty Yin. There must be more to this irregularity."

[TWO CHOICES AND A ROLL]

[WHERE DOES YOUR SEAFOOD SEND YOU TO SKULK?]

>Church

>Pit

>Mass Grave (detected by Seafood; far out the opposite side of town)

>Mart Street

>Mayorate Court, off End Main

>Skirts

>Nowhere in particular; just bring more BLOOD [From whence? Write-in]

>Right here; make for me: [What? Write-in]

[WHEN?]

>Day / night

[ROLL]

>1D100
>modifiers to be added

Stuffs: §12 bal + §5 + §1 + §10 = §28
Derreschston pop. = 81LM
Yang Wuhan still requires 70LM
30days remaining

Vote will stay open ~36hours of this post.

Writan begins ~36 hours of this post.

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>>6070308
>>6070075
>>6070260

>DINNER BELL

>>6070530
edit:

[ [ADDITIONAL OPTION] ]

>FULL FOCUS TRAINAN! [how many days? Stuffs consumed by Toady 2§/day; Stuffs consumed by Gui Li 0.5§ per day.]

Rolled 77 (1d100)

>>6070530
>Church
>Night
If we can break into the church there should be plenty of valuable things inside. Also probably some useful information.
(the last roll i did was real bad so please dice god have mercy for once)

Rolled 64 (1d100)

>>6070530
>Church
>night

Rolled 3 (1d100)

>>6070532
>rollan in player 3's absence
>Ao3 instead of Bo3 in player 3's absence

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>>6071432
VOTE AND ROLL, END AND CALL

>(77+64+3)/3=48
>No Special Success in lewting (78+; bosser success 92+)
>gain QMrollan4d8 § worth of lewts (48 rounded down; d8 instead of d20 for large public buildings & grounds, as opposed to domiciles and private grounds)

>+30 bonus against detection for Night
>-0 penalty for prior detection
>= 78
>General Success in Searching
>Many Minor Clews; hrnnnn, Interesting!
>Nothing Incriminating Found

>Next devoted search (a whole Day or Night) at this location will have bonus +15 for familiarity
>Devoted searches thereafter will have diminishing bonus gains: +10, +5, +0

writan

full postdump in ~12 hours of this post

Rolled 2, 2, 2, 1 = 7 (4d8)

>>6071448
LEWTS

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Rolled 4 (1d4)

>>6070530
"Even the most hidebound of Righteous Sects will have their secret shames. Tudi, go to that Temple to Mediocrity. Your Shifu is on vacation! It is only meet to pick up souvenirs on a touring ramble, wouldn't you say?"

Of course you smile and agree, enthusiastically. Your solid foundations in Flattery have made possible your advancement to Beginner's Sycophancy!

"Sweetfood sedz it! Kewl souvies commen up!"

•••

You spend the time you aren't scrounging or Ceremonying (no time for Trainan; not if you want to sleep at all) (you might ask Shitpoo to put that stuff in your butt again that perks you right up, but you have an ominous idea how he might oblige to a request for buttstuff) in making rappels, riggins, footten pegs, and rope.

>§4 used; 28-4=§24 remaining
>QM1d4 for wear and tear of §4 worth of kludge equipment
>balance will be converted back to §

When night comes again, you're off.

"Bye Sweetfoods. M off."

"Mm." Pinkie wave.

You notice that youve never been this annoyed by anything like a pinkie wave. Slippuke really is a magnificent bugghole. That pinkie wave is fuggen nuanced.

You're going to try it on someone when you get the chance.

•••

You start with the Ш block first. Five storeys of brickwork. No glass in the window holes, just tarpsheet to keep out the wind. No doors either.

The size of the rooms on the top floors might be classrooms or mass dorms, maybe barracks. Can't say for sure.

Several big utility spaces on the ground floor, maybe for offices or indoor sports or smth. Only the kitchen seems to be operating, but on a personal scale; 1-3 persons cook here regular, at most.

>lewts rolled, 2, 2

You shove what's good into the Pouch, not much: couple bricks, some marking chalk, broken broomhead, something's handle, handful of fag-ends. Not much.

You take a break in what will be a sleucey (toilet and washroom: pools fed by pumps, body washing and poop flushing done by bath ladles), eating an onion like an apple.

You're almost sure there's more stuffs around - workmen always have their stows and cubbies for tools and supplies close by where they work - but youve not come across any, and there's still another building to do.

•••

>lewts roll 2, 1
>general success Ao3 48 + 30 Night bonus = 78
>Special Success in searching
>>6071448

Ͳ block is in the same state of construction as the Ш block: founds and brickwork done, near nothing else. Ͳ has 4 storeys compared to Ш block's 5; Ͳ's lil taller too.

There's a small armory here but it's shuttered and locked with two padlocked drawbolts. The armsmen (if they've been appointed at all) will have one padlock key each; the Master of the grounds should have both, secreted.

You'd make some kind of attempt at peeking in, or filching something from a ventilation slot with a wee hooky on a string, but you can't see inside and don't have time to fish blind. Shouldn't be much in there anyway, or the armsmen would be sleeping right in there.

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>>6071510

>§4 out of §4 kludge equipment destroyed/lost/abandoned in your attempts
>kludge requirement for next search of Church is a flat §2

You find the chantry on the second half of the arm of the Ͳ. There's someone in there: there's candle light and Whitey incense.

It's a Sissy (Priest or Nun; clerical noncombatant, usually). Soft looking, most probably Humie; can't be sure without seeing more than his outline. There are Humies who grow tall as Binnys (Elves) or short as Axebeards, or thick as Orcs. Not many (~12%); not enough for you to be more than fairly certain he's Humie.

There's just four candles on, and he's very still, half hidden by the pews and shadowed by the altar, but you see him fine: round shouldered, shaved head, bit fatty, cheap cloth shoes. You can't hear his prayers but you can hear him praying: a little echo carries through the empty room.

The way he clasps his hands in prayer is off: one hand half missing; right hand's thumb, fore and middle fingers gone, the rest scar-melty like it's been burned or poison bit. Bad Hit.

Beside him is his Holy Moly book, with a Holy Moly hammer. Hammer's single handed, with a wrist strap. Those are usually made pretty nice from what you know, but you'll need to get thwacked proper to find out if they gotz zapzaps n thunda.

Since he's here muttering you can't rummage behind the altar as you would have. You take a doorstop and a hymnal instead; you can always block off a door from opening in a hurry with a doorstop, and a book o toily paper's always useful.

You leave him to his bizniz bothering his gods; when he comes along the corridors you'll smell the incense on him and give him the dodge, easy.

•••

The room a little bit from outside the chantry entrance is done up: door and frame fitted, varnished, with a plaque outside, brass letters on plain wood, matching (almost but not really, kek) the door:

{C U R A}

Locked, drat it, but the keyhole's big. You peek through it and see about half a room. Books, Holy Molys, things on walls.

Smallish fitted windows, opague glass panes in fancy green and white diamonds. Just a hooklock on the inside keeping it closed, holding the pane to the frame. You'll try that in a bit.

Ooh, a SORD. Biggun. Rough looking scabbard, rough wood with ringmail hangers at the hilt and tip. Studded shoulder belt draped over. Looks like it's been through a few good scraps, or one Bad Un. Nice handle: steel, forged in rings. Heavy looking crosshilt and pommel.

Not mounted on the wall though; leaning on the corner between a wall and a bookshelf. Like it's...shamed.

Here's the parrish setter, or greeting room; a sitting room but HolyMoly-like.

The room beyond the setter, behind another door, should be the parrish dow (lodge room), where the Big Sissy of this place sleeps.

You're not trying the door tonight; even if unlocked the hinges might be squealy and the Sissy might recognize his door getting opened.

Hooklocked windows tho...

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>>6071600
>rolled Ao3 48 without Night bonus
>bare fail
>+30 night bonus
>Supposed to be Special Success at 78+
>Downgraded to Success
>No BIG lewts, but also not busted

Using a long piece of tin binding wire you make a long pokeypoke with a hook on the end. Put it through a teeny crack between the panes, do a little guess fishing, and oopsie-ya: hooklock's done. Before anything else, tie a string in a knot with two tails around the hooklock. Gumlick taught you this (before the Goblinslayer gibbed him), called it the TwoTail Ratt: one's the guidy tail, one's the loosey tail. If there's time on your way out you can put the hooklock back from the outside with the guidy tail, then loose the knot once the with the loosey tail, leave everyone inside scratching their noggs.

There's two full shelves of books along one wall, and one longer deeper one on the other with just...stuffs. You're not sure they're Holy Moly stuffs, but they might be: they're all quite big pieces, two (goblin) handfuls or larger each, either of made good material or with finicky details, or both.

All labeled too; handwritten paste paper.

There's a big tarp on the floor where they've been sorted out; nothing much left on it but plastry dust and masonry bits. Looks like the workers have been sorting everything of interest from the put and passing it on to the Sissy. He's just sorted out the last big lot, so there's nothing for you to nick apart from a few of the larger pieces from a pile of discards, half a (goblin) handful apiece, mostly crockware.

The books are neat and packed on the shelves; the Sissy's neat, or maybe he hasn't the time for books right now. The writing desk is mostly empty, just fresh stationery. He hasn't been writing anything, probably because of the hand. Again, that leaves you with nothing for you to nick unnoticed. Drat.

From the paper bin next to the writing desk you pick out a couple of imperfect frottages (rubbings of rough surfaces using pencil, coal or crayon on paper or cloth) and wrap your crockware bits in them.

Seafood gon see.

You close the window and hooklock behind you. Safe.

•••

Only when youre out on the grass again and looking back at the two blocks when you feel a twitch in your nose. Something's off. Don't feel right.

You lay flat in an overgrown grass patch within sight of the Church and try to figg out what it is.

Five floors in Ш, four in Ͳ. So what? Who knows what Humies thinking when they build?

But Ͳ is higher? A little bit? Again, so what? So what...

You get up, get padding. You look at the windows from outside, then from inside at each floor. They are bigger and lower (your shoulderheight) on level 3 and 4, smaller and higher on 1 and 2 (over your brow). Interdasting!

You count the steps on the stairs: 22 from 1 to 2, 33 from 2 to 3, 20 from 3 to 4!

You rappel down from window ledge to window ledge and rap at the bricks. Can't tell for sure, but you strongly suspect a big cubby between 2 and 3 of Ͳ!

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Rolled 9, 7 = 16 (2d10)

>>6071653
And then the kludgeed rappel you've wedged in the roof crannel snaps.

You're probably fine, there's still the noose and knot you tied around the window ledg-

The jerk of the short fall slips one of the joining knots out of another, and you tumble one and a half storeys down.

>ah FUUUUU-ough

You scrabble a bit on the mortar gaps between bricks, slow just enough to tuck and tumble onto the ground instead of into it. Small oof, but you're tough.

Pity about the rope and rappel, but at least it should still be there if you decide to try again tomorrow.

To make up for your lack of treasure you bring out a BIG beer mixture from your stash for Sipfuel: a Gnoll Glens Bale Muur 12 Year bottle with about a fifth left in it, topped up half with Delectable, the rest you don't remember.

You present him the full bottle of Gnoll Glens Bale Muur Just Now along with the frottage, the crockware bits, and your report.

He gluggs as he listens. He finishes the bottle (!!the fugg REELY??) just before you finish. You're alert enough to flinch so that it glances off your head instead of smash you head-on.

Whazzee say wat do?

[CHOICE AND ROLL]

[C H O I C E]

>Serch Church MOAR (Ш) (familiarity bonus +15)

>Serch Church MOAR (Ͳ) (familiarity bonus +15)

>Stalk the Church Sissy

>Stalk Towser

>Pit

>Mass Grave

>Mart Street

>Mayorate Court, off End Main

>Skirts

>BLOOD
>[From whence? Write-in]

>KLUDGE
>[What? Write-in]

>TRAINAN

>else?

[WHEN?]

>Day / Night

[ROLL]
>1D100 General

>Yang Wuhan requires 70LM
>29 days remaining

>§24 - 2 to repair kludge armor
>=§22 remaining before search
>+§7 new lewts
>=§29 bal

>QM roll
>1d10LM worth of outgoing workmen
>1d10LM worth of incoming workmen

Vote and roll closes + writan starto ~36hrs of this post.

>>6071672
>workforce rotation
>9 outgoing, less 4 alreddy dedd = -5LM
>incoming +7= +2LM net

>Derreschston pop. 81+2 =83LM

>>6070926
>>6070575

Postdump complete.

Rolled 38 (1d100)

>>6071672
>Serch Church MOAR (Ͳ) (familiarity bonus +15)

Rolled 16 (1d100)

>>6071684
+1
lets do that one more time (unless we find something really good)
>night

>>6071808
so much for "something really good"
*sigh*

Rolled 30 (1d100)

>>6071674

>>6071684
>>6071808
>>6071816
better hope anon3 reports and clutches or this will hurt a bit.

>>6071684
>>6071808
fellows, because your rubbish rolls (A03=28 + 15 =43, narrow fail) will not further the plot meaningfully, ROLL 1d100 AGAIN, in case anon3 doesn't show, and you still want to search church block T by night.
REPLY THIS POST AND REROLL ONLY IF YOU WANT THIS.

I will writan the failed rolls as a waste of one day, two stuffs, and corporate punishment from Yang Wuhan.

your next search of the church block T will be +15 +10 for familiarity.

Writan in 24+hrs

>>6072120
edit

CORPORAL punishment

I'm sleepwalking.

>>6072120
you can roll like you did last time.
kinda fucked it up then, maybe save us now.

Rolled 45 (1d100)

>>6072120

Rolled 60 (1d100)

>>6071672
botch

>>6072349
discounted.

ao3 28 maintained

+ 15 = 43.

writan begins shortly to get this over with

Rolled 1, 4 = 5 (2d8)

>>6072353
§29 - §2 = §27

You do one more Ceremony than usual, just to make up time.

Waiting for night to fall you strip the fag-ends and wrap the lot of damp baccy in a hymnal page. Stogie.

With this smouldering on your lips you get to work repairing what's left of your rappel. Doubled lengths of rag this time. It should hold enough this time. Last time was just unlucky, is all.

It's barely dark when you go, but that's fine. The workmen are focused on their beds and cookfires once past sun-drop moon-up, and there's barely anyone in Ͳ block anyway.

You're going a little early, just to see if you can get to the chantry altar and help yourself before the Sissy comes.

>QM2d8 for lewts

>>6072391
You manage a handful of candles and a full small bottle of scented clear-burning lamp oil from the service supplies closet. It's all good stuff in there, but there's not enough that you can take much before getting noticed.

You hear the pat-pat-pat of a fatass in cloth shoes and quickly close the supply closet. It doesn't squeak, and it's hidden enough at the back that he doesn't notice the movement. He's also occupied, head down, steps slower than need be.

You quickly pad behind the altar and out the other side just as he opens the supply closet. You spy him for a few seconds over the top of a pew.

He doesn't notice anything missing in the closet; just takes four candles, a half-used bottle of clear-burn, some brass utensils, and immediately closes the door.

You duck just before he finishes turning back to the altar, creeping low and slow out of sight towards the entrance.

When the Holy Moly mumbling starts you get to a half crouch and speed up. A quick peek out the chantry doors to ensure coast clear, and you're off.

You try the {C U R A} door in passing; yup, still locked. You peek in the keyhole just in case; yup, everything still neat, nothing moved. You'll take the risk of getting in again when there's something worthwhile. Say, a new pile of unsorted gubbins from the Pit.

Tonight, you got priorities.

There's a yuge hidden cubby in the middle of Ͳ, most likely a bit after the junction, and before the long leg containing the high ceiling of the chantry.

You head for the roof access with your new rappel.

•••

>28 + 15 familiarity to search
>=43
>Narrow Fail

>28 + 15 + 30 against detection
>-0 for alert penalty
>=73
>Pass


You do the same as before, going down ledge to ledge, pressing an ear to the brick and tapping with a long piece of cut bolt, keeping half an eye out for lanterns or torches on the ground, or moving figures. There is a small watch force on the grounds, watching the Pit from a platform by day and night in rotations, but you haven't seen any of them in patrol. Maybe they're skiving. Or just too few. Good for you.

You can't really make out much difference after an hour of test-tapping; maybe the wall of the chantry is thicker, so you can't tell where the solid floor starts? Maybe the cubby extends throughout the space between lvl2 and lvl3, so there's no real solid floor there at all?

And maybe the false floor is made additionally thick, so that no difference can be told between it and the other floors?

Whoever drew the plans for this was fuggen thorough. You want to look into his left eye when you eat his right.

You do your tap-test on the left and right crooks of the Ͳ, then the flat top of it. Painstaking.

By the time you finish your arms and legs are twinging, and you don't trust yourself to think or do much more.

You're still convinced of the existence of the cubby, but it looks like Ͳ has defeated you for tonight.

Maybe you'll try an indoor search next time.

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>>6072400

You don't bring the BIG beer for Seafood tonight. He won't be happy with your lack of results, so it should be wasted anyway. You still have to keep up the impression of scrounging things from night to night; can't well be presenting a nice big bottle of Gnoll Glenn everytime you half-fail. He'll twig on to the pattern, and then you'll catch a clobberen. Good booz pairs best with good nooz, eh.

You present your report empty handed and brace for impact.

"Sorry Seafoods. Carnt find nuffin tonight. I'll try arder tomarrer."

"Mm. Tudi. Come here."

You do your best to walk normal.

He holds a hand out.

"Knife." He means your Dagger.

Your gorge rises with dread as you hand it over, presenting with both hands.

He puts it full length into your chest, so casual that you don't catch on, and when you next blink it's in and you're bleeding.

>Toady takes 10dmg
>discounted 2dmg per 3dmg taken due to kludge armor
>kludge armor loses 1 Dur per 3dmg taken, rounded up
>kludge armor 8/12Dur
>Toady 9/12HP

You don't dare move; Seafood hasn't dismissed you. You just stand there, keep your empty hands up, head bowed.

Seafood goes to sleep, or appears to.

You stay there until just before sun-drop (total from ~7am to ~2+pm) before Seafood turns over and waves you off with a pinkie.

You don't have time to really rest and do a proper patch of yourself or your kludge armor, just a cloth wad and wrap around your chest and then you have to start on the Ceremony.

Uff. How hells he do that.

[CHOICE AND ROLL]

[C H O I C E]

>Serch Church MOAR (Ш) (familiarity bonus +15)

>Serch Church MOAR (Ͳ) (familiarity bonus +15 +10)

>Stalk the Church Sissy

>Stalk Towser

>Pit

>Mass Grave

>Mart Street

>Mayorate Court, off End Main

>Skirts

> BLOOD
>[From whence? Write-in]

>KLUDGE
>[What? Write-in]

>TRAINAN

>else?

[WHEN?]

>Day / Night

[ROLL]
>1D100 General

>Yang Wuhan requires 70LM
>28 days remaining
>Derreschston pop. 83LM

>§27 + 5 new lewts
>=§32 bal

~36hrs to vote close and new writan.

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>>6071684
>>6071808

Rolled 96 (1d100)

>>6072404
well that sucked.
>Pit
>Night (how much does it matter? will the people try to kill us or something if they merely find out about our existence?)
lets see what goes on there. if other anons want to do something else and it would be a tie, I'd say the highest roll decides

>>6073048
>will it suck?

it has the potential to. Goblins are like rats and roaches; if you see one above ground, there's nine more around. Everyone knows this.

The +30 Night bonus is the only thing keeping Toady from getting BUSTED so far. Using the last two Ao3 base rolls, 48, 28, he'd be busted twice already. For each BUSTED, there will be an increase of search penalty, and each subsequent BUST he will need to roll to evade pursuers; fail = fight, and leave no bodies or witnesses or it will become known that Derreschston is suffering a Goblinja problem; Toady may start meeting Adventurers.

>>6073048
>highest roll decides

Against /QTG/ recommendation, but I'll go with this until the player count makes it problematic.

Rolled 27 (1d100)

>>6072404
>Pit
>Night

Rolled 73 (1d100)

>>6072406

Rolled 68 (1d100)

>>6072404
Just catched up to this quest and my lord I could have never conceived the crossover of a goblin apprentice and his shifu but it's crazy enough to work lol, pretty funny too, thank god for the anon that came up with the qst and the anon that picked it up afterwards

>pit
>night

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Rolled 2, 2, 7, 7, 5, 1, 7, 5, 6 = 42 (9d8)

>>6072406
>Night
>Pit
>General 1D100 Bo3 96
>BOSSER SUCCESS
>QM9d8 for LEWTS

because total anon count appears to be 3, QM can now rule Bo3 without suffering pangs of QoMscience

Vote closed. Writan now. Completion expected ~12hrs of this post.

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>>6073870

You give up on Ͳ block for now; getting near nothing out of it after two nights leaves a snaily taste in your mouth.

The Big Sissy in Ͳ block though: he's been sifting and sorting some pretty phat lewts dug out from the Pit. Goldy and finicky stuffs, one or two blingblings too maybe. If they weren't all catalogued with handwritten paste-paper on his long shelf you'd definitely have nicked some. Fuggen nerd.

You begin this night with your game face on. That is, smeared black with soot and oil. You tie yourself an ear-do, also called a banditchief, to hide your ears, nose and chin. There's stories about spoiled raids because some Fighty One saw a goblin schnozz outlined against the moon or lamplight or something. You're taking no chances. Shivyou obviously tested the boundaries of his Oath to you; stabbing you in the chest through your armor probably counts as Chastisement or Demonstrative Instruction or something, not Harm. Huh. Even Oaths from Immortals have loopholes. The limits of interpretation is imagination when telling the Technical Truth™. What a sneaky way to lie! 1

•••

The Pit, the site of the former Church, has two earthwork ramps laddering out of it from opposite sides. The gentler one is for the laborers heaving out rubble, the steeper for the unladen ones getting back in.
........#
......=._____.=.
......==._____/.==.
......||..._____#.....||
....||........................#...||
...||.........%%%%%..........||
[π]||#.....%%%%%%%%.#....||
....||........%%%%%%%%..#......||
.....||...#....%%%%%%%..........||
......||........%%%%%%.........#||[π]
.......||........%%%%%...#.....||
...........||......#....__.........||
..............||........._.....||
.................||......._/...||
...................||....._..||

>_/ = earthwork ramps
>[π] = stilted watch platforms
>% = rubble
># = workshed

There's worksheds dotting the bottom level, holding large tools and unassembled scaffolding.

Two watchtowers, really just platforms, facing each other, out of the way of the ramps and the workmen going in and out, while maintaining a full view of the Pit, right to the bottom. Each of the watchplatforms has a rather larger workshed under it. Probably where they pile up any gubbins fished from the rubble.

There's probably a checkpoint at the out-ramp too.

The platforms look well-built enough, whole logs for stilts, flat planks with neat joinings for the ladder and platform, but the awning tentage looks kludged, raw poles tied and nailed in place, like something you might do. Probably built by the guards themselves, to keep out the sun.

You wait long past the workmen's dindins, when their cookfires dim and they slouch off to sleep.

You're watching the watchmen. They've eaten with the workmen, and now they want to dose too.

You just need to see how.

Q: When is a Quarterpounder Burger less than a 1/4ilbs beef, and a Full Footer Sub under 12"? A: When it's made by the Gnomes of Zurich.

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>>6073930
By full moon-up (9pm) you see it: one of the pair of watchmen on one platform stands up and gives a short pippip whistle, and waves to the other platform. One watchman on the other platform acknowledges, waves back.

The pair on the first platform dim their lamps by half, and mount bucklers behind their lamps, to keep the remains of the light off their eyes.

The pair on the second tower raise their lamps higher and brighter, and start to smoke to stay awake. They'll probably keep this up half the night, then switch over, so they'll be half rested at breakfast, maybe continue half a shift more, for money's sake.

Too bad they didn't figger you.

•••

You come up under the sleeping platform; the shadow cast by the lamps almost reaches the whole way down to the workshed there.

You wait more, watching the thin threads of baccy smoke drifting up, the little snatches of talk back and forth.

When the talk stalls, and one of the lanterns gets taken down from its pole, you prime yourself to go. When you see the removed lantern get brighter on the platform, you know it's glass has been removed and they're rekindling their pipes.

You move, using your darkvision to spy for patches of soil exposed on the pit wall. You land lightly, quickly, frogscotch across the lilypads, and you are in cover again, inside the workshed, when you hear the rattle of the lantern being raised again. Then the talking starts; they didn't hear you.

You peek up: they're leaning on the back fencing of their watchplatform; you are out of their line of sight. Keep talking, dumdums.

You whip out the Wondrous Pillager Pouch and start helping yourself to the discarded Stuffs in the workshed. Tangled piles of cord twine and rope; long rock chisels blunted from use; broken shovel heads, pickax heads, mallet heads, all worn tool iron; torn tarping, bent marking pegs, poles and planks; two halves of a sharpening wheel, a broken drill head, a half cracked mining helmet. The old, the battered, the misused, everything that won't be missed. All inna Pouch! It's right useful, this Pouch: the storage space of a castle, the size of an apron pocket. There's no sound of things krashen or krumpen when you chuck em in, and they're nice and sorted separate when you pick them out. You wonder if you can bag live hostages in it.

You've picked enough and pause to listen.

They're still talking. Doofi.

The workshed had been cleared of the BIG lewts, leaving only the normal stuff. The only way you'll get any is to dig them up raw.

You start digging on the blind side of the rubble hill, quietly sweeping a picking. You find a goddess head of stone, cracked from the top of one ear diagonal past the chin. One eye and half a mouth gone, but still enough for you to know she priddy, and you want to cram your chubber in.

One day, Toady. One day. You're going to master the Carrionpede, and masculate all the weakling gods, and pregging ALL their goddesses.

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Your darkvision gets real handy about now: you pick out likely places in the rubble hill to scratch at, and you are always in time to stagger any minor avalanches you cause into nothing.

Digging a little more you find the goddess' neck and tiddumz, and after a bit of positioning you Pouch the lot: you spread the Pouch mouth open on the ground, brace your back in some stable rubble, your feets on the stachoo, and roll it over and in with your legs. The goddess' arms and crotch are fully smashed, phooy, and the decorated plith with the fancy gold leaf and lettering you don't have a chance of moving. Fuggedaboudit.

You keep going, slow and steady, into the center. You think out the layout as you dig: the goddess stachoo, being plasty, should be from an open space from some upper level; where it fell through, supposing the cellars prebuilt, should be empty as well, a walk space. Mentally drawing a line from the destroyed stair landing through where you found the goddess, you guess the center of the cellar to be about there. If you were running out you should be somewhere heeeere; if you were fighting your way out you'd be hugging the load bearing pillars. You can see the tops of two of them; following their spacing, there might be more load bearers there, there, there, there.

Finding the foot of another buried pillar not aligned with the two peeking out, you conclude that the cellar is circular, or octagonal, something like that. If here's the landing, and there's the opposite wall, supposing a circular layout, then under the center of the pile is the altar.

And if a bozo was fighting and running their way out, they would hug the pillars between the center and the landing. Here and here.

LUCK! You started your digs on the right side, and the Humie workers have cleared it up to the best place, and you're here at the right time!

You go at it, tying a towel to both wrists and elbows to muffle the sound of bits tumbling down between them. It's a Time, two Times. You take a swigg of dubious grogg based with Delectable, cough into your raggy banditchief, keep fuggen goin, suspecting you might not have time and luck like this again.

You're half buried in masonry dust and it happens: MOAR luck! You're Toads Lucker, liek ohmuhgobb! Lucker than a Lepercunt! It's drizzln! Wind's in and 'ard rainen!

You hunker down still while the watchmen wake up, take their lamps down, roll down tarping to keep the rain out.

Then you digg in like a mad fugg, using the Carrionpede movements to scrabble the surface scree down, off, away, getting steadily closer to the MONEY SPOT. If you fail this you won't wait for Seafood to give you a drubbing, you'd brain yourself out of angst.

-!
>YES!
>YESYESFUGGYES!!
It's a hand! Attached to an arm! Whitey sleeves! Whitey robe! Anna Big Hat!

Holden a jawbone!

And a satchbag!

And a WAND!!!!

>YESSSSSS!!!!

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>>6074069
After a moment's stupefaction you Pouch everything doubletime. Naturally you want to keep the Wand and the Big 'At, because of course you do, but you know Seafood will make more of these than you can. Maybe when he has had his fun you can pick through his leavings.

You don't feel it especially demeaning; it's just like you used to do when you were a grubling and couldn't fight the big gobbs for a propa share.

You dig a little more around the area, relying on the rain to mask your sounds and movements, but there's nothing much.

As the rain ends one guard comes down from the watchplatform keeping actual watch, goes around the Pit to the other watchplatform; you keep the rubble hill between you and him. He can't see you without bringing a lantern or looking straight at you, but you're taking no chances.

He goes up the other watchplatform to wake the two sleepies inside for a changeover, then returns.

There's a bit of a panic for you as he circles the Pit again and the other pair of watchchumps start rolling back their tarp and brightening and hoisting their lanterns; whichever position you take you'll be seen by him or them.

But all of them are sleepy, the lanterns are still low, the ground is dark with damp, and you keep yourself covered with the filthy blankie, breaking your shape.

Now that the watch has changed, you start digging on the other side of the rubble hill. You have roughly located the altar area as being at the center of the hill: it's piled with big rocks, whole ceiling sections, and gauging by your previous progress and the remainder of the night, you know before you start that you're not going to reach it.

You have a go anyway.

And find LUCK! Again! It's a biggy gauld CUP!!

Ok, not gold-gold, but goldish. Shiny reddish anyway. Brazz wiv lotsa coppa in. And it's crumped, the whole front of it collapsed into the bowl. There's a weird face on the crumped side; devil-looking scowly bugger, wiv curly big horns for handles. Not a real usual motif, for Whities; maybe these are the cool ones.

You Pouch it and go a little more. Seems like there's nothing close by; the Cup probably bounced and rolled to where you found it.

Moon-drop almost finished; sun-up starts a little Time later. You get away, grab a smoll can of owwie-dunn (crafthand's iodine; a cheap fleshwound formula) and sheep-tar off the floor of a workshed on the way out, and start up the earthworks ramps; the steeper side, for more speed.

From the watchtower that's supposed to be awake you hear snoring. It's loud, now that the rain's gone.

It stops when you're most of the way up and you freeze. The other watchman, not the snorer, says something to him, and comes down. Gets under the watchplatform, where the ground's a little dry, and puts a heap of coal dust and twigs between two bricks. He's got a kettle by his heel.

Git's making tea.

You hurry up the ramp that's open facing him while he's trying to get his fire going.

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>>6074104
And your scrabbling gobby hands dislodge something wedged and hidden in the rock wall.

It's a muggy shirt...wivva gauldy candle stick! Hevvy! It's gauld for realsies!

And! There's papers in! Thick, heavy papers, wiv stitchens down one side, toily paper book-like! Pages! All nice and drawey, wiv all kinds of simbils on. Itz deffo older than the hymnal you nicked day before yest; gooder and expensiv-er. It's...not even paper. It's fine leather. And the drawrens ain't drawn, theys needled. 'S skin. Humie skin.

>cor blaume
>das roit gnarly inna

There's singes all around the edges of it, but none on the inks; some bits of burned wood and small hinges on what would have been the book's spine.

There was a fire, and the rest of the book burned up, but not these.

Call it a hunch but...you sniff it and grubb it a little in your hands...Yup! Squirmy and icky and Bad Ugly! 'S Bad Magic, itiz! MAGIC PAGES! You're a Lepercunt fer real!!!1

Then you hear the snoring start again, a pause, and a crunch of footsteps coming towards you from the watchplatform that's awake.

You bugger off zip-like, using the Carrionpede movements to keep your profile low. The attention of the one coming towards you wavers between his snoring partner and the other watchplatform.

Ahh! You twig it: this bugghole's took the candlestick and the pages off someone trynna nick it out of the Pit. Then he hid it in the wall to nick it later, when both the other watchplatform and his snorry blagga mate weren't watching.

And now that you nicked his nick, he's got no how to complain. Whazzee gonnsay? Someone nicked sneekibreeks wot I nicked faers n queers? Hheh!

Flabby, slouchy bastish. The snorry one's propa fat, but thissun's gots a slimey, whingy feel on im. Ee's the kind wot doesn't just deserve to be bullied, but needs to be. You'd bet a meal you can make him squeal like a piggy.

You just reach the tall grass when you hear him pawing at the rock face on the ramp, starting to panic.

>w-where's my payday?
>m-my retirement?
>w-where's the fucking GOLD???

He holois alarm a little after that, and all the watchmen scramble, rounding up every laborer and workman encamped around the Pit.

Everyone's named and numbered, and a thorough search of effects begins.

You stay a bit to watch.

In a little Time the Sissy comes out of Ͳ block, and the chubby blubby one starts pointing into the Pit and giving excuses.

The search of effects stops while he does his Whitey magic. A thin glowy circle lights up around the edge of the pit and fades; nothing. Then another glowy circle covering almost the whole bottom of the pit, and a burst of light centering it. Then he says a few things to tubby and leaves.

Then a cripp with a pegleg comes in from town leading Towser.

Can mutts smell innada Pouch? Fuggit.You leg it.

AAAND HE SINKS IT! NEAT IN FROM THE 3LINE! MVG TOADY BRYANT DONT MISS TODAY!

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>>6074164
Back in the cover of the woods you get out the Cup, and the Pages, the Wand, the Half Head, and a few iron tools, and while you catch your breath take the time to do a little lootygimme: an arrangement of lewts so's they seem biggish and more-ish.

You manage to mostly uncrump the reddy gold Cup, and into it you lay the Pages round like a nest, then the Half Head and Wand atop. Yah. That looks prizely, 't duz.

Now that the urgency of possible discovery and death is past, you start Feelin' a lil...randy.

Alright you're always got the hotz, reddy studdly anytime, like any disrespectable gobbo, but it's been ages and you're all backed up and hrnnnng and it's nonstopnutznovembah...

>...an idea
>an 'orrible, 'oathsome IDEA!

You get the head out the lootygimme, and the tiddies out the Pouch.

Seafood's probably waiting on you, so you don't have much time; you start immediately.

>mmrgh
>mmrghffFinna
>Finnah, goon
>Ane, wherz
>I, wantz

>Finnae
>GOONZ
>aneh
>WHURRS
>I
>WANTZ

>FINNAE
>GGugg
>ugG
>GOBBAA!

You goon noisomely and filthily on a work of art you can never reproduce, depicting an existence beyond your loftiest conception: the truthfullest honestest naturalest goblin practice of gibben tribbs.

Then you smear it all off on the grass and wipe it nice again. Seafood'll never know. Body -> Pouch, Head -> Cup, as before.

Then you trudge back to Seafood's place inna woods.

•••

He tries to keep impassive, but he's impressed. You can tell because he opened both eyes at your lootygimme, and hasn't threatened you with bodily harm even once.

"It seems that my teachings have finally sunk in between your ears, instead of our your wormhole," is the most scathing comment he can make, in the circumstances. You bask and grovel in it.

>Yez Maztur
>Yuez alluz rights Maztur

He waves you away (and not with the pinkie! You have done good!) so that he can pore and gloat over your haul.

Only then do you plop the Whitey Big 'At out of the Pouch, and bulgg his aeons-old eyes half out his little-girl head.

>Sorry, one more
>ee wuz like dis when Iz foundum

You say humbly.

He seizes the dead body in both hands.

"Wonderful! Wonderful! The body of a lifelong adherent of this world's Righteous Dao! Combined with the Magic Scepter (Wand), the Divination Bowl(Cup) and this Demonic Manual (Pages), I should deduce the elemental laws of this world and it's general level of Righteous and Deviant cultivation techniques! Leave me! I must have time alone!"

>Gotcha Seafoods. Mm goin.

•••

Youre not twenty paces away when he calls you back.

"Tudi. Come here."

>ahh shiet

"Yez, Sweetfoods?"

"Why does this daeva statue smell like callery pear." It's not even a question. Itz nonstopnutznovembah.

"Nerr. Iono. Mebbe dey made her like dat?"

"...odious troglodyte. Begone!"

Now you know you REALLY dun good.

Because Seafood hasn't split your head open.

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Seafood will be busy the next few days studying and experimenting with all the BIG lewts you got him. He'll probably want to stay in his hovel undisturbed.

In that time you probably won't catch a drubbing from him if you come back from your nocturnal activities empty-handed, unless you botch things in an especially spectacular mannar.

>W A T C H U F I N N A D O?

[C H O I C E]

>Serch Church MOAR (Ш) (familiarity bonus +15)

>Serch Church MOAR (Ͳ) (familiarity bonus +15 +10)

>Stalk the Church Sissy

>Stalk Towser

>Pit (familiarity bonus + 15)

>Mass Grave

>Mart Street

>Mayorate Court, off End Main

>Skirts

> BLOOD
>[From whence? Write-in]

>KLUDGE
>[What? Write-in]

>TRAINAN (costs §2.5 per day for Toady and Gui Li total, because Toady won't be scrounging; consider the § cost as leftovers and droptrap material) (Specify number of days)

>Else?

[WHEN?]

>Day / Night

[ROLL]
>1D100 General

>Yang Wuhan requires 70LM
>27 days remaining
>Derreschston pop. 83LM

>§32 + 42 new lewts
>=§74 bal

>- §4 for kludge armor repair to 12/12Dur
>- §3 to self patch to 12/12HP
>=§67 bal

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>>6073582
>>6073189
>>6073093
>>6073048

>DING!

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>>6074206
KinoPhageQM has used up all of its BS meter for this postdump.

Will report in ~36hrs whether another 24hrs is needed.

Rolled 31 (1d100)

>>6074202
>Stalk the Church Sissy
>Day

Rolled 95 (1d100)

>>6074278
lets do that since we can afford coming back empty handed.
but lets do it at night because we get night vision bonus.
if we end up in Ͳ block again where we encountered the sissy the other times i think we should get at least a bit of familiarity bonus.

>>6074371
holy rolls!
(dont mess up too bad now anon #3)

Rolled 25 (1d100)

>>6074202
>Stalk the Church Sissy
>Night
>>6074371
I agree with night, no reason for us to skip on night vision bonus, praying for my roll

>>6074373
so long as anon3 reports I'll take Bo3, and you get your Bosser 95; otherwise I'll also roll and make Ao3, for some pretense at fairness. If there are at least 3 anons aboard, Toady has better %s.

>>6074383
>Rolled 25
I should have prayed harder LOL
>Now you know you REALLY dun good.
>Because Seafood hasn't split your head open.
Proof that Toady has a secret charisma stats bonus and/or that seafood loves that goblin wretch deep deep down

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INFORMAL AND INFERNAL INQUEST AS TO THE LAST HAPPENINGS AT THE CHANCEL OF DERRESCHSTON

Or, Behind the Seems with Yang Wuhan

Q: Speak your name.

>Omer, of Lenschrabe East, none sirehaim (surname)

Q: An orphan?

>My mother was a whore
>the baggage of Lord Glessuen's Second Host Skirmishers
>The War of Wills.

Q: When, this war.

>Nigh on sixty springs agone begun
>Ten years toll the land of its best blood
>Starvation and wretched life the living ten years more.

Q: Why, this war.

>Granduncle and grandson, both of one name
>The nephew and father between them slain of ills
>Whence began a grasp for power.
>The young declaring the old senile traitorious and unfit
>The old declaring the young upstart, bastard, and disowned
>And we the people paid their quarrel.

Q: Nothing new across worlds and times. To what station did you attain before death?

>The Deaconry of Canons
>Derreschston my Curacy

Q: You were of a Righteous Sect?

>I was Canon in the Holy Church
>The Velerine Ordinary
>Sons of the Charity
>A Priest

Q: Do you know why you are here.

>Because I failed the Lady of Our Grace
>Betrayed the Love Most Catholic
>I trafficked with whom I should have overcome
>And am Damned.

Q: You died a violent death chained by regrets. The gods you worship are worthless to you now. You now serve me.

>Yes
>I do not contest
>Counting this Slavery reprieve
>Before an open Hell

too many lines, it says. Parsing.

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>>6074798
Q: Your robes were stained with two kinds of corpse-ash, both tainted, as of those that Refuse the River (Undead). Whence so.

>The Children of Hecuba, a Witch
>Her I slew in youth, but her body was wracked in curses
>self-cursed, to defile her soul on death
>and raise her body beyond death
>to make her slayer follow.

Q: The children born of a dead woman slew you?

>I pursued and slew them many years
>I trampled their works and prevented.
>My Life was for the Lady.
>but in secret I kept some of their remains for me, to search.
>I was interested in what they had by birth
>gifts beyond the lot of Man.
>I was growing old, and with failing power faded faith.
>I would retain strength beyond my seasons
>And I trafficked.

Q: In what way.

>In the Forbidden.
>In the taking and giving of blood to Taint.
>In the creation of more Children, to keep new Taint supplied for me
>And ready variety.

Q: I thought so. Your body is ruined, the corruption obvious. You did not know what you were doing, yet embarked.

>Yes.

Q: You were a fool, and your teachers fools.

>No.
>Only I.
>Abbot Ilao was right.

Q: Hmph. This Magic Scepter you have is something. You died with this in hand. Was it not enough to deal with the spawn of witches?

>I was unprepared.
>The Inquirors of the Church sent Adventurers to find me out
>They arrived too quick, and they were wise.
>Their young Wizard companion saw through me.
>I did not wish to kill them.
>I retreated below for my chattel
>I wanted to flee
>But they cornered me.
>Our fight set loose the Children
>And they fled
>And I died.

Q: Hmph. Only fools die unprepared.

>Yes.

Do you guys think we should leave a surprise shit-drawer in one of the human's bedrooms?
You know. For shits and giggles.

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>>6074801
Q: Tell me of this Magic Scepter.

>The Rule of office of the Canon of the Curia Derreschston
>Granted of the Treasure House of the Velerines
>The Armory of Charity

[CANONIC RULE]
[Rare; of Proscribed Production; Authorial]
[Unsaleable outside of Criminal Economies]
[Recognizable by any Adherent of the Church]

Spell Charges:
0/4 Sanctico (Holy Strike)
1/2 Beodicat (Bless)
0/1 Sublimé (Soar)

Q: Can I use it without repercussion.

>Perhaps.
>None so evil uncontrite have tried.

Q: You used it.

>I did.
>Many can that know how.
>But past a certain point I could not restore the Charges.
>I knew I was Damned then.

Q: Am I damned?

>Who can damn a god.

Q: Hmph! Speech within speech. But you haven't told me: what were the two corpse-ashes on your body? You said they were the Children, but they are completely unalike.

>One was a Halfling born in Taint
>One a Draead born in Taint
>The Halfling craved blood, spoiling victual
>The Draead craved sap, corrupting green
>Different in their originals, Twins in their Taint.

Q: The jawbone in your hand was the Draead's.

>Yes.
>Flesh of bark and bone of wood
>An acasian birch.

Q: What did you get from eating this...Taint.

>Ecstacy
>Sensual delicacy and extremity
>Delimited Being
>Life above life

Q: Why did you decide to try what you knew was dangerous.

>I saw its effects
>The Children dance and laugh
>No fear, or guilt, or shame.
>I envied. I desired.
>I feared Death.

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>>6074849
Q: Do you possess Magic Arts.

>No.
>All the Boons of the Lady have been withdrawn.

Q: The fate of all borrowed power. How many are like you?

>Many.
>All Clerics, all Shamen, all Priests, all Paladins, all Sorcerors that Compact with Familiars
>Principled or not
>Moral or not

Q: Then your world is weak. The presence of indulgent "gods" leaves you weak. All that seek not self stay weak.

>It may be so said.

Q: Are there no other kinds of magic.

>There are.
>I know enough to identify between the Schools of Magic.
>Their practitioners cast by containing spell-charges within themselves
>Released with material and somatic components.

Q: A crude method. It leaves no room to interpret and improvise. Are your people all incapable.

>Not all.
>Only the Mortal races need learn through formulae.
>Faerie, Elves, and the like, the First Races, need not.
>The First Races have many Sorcerors.
>Users of unbridled Magic, casting by intuition.
>That may also be why the number of First Races dwindle near extinct.

Q: Or maybe it is not the nature of Qilin to stall with sheep.

>...

Q: Whence comes the power to work magic: Through refinement of the self, or by drawing on the land, or by the use of treasures.

>Mana as a measure of capacity is gained through life experience and personal growth (levels)
>Persons without the requisite experience may not use the rarer Magic Items
>or else with risk.
>Drawing from the land is the province of Advanced or innate Sorcery
>Necromancy that draws from Deadrealm may be called a kind of Sorcery
>"Refinement" of self as you seem to mean I have never heard.

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>>6074919
Q: Of this Divination Bowl, tell me. Whence gotten, and for what use.

>A reproduction by description of the Bloodsoil Chalice
>Of the Satyricon Rite.
>Filled with sweet lead wine and strychnine >Drunk by revellers in hedonic height
>All surviving but the last
>Who sees the bottom of the cup
>but not the sun.

>My use the same:
>Filled with the Children's Blood I drank half deliciously
>The bottom rest to the leez
>Containing the ghulefacting sting of the Taint
>I throw.

Q: The Cup was imperfect, then; the Mad Corpse Poison was not all purged, causing your flesh and organs to grow sunken, and your appetites stranger. Your Witch's curse worked; your gods were thwarted by a woman.

>...

Q: so a Treasure must match its user in temperament and power, or both cannot draw out their full extents, and the lesser or both suffer harm. This much is the same, between our worlds.

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>>6074949
Q: Of these, tell.

>Demonic rites; Proscribed.
>The book was not the original
>But certain pages were faithfully made.
>Thus you have them.

Q: These rituals will call forth Demons?

>Of a type.
>Bargainers. Traders. Low cheats.
>The only true use of them is to capture them
>And trade the traders as coin.
>Profit earned along with grudge.

Q: Did you use these rituals yourself.

>No.

Q: If not, then what use the books.

>To learn.
>A legend says the Vampire is a false creature of Succubite origin
>I read the Proscribed to ascertain.
>I have not found. I do not know.

Q: My disciple tells me he suspects a hidden middle level in the new temple. What do you know of this.

>Nothing.
>The new Chantel, such as it is, is a Scaromate affair.
>The Velerine hold nothing in common with them
>But a dispute of two centuries.

>War is not the only way to wage politics
>Between the Princes of the Church.

Q: Can you guess what might be the entry or the method of entry to this hidden level.

>Your disciple can guess.
>If a Scaromate came up with it, it won't keep out a Goblin.

Q: What might be in it.

>By my guess
>The same that had been in my claves.
>An experiment. A thirst.
>And a Servant, losing his Light.

backlore postdump complete

~16hrs to vote close and writan

interesting. we should definitely try to get into that hidden level again.
lets see what we learn about the sissy first tho

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>vote called
>Stalk the Sissy
>GenRoll Bo3 95

With Seafood busy using his magic on the Whitey Big 'At dedder, you have a whole lump of sleepytime to snooze until the beginning of sun-drop (3pm).

You get in the little lean-to kennel you made at the backwall of Seafood's hovel, pop in a few nice roachies for a nappy snakk, cram your schnozz with moss to muffle the snoring, and go to sleep on a mess of rags and sawdust. It's a besto gobby nest you made, and no mistake1!

You wake up fresh and fiesty and get to scrounging breakfast, collect from your drop traps, some hakenuts from the forest floor under a couple biggie trees you found yesterday.

You stow the hakenuts in the Pouch to keep, get out a small bunch of gram flour, mix it with some water and smashed buggs, and some fishy and lizzy eggz, then moosh it flat and bury it in hot coals for a scorch cake.

You practice your Form a little just to keep sharp, nothing near enough to improve, while you wait for the cake.

When it's done you break it in half. One half you num immediately, while breaking the other half in 9 bitties, for the Ceremony.

You dab a little of the scented lamp oil you filched onto the glob of rancid animal fat mooshed around a thinny rag that you have for a candle, so that it catches easier, and you start on the Nuptual Greeting and wait. You have to do it early a little, because Gui Li, dat bich, takes so damn long to get ready. Yeah yeah, you always braaap into the Home when you have the gas for it, and you keep ragging her right in her spOooOOky face any time she shows up, but why's she wasting YOUR time? Just show up quick, eat the Oaf Dishies and fugg off, less misery for everybody, right? But nooo, Toady has to wait two Times (1hr20min) to eat foods he caught, or stole, or at any rate made, because someone feelen summat pizzy. Pshh. Women.

Anyway. The long wait Infront of the Marital Home for Gui Li to show gives you time to think. While you wait you get twigging: the Church Sissy's the one overseeing the buildings and the digs; he's been sorting and collecting all the BIG lewts the workchumps get out of the Pit; and he's looks like a right reg'lar Holy Moly bothering his gods every moon-up. He's IMPORTANT and predictable. You might not be able to nick shit while you're tailing him, but like as not you'll learn where the good shit at.

Dat settles it. You're stalking him like a Paedophilus Ursus stalks a Furfoot.

1: And it is. You did it all by instinct, but it is a sound defense. Having the hovel wall between you means Seafood will need to make a racket to stab you in the back; and having Seafood facing that way, and you this way means a near 360° visual coverage when you are both at rest. Seafood suspects you of having some tactical acumen; you actually don't. You just built different. Superior gobbo instancts beybey!

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The laborers cut work around sun-drop moon-up (~6pm; actually 5+pm by contract), and start lining up at the long ramp to get frisked and groped by the watchchumps one last time before fugging off for dindins.

You're at the perimeter of the two Church blocks around this time, watching from the tall grass.

The workchumps, bricklayers, carpenters, all that sort, knock off a little earlier than the laborers at the Pit, with a shorter, more cursory frisk. Workchumps get a lil more respect and a lil less work; 'at's why the reg'lar chumps working in the dust and sun of the Pit finna filch lewts, you guess: fair is in the pockitses of the be-lewter. Or something. Bah, who cares bout demz. YOU're SMARTZ, and LUCKERZ, and long rich and gone wiv da JACKPOT!! Just one night's werk, after they've been digging munfs and munfs! And they'll be digging munfs more still, going by the size of the rubble hill. Bcuz YOUZ iz jez BEZT, an' ever'one else before and after you iz flat CHUMPZ, nyerrr!

When the workchumps are all out of the Church blocks, the watchboss does one last sweep personally then locks up. Fat use that is, when the windows arent in. Even a Humie can hup and get in from the ground floor windows, if he cuts a biggy hole in the window-sheeting. Fuggen DUM.

You break into Ͳ block per normal, creeping inna shadows towards the chantry and the Big Sissy's rooms.

You're earlier than the previous days, and you hear movements in the {C U R A} room, the parrish setter. There's lamplight in there; fireplace unlit.

Locating the footsteps as a single person not close to the door, you risk an eyefull through the keyhole.

Yup: Sissy's in. Sorting out a small pile today, big on stachoos and crocks; the Found pile's small, half metal gubbins (looks like pigiron), buncha Whitey cloffs. Nothing BIG so far, hheh.

He's got a few books out and open on his desk, with piccys in, and paper bits marking out places between pages. He consults the books from time to time, with the gubbin of interest in the crook of his bad hand (right; thumb, fore and middle finger missing), following first the index in front of the books, then the entry in the meats of it with his poitfingie (forefinger). He's not good at dis.

You pad off into the chantry, where you know he will be later in the evening, and start looking for some cubby to hide in where you can watch and listen to him.

The top of the altar's no good. There's brass pots there, but it's a bit squeezy even if you chuck the flowers, and it might be sneezy to be this close to the incense if he burns any.

There's a cupboard kind of fing under the altar, mostly empty; you can creep all the way to da back and wait, den creep up to eavesdrop later. But there's no ready out from in dere, if he finds your tracks or smells you.

The narrow sidle space behind the alter...

Nerrrh.

You climb all the way up the back of the altar and get on the ceiling beams instead.

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>>6075721
On the way up the back of the altar you smear some sheeping tar on the handholds, for better grip in case you need to come down in a hurry.

The cross beam just above and behind the altar really is the best place: the angle and the altar blocks line of sight of you maybe up to the 3rd or 4th row of pews, and that's if you somehow get spotlit in sunlight and start doing the Mugger-Raper. No one is going to see anything if you keep still and hug wood.

While waiting for the Sissy to show you get out a brokebottom old wineskin, part of your §tuff§, and start kludging.

First off, you cut the whole burst bottom of it clean off.

You need the stiff old leather of the wineskin to open up and keep a cone shape, so you get out some bits of barrel banding and start sewing those in, as proppers.

The chewed mouth of the wineskin is too tatty, so you mend it: more sewing, with bitty rags.

The shoulder strap's long rotted off; you stitch the cut wineskin bottom into a holdy, noose some cordy in and out for a sling, and bunga! You gots a 'earin' 'orn!

•••

Youve been waiting a good bit, picking your teeth and your feet, when you hear the setter door creak open, bam close; the shuffle if cloth footsteps, lantern light in the corridor; a jangle of heavy keys, klatch of a lock, and you wait for it...

...

...waaidferrit...

...

...eh?

He's not coming in? But you thought...no, no, it's too early. He bothers his gods late at night, pastpast moon-up (9++ - 10pm).

The workchumps outside should be at dindins now, right? Yehh, maybe the Sissy's at dindins too.

You take a moment to stow your megabrill 'Earin' 'Orn in the Pouch, and do a fast crisscross traipse on the beams mooring the central chandeliers, over to the side of the steepled roof. The footing's even narrower here, but uncluttered; you stumble nearly full speed to the back of the chantry, noosing some cording as you go.

When you reach the back of it you rope a chandelier moor and rappel down to the blindspot behind the always-open double doors of the chantry 1, and peek out.

The lantern light is rounding the corner at the junction of the Ͳ; you map out where he might go as you gallop (all fours) from cover to cover.

You instinctively keep far out of the lantern light's radius, even if it can't reach you past the corner.

Your ears are pricked the whole time: no plat-plat of someone going up the stairs; no sound of locks getting opened, but a heavy door. He's headed into the scullery, the left arm of the Ͳ. You make it in time to jam the wooden doorstop into the hinges just before the door fully closes. You strain a little to squeeze through. Muhhfuhh heavy. The food in here better be sumpn. Your knees would be clacking if you had to open this door from zero.

1: Bcos "Heaven's is Allus Open." Pft. If you ever manage to B&E Elysium it will because of this blindspot exactly, between the wall corner and the open gauldy gates.

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Your next sight of the Sissy is him standing nakey an' pizzing inna sink.

Huh.

You'd only do that in spite or triumphant spite, never where you sleep or eat.

His clothes are on the floor; several sets worth. Next to them is a tin tub.

The sink he pizzed in is copper-cased on a table of stone, with the sleucer (drain) leading into the wall and out. He pumps a few times to clear off the sink, then hups the tin tub up and pumps it half full.

Then he goes out into the laundry yard with some soap in a big steel mess mug and has a wash from the tin tub.

From what you know, Humies don't usually do this when they have a wash room.

He keeps the bad hand from getting wet; it's still stinging.

When he's in his robe he looks a bit chunky; without the robe you see his arms and thighs are heavy, round. His shoulders looked rounded because he's been going about hunched, head lowered; really they're quite wide. He's got mantitz and gutz, but that's from not trainan recently; you can tell he's not dough all the way down. If the scars on him (mostly sharps; maybe one burn, a patch at the right shoulder and back) mean anything, they tell you dis man can give bizniz.

When he's done, he takes off some Whitey pants and robes hanging on a laundry pole and puts them on straight. His dirty clothes he dunks in the tub, tops up the water, shaves some flakes of hard soap in for lather, and leaves it to soak.

His body wash done he gets in the larder; this is locked.

Then he starts a fire. Not in the scullery, but the laundry yard. Bricks holding up a grill: chicken wire over a segment of broken pigiron fencing. On this he puts his mess mug, the same big steel one he washed himself with, now holding clean water and a mix of tea and herbs, to coct.

Beside the mess mug he sets an iron skillet.

Lard wad goes in, to melt; taters and nunyuns, roughly quartered in the palm, follow; salt smoked pork (fatass, lmao) from a roll of larded cheesecloth, cut to bite size and left to burn; the anus end of black sossij; uneven chops of black rye bread, to soak and sizz at the sides.

The sossij makes your mouth water: beefy heart, blood and liver. Good stuff.

Eats an apple and tomato raw while he waits; a few swiggs out of an ovoid steel flask. You can't smell anything from where you are, but you don't suppose it's wine.

He eats with the same knife he chopped with. Stab, num, stab, num.

You hear some sniffles. It's not the smoke or nunyuns: fat faggit's crying into his food.

Pathetic.

You feel like patting his hand and saying

>Dere dere don't blubbz
>everfin will werkz out, yool zee
>i'lz jez slitz yet froat and take yer fings
>an' all yez trubblz will be ovah

He stops after two or three big sniffles. You hear him.

"I want to hold a sword again. I will hold a sword again."

So the sord's his. Doesn't matter, still a faggit.

When he's done eating he smokes a smoke; not local.

This done he puts the Whitey robe on.

You scarper.

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You make it all the way to the chantry and halfway up the back of the altar when you hear the scullery door slam. He's out.

You're up again at your spy-spot, your Soopageenyus Earin Orn out of the Pouch, ready for him.

He comes down the corridor...

...into his rooms again? Eh?

But you stay in place.

He comes out again quickish, and when he turns the corner into the chantry you see he has his Holy Moly book and Holy Moly mallet.

Yer, dats right, he didn't take them to dinner.

Not usual, for a Whitey. Only Axebeards and One-Sords (Sword Saint prestige class) have oplophilia of comparable severity. You've heard stories: some Whities sing to their slashies and bashies. Perverts.

He doesn't pray loud, and what you manage to catch with your Earin Orn sounds forn (Celestine Court dicta) anyway, so you settle for sizing him up close range.

You immediately notice that his Holy Moly mallet's too small: the handle's about three of his fingers at best.

And the Holy Moly book's too girly, for a sord guy. The bashed cover's moon-blue velvet, not darkened wood-board with metal corners you've seen Whitey Knighties carry (they mostly just carry it for luck, you think; you've never seen any of them actually reading theirs). And the bookmark's pink n frilly, there's that.

When he's done about a Time's worth of godbothering he puts the Holy Moly Mally on the altar with both hands, still on his knees.

Then he goes right back to godbothering.

Furfuggseggs.

Eh?

Oh it glowed. The Holy Moly Mallet actcherly glow-wed. Fer sure there's mojo in it now. It's a bit smoll to hold boombooms and zapzaps, you think, but you're not betting.

The fat faggit's praying changes the moment he sees the glow: it's faster, the same getty-over-with speed you use when doing the Nuptual Greeting.

Then he's up, lantern, book and mally in hand, striding fast.

You cross the ceiling beams and slide down the rope you left hanging behind the chantry door to catch up.

He's all the way down to the T junction by the time you peek out: he's goin fer the stairs! He's heading for the cubby!

For some reason he left the Holy Moly book in front of the door of the locked {C U R A} room.

Looks like whatever he boudda do he ain't finna read.

Fuggedit, you'll twig on 'at lader. You can't afford to lose the faggit!

•••

He's going up! His lantern's at the second level now ... doesn't stop...

You follow cautiously, mincing, staying away from the middle of any floorboards, watching his lantern go.

...

...third.

No, past third already; he's heading all the way up to fourth.

You follow to fourth and lose sight of him.

Then you hear a trap door.

It's a ladder-attic at a dead end; the only other door this way us locked.

No lantern up the attic. No sounds neither. No steps, no breaths. You don't think you're spotted, but you wait.

Okay you've waited enough (20s): you flash a peek, both eyes wide, focus maxx.

Attic's empty.

muhhfuhhwatt

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postdump incomplete

need more time and BS meter to do dat
>95
justice.

Postdump will resume in ~12hrs of this post.

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You're stumped for a bit.

He's deffo not in there somewhere waiting to ambush you; the woodsmoke smell that was on him from dinner is gone.

You creep, keeping to the walls, full alert for sound, smell, movement.

Since the building's just up and not operating there's nearly nothing here. Biggy boxes mostly; several heavy travel trunks, with iron corners and barrel bands. All of them have a simple Whitey seal front and top; all locked with two keys.

Expensive, bulky stuffs. Toily books and things like that, you guess; if they wuz weapons they'd be kept personally or in the armory, and if they wuz magics they'd be protected by magics. Mebbe theys supposed to be put in the top levels of Ͳ some time.

There's nothing glowy or zappy you can see around; no taste of tin or ozone smell in the air; no volcanic sulphur wiv blood coppa; no greeny, weedy stink, like ripped grass or summat. Just stale air...

...eh.

Behind the big stack of biggy boxes there's ...somefin.

Not exactly glowy, like a primed spell, but a fadey glowy, like after a spell is fired.

You peek: gotcha!

It's a, a thingydealy! Ner, ner, a, a, a Telly Pop-up! Dats what the faggit just used!

It shouldna been the sordyguy wots drorwn it; this kindy stuffs usually made by Wizzies. But bugger that: this is why you couldn't find anyfin rapping on the outside of Ͳ block! There are no structural weaknesses because it's a fully enclosed cubby, using Telly Pop-ups for ins and outs!

You'd usually try to muck about wiv something like this if you found it, on the general principle that there's always lewts behind fancy doors, but the sordyguy's just on the ovva side in an enclosed space. You're not completely sure you can take him if you go in blind. Also, knowing Wizzies, most of this Telly Pop-up stuff will have hidden features against people like YOU.

Say, zapper turrets or splosiv traps or guard summonz if you don't have a passphrase or a key trinket.

Right now Sordfaggit's probs in the cubby between level 2 n 3, and he'll be in dere fer a good bit.

You make the most of it: you get out a grubby whitish half-a-towel, press it on the Telly Pop-up runes, and scrubb it with marking chalk. That got most of the pattern that's carved in; you use little bits of the chalk on another rag, about the same size, to kind of drore out the fading glowy bits. Mebbe Seafood can twigg out something if you show him your kludge frottage.

You're about to hide among the boxes and wait for sordyfagg again when you get a better idea.

The walls of the cubby are thick, so's you carnt tap out nuffin from outside Ͳ building.

But, the inna parts of Ͳ, the floorz and ceilenz, there's woody parts and hollows, and plastry to cover those up, because seeing uggo things like dat hurts Humies' eyes or sumfin.

You take a gamble: the actual ceiling should be higher on level 2, but visually lowered by a false plastry ceiling.

If yez remove some plastry board and get in the crawlspace.....

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You get into the false ceiling, leaving only a few gray smudges on the plastry board, and listen in wiv yez Magnifical Earin Orn to what sounds like a fight.

A quarrel, to use the finicky Humie distinction. Gobbs don't quarrel: they size each other up, disagree openly if they think they can take 'em, then they scrap.

You focus, moving along the crawl space to find the best earin' spot. Between the two voices.

>jusst kell mehh
>juusst
>Dfité pleass

>SILENSA! SUCCUBA!
>YOUR LIES HAVE NO HOLD ON THE PURE!

>pure...after all you did
>after all }we{ did

>THE PURE POSSESS THE LOVE
>FLESH IS NOT TRUTH
>ONLY LOVE

>but itss mehh
>Csarfina
>if you evver lovved mehh
>jusst...
>juusst...
>...a kess

>FAIN HER NAME
>DEMON

It goes on, back and forth like this, for a good long bit. You make out that the Sordyfagg is a Whitey Knightyboi (Squire Palatine; Paladin Probate), and the female voice switching between drippy and sleazy is a Bitty Sissy (Suora Chierico Hierocanta; Priestess Acolyte). Yowza. You don't really have a type; you're an equal all-plup-and-goon-givvy kinda gobb, like all proppa gobby gobbs. But Saintesses and Tiddy Nunz do somefin special for you. Okay, okay Lady Knights too, but you know what you mean, hneh hneh hneh.

The quarrel hits a pitch at some point, keeps going: the Sordyfagg's prepping sumfin. Working hisself up.

You hear him stomp towards the female voice, and, between her wails and screams

TCHOKK
TCH
chrch
...
TCHOKK
grchCHOKKK
grch!
...
TCHAKK
tcCHAKKgch
...
TCHAKK
TCHch
...
SHCKRARGHK
SHRURRCH
GRRCHch
GRrrGRrrCHOTT
...
...
You're fairly sure it's over. Sounded like...dismemberment?

You put your Earin Orn to the stone again.

>NELL'AMARE IL DONNA!
>shams!

Okay, dat was spellfire. Sounded weak glowy like; typical of Whitey spells.

He's still walking about in there; you imagine him pottering, clearing up.

Whatever he's doing, he'll be out soon.

•••

You're at the bottom of the main stairs, hiding in the crook of the landing when he comes.

Sordyfagg's still in his newly (poorly) laundered duds. He smells of sweat and...hrnnn. It's blood, but Bad.

He's not carrying anything except the lantern and the HM Mally.

Goes to the chantry. Another prayer?

Yup, another prayer. Topping up the Mally.

Then he goes to {C U R A}, locks it behind him. You hear the inner door open and shut too.

Beddybye, then? About time...

You camp just outside his room, the parrish dow. You don't poke a window open or nuffin, just lissin.

You hear glass tinkle once or twice, smell his forn baccy. He doesn't sleep; you don't neevah.

He's up again just before moon-drop sun-up (6am). You watch him exit Ͳ and head for the Pit.

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>>6076404
He does what you saw him do the other day, using the HMMally to make a circle around the Pit light up for about a half minute, then the center of the rubble hill FASH intensely for a few seconds.

The pegglegg Humie (Stumpy, you decide) is back too, holding Towser on a leash. The mutt monster keeps ranging his head about, sniffing for you, but his boss is focused on the rubble hill like every one else.

You see Sordyfagg give a nod to Stumpy, and they both set off to opposite sides of Plague Town.

You don't trail Sissy Sordfaggit; Plague Town's waking up too. People getting on with the business of living. It's a biggie risk, and you're almost out of pep yourself.

You keep a half doze in the long grass, watching for when Sordfag comes back.

Quite quickly: before full sun-up. He waits at the entrance of Ͳ until Stumpy shows. Stumpy waves at Sordfag, signals thumbup; gets a nod and a thumbup back, wave. Then Stumpy slopes off with Towser down Main, towards Mart Street.

Sordfag goes in Ͳ, and a little bit after you see his silhouette cross the frosted green-and-white panes of the parrish setter, disappearing into the dow.

He's done for the night, and so are you. You've trailed him on a good night, you feel: just when he needed to get in the cubby and sort his bizniz.

You're going to go back, show Seafood your rags with the chalk scrubb of the Telly Pop-up tiles, get a well deserved nappy.

You're feeling good about tonight!

•••

"...so, Sweetfoods, 'ats how I gots, at great risk to me skid meats, this piccy of da Telly Pop-up," you finish. Seafood looks at your first chalk scrubb, then at your painstakingly (shittily) drawn overlay of de glowy bits.

You have done...something. He can't smack you for getting good and sensitive information, a hidden arrow to aim at the bowels of your enemies. But even a genius of Mystic, Alchemic and Martial arts as he is hard-pressed to make the pre-school dropout-tier drawrens you present him.

"You should have used coal," he says finally. "Or crayon. It is too bad to make a key from...but, with one or two adjustments, I can spoil the actual engram and prevent this...Righteous Hero from visiting his sinful Love. Perhaps he will be grateful to us for preserving his...purity. Hmhmhmhm...

You don't know what Seafood means exactly, but you know you agree 100%.

>gnehgnehgnehgneh

•••

>Dfité Pieté, Palatine Squire, suffers -12 circumstantial penalty to Attack and Dodge rolls when you next (first) fight him; -4 thereafter.

>On your next successful search of Ͳ, with Seafood's contribution, you may elect to rig the Telly Pop-up with a trap or entry denial to the lvl 2.5 cubby. You can't get in, but neither can almost anyone else apart from the Wizze wat made it.

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>Serch Church MOAR (Ш) (familiarity bonus +15)

>Serch Church MOAR (Ͳ) (familiarity bonus +15 + 10)

>Stalk the Church Sissy + Action (write)

>Stalk Towser

>Pit

>Mass Grave

>Mart Street

>Mayorate Court, off End Main

>Skirts

> BLOOD
>[From whence? Write-in]

>KLUDGE
>[What? Write-in]

>TRAINAN

>else?

[WHEN?]

>Day / Night

[R O L L]
>2D1000
>no typo

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>>6075058
>>6074807
>>6074383
>>6074371
>>6074278

Vote call (or deferral) in ~36hrs.

All in favor of drawer shiddin sidequest say aye.

>Yang Wuhan requires 70LM
>26 days remaining
>Derreschston pop. 83LM

>>6076467
>BLOOD from the outskirts of town
>>6076469
Aye

Rolled 850, 289 = 1139 (2d1000)

>>6076467
>TRAINAN
Im fine with going for blood too. You decide anon #3
>Day (not that important here i feel)
is each of us supposed to roll 2D1000? doing it just in case

>>6076600
yes, each of you should be rollan 2d1000

>>6076474, you too, anon1.

Rolled 169, 887 = 1056 (2d1000)

>>6076467
>BLOOD from the outskirts of town
Blood for the blood go- I mean seafood
>>6076469
Sounds good to me too anons, aye

Rolled 931, 10 = 941 (2d1000)

>>6076603

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[ARSE KEEPEN]

Or, the Gobliny Conception of Art and Literature

As a race unconcerned with numeracy beyond the accounting of §tuff§ and the ordering of Mobz for weeergh(similar to the Orcish WAAAGH, but reedier and more annoying), or needs beyond the carnal that necessitate more precise and abstract language, the hidden heights of Gobliny Art cannot be appreciated without the correct paradigm.

When Goblins embark upon any kind of production it is never intended to last, as the Goblin recognizes fundamentally that things are made to be stolen, and it follows logically that if they were not really worth stealing they would be stolen last.

The Goblin also recognizes that all needs, and thus all things kludged in pursuit and service of those needs, are as transient as the Goblin, so there's no need to make things that "Endure the Earth", as Dwarves do.

This perspective is natural to a Goblin, as at their longest lived Goblins barely make half a century, most usually dead between before age 8 from Adventurer activity, and most of the rest from dagger-inna-back-based inter-goblin conflict communications before age 16. Most Goblins in the GS setting below the age of 10 do not even take a name, as they should not have accomplished enough to gain a notoriety sufficient to peg a nom de gobb.

The success of any piece of Gobliny manufacture/architecture/engineering, or kludge, is measured by themselves according to a few vital metrics: how little §tuff§ was needed and how quickly the kludge was produced against how well it addressed the immediate need. Beyond that is a waste of Times and gud gubbins to a Goblin, which should be better spent on activities that add to one's joie de vert, vis, nikken, nummen, n pluppen.

These foundational assumptions are carried over to Gobliny artistic endeavor, which, while not in direct pursuit of nikkens, nummens and pluppens, contribute tangentally to all future pursuits of said.

Every Goblin wishes as a matter of course to the baddest and bossest gobber they can be, and the more observant of them will "twigg on" that badness and bossness seems to build on and attract more of same. The most ruminant of these natural philosophers will make the leap that if a gobb can project his badness and bossness beyond his immediate presence and situation, he will over time be a kind of a Mob of One, thus attracting attract continuous rivers of badness and bossness to himself wholly undeserved.

This has been called Makey Lewt-all More-getting by the Goblins themselves, and Maximized Liminal Malefacting by gobbthropologists (Cheems duWant et al).

It is on just such enlightened footing that most Goblin literati embark on their careers: to gain an infamy unearned, and by it lay the grounds for actual legend.

Adventurers of other races write memoirs do so after retirement from Adventure; Goblin adventurers do so as early as before they embark.
CONT

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Where those of the other races that embark upon a literary career do so in the main to entertain or educate, ideally both, the Goblin literati seeks precisely the opposite: to disinform and demoralize.

Thus the Goblin Literat does not need a high level of literacy, as he seeks not to appeal to the finer sensibilities and intellect of his audience, but to assault and insult them, with an aim to make them "seef n mald."

Elven accounts replete with early Sæns (political dialogues conducted in poetry) held between the Everqueen and various Boss Gobbs that ended with the Goblins repeatedly answering the Elves' arguments and demands with
>YER PLOPPA!
>KEKEKEKEKEK
>YERZ PLOPPAAA!

Communications of this tenor and delivery, what Goblins universally call "shid-plasten", gains immensely from Goblinese, itself a linguistic kludge of pidgin bricolage. By combining the worst concept-vehicles of every common language they encounter, a Goblin can reliably cause universal offense to any civilized race with every utterance should they so wish, which is always.

Of course there must be occasions when "shid-plasten" is not at all possible, such as when the Goblin is outnumbered or suffering strepthroat. At such times and places the Goblin that cannot be vocal may elect to be fecal.

That is, they will shit in such a way as to cause affront, a supreme economy of mutually understood communication with not one word spoken.

Merely defecating on hostile territory is not sufficient: on top of sending a vile message the Goblin seeks to destroy his victim's sense of security and sanctity in one. Thus, the shid-plasta will endeavor to break into his victim's domicile and inner rooms if possible, and in a separate space within that separate space, the designated "shid drawer", such as, for example, a sock drawer, the Goblin will attempt to make leavings. This is usually "shidz", though if the occupant is female "koomz" may be given as a ready substitute. He will attempt this multiple times, up to the point his "baitz" are discovered, whence the victim is considered "ratio'd" by [total leavings]:1.

By all accounts the odor begins horrendous and gets worse with time, and the stains are often indelible. The Goblin intestinal end-tract and anus, "the bugghole" so-called because their insect-centric diet expurges the undigestable carapaces in such a way that it seems they are swarming out of a "bug-hole", is a field of study both compelling and grossly underfunded because possibly no one can be paid enough.

The most logical response is counterproductive: getting too quickly rid of the befouled furniture will provoke the Goblin to "mma fuggen do it ugun".

The best recourse would be to simply leave things as they are without outcry, while planting a quantity of Explosive Runes in the "shid drawer" and laying the room over with painter's sheet.

-[Goblinas inna Must] by Unna Pheel Hamilkas

supplementary postdump complete.

narrative postdump in 19hrs

I will keep doing this because my morale improves

>>6077029
>Unna Pheel Hamilkas

Not her birth name; bestowed by the Brown Tungg Gobbs and adopted by herself, knowing full well what it means.

One of the few Humies that the gobbo majority can concede was quite "based".

Persistent evil rumor follows this prominent goblin conservationist. Her publicists insist that they are all baseless smears from Human and Dwarven Adventurer-capitalist interest groups.

>>6077035
She has been Greened.

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>>6076972
>I will keep doing this because my morale improves
The lore dropping here is great, inbetween Toady antics and this lore titbits about goblin society and thought processing, this is a golden mine so please keep doing so.

>>6077149
=DDDDD

>>6077149
bruhhhh you generated bespoke slop for me own shidplast. I'm fuggen tuched mang

my drawing skills are legit nonexistent so I figure I give it a go on the newest ai slop lol, but the ai can't help but draw goblins as demons, ai is part of the anti goblin propaganda

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Rolled 20 (1d100)

[VOTE CLOSED]

>Bo3 1D1000 rolled 931 vs Your Dysfunctional Marriage DC 680
>PASSED
>BCUZ FUGG YOU SPOOKI BICH
>YOU YOU YES YOU YOU YOUUUU
>future YDM DC 660
>PASS x3 more times inna row n getta prezzie!

>BLÜD FER DA BLÜD GIT
>Bo3 Attack roll 1D1000 = 887
>convert to 1D100 = 89 (rounded closest)
>QM rollan 1D100 fer the sorry hominiggs wats yer about to turn to spagetti

RAITAN STARTO

Rolled 1, 2 + 8 = 11 (2d4 + 8)

>>6077594
>YOU 89+30nightbonus=100max vs THEM 20
>8 degrees of success
>THEM SORRY SONSA WITCHES
>rollan 2d4+8 for spreekillan civvies inna Skirts by night

>math for future ref:
>(1d4 by day for Skirts)
>(Mains would be 2d6 by day, 4d6 by night)
>(Mart St 2d6 by day only; empty by night)
>(there will be an additional -15 DC penalty to sneekibreeki once Derechston pop hits <60LM, and again at <45LM; no further)

>penalty for future sneekibreeki in Derreschston will increase by the above 2d4

>>6077616
total gibbs 11
future Plague Town DC -3 penalty

add edit:

For thoroughness sake: Attack roll was 89+4Carrionpede+30Night =100max

writan

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Like all yez bezt ideez, you geddit while taking a roit massiv plopp.

In jez two days you gotz a big heapa lewts and found out where you might hit Plague Town's main protector right inniz feelz very very hurtily.

What next, after all that success? How, without risking your limbs or lobes, are you finna top it?

So you takes a shidd, and waitz for ideez to come fillen in while you empty out.

Izza guudun, owing to almost two weeks of a nearly all bugg and grubb diet, and adequate hydration: you shid inna liberal splatty spray that, several timelines and dimensions away, might be called Pollockian.

And the idee hits you like dungg in the face, like always: this is how you'll toppa. Exactly this.

You'll shidd. Go an make a gummy mess of someone else' things. Not just inna summun's field or over theys maters n taters; you're doin it in theys 'ouse! And not jez inna 'ouse, you'll do like it's YER 'ouse! You'll use theirs shidd drawras! (why do dey keep fillen deys shiddrawras wiv nice silky cotteny butt wipeys (socks and underwear), but nivvir use anys?) (welp! don't mind if you do, and carnt catch you if they do! Nyerr!)

You run yez spread skid meats over the grass to clean it, like a dog on a carpet, wipe your hands absently on Seafood's hovel wall as you pass.

You'e already decided on tonight's menu of mischief: yous goin killen.

You've been busy wiv a few fings since arriving in Plague Town out of necessity, but the original reason for coming here hasnt dribbled out your head: Plague Town is EASY, quiet, far away from anything that might resemble help.

The Plague, Bad Magic that was making all kinds of deddies come up, was fully stomped only a liddle long bit back, mebbe 6 - 8 munfs. Lots of the original townies that could put up a decent scrap had either bugged out or died; the ones that stayed got starved and beaten thin.

The workers coming in to rebuild the Church were the only real lively ones, and theys usually sleepybye at night from working like slaves all day.

The Plague had been so bad when news got out that outy-townies still thought of it as Plague Town right now. Even free real estate was not a reason to stay or put roots in Plague Town except for the truly weak and choiceless, or the reckless lunatic.

Or scummer druggies, which fit in both categories nicely.

Goblins don't use druggs much, apart from maybe their (Wich) Doctors, because Goblins ar WINNAZ. As well, having constitutions with a robustness evolved to deal with their proverbial squalor filters out all but the strongest of psychotropics; the typical goblin would rather dump any schedule A druggs it gets into some public water source ('magine twenty Humie biddies freakken out around the village well, screamen n cryen n fighten to be the first to jump in n drown, kekekekekek), or trade a big lick of it to a kinderling for a fidgy spinney.

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>prev post edit:
>"schedule A STREETCUT druggs"
>bcuz of COURZ a Goblin won't chuck a brick of pure Hearse Powda inna well, don't be DUM

Yer goin innada Plague Town Skirtz to take your red harvest, an wiv yez shivvy Dagga (+10dmg) and dis roit noice pokeysicky you found inna Pit workshed (+4dmg; swapped from shoddy ax; -2§ for the swap), you finna gibb the lot.

>rolled 1d1000 = 931 vs YDM DC680
>PASS; no bonuses for this roll

You feel a kindy creepy feelz when you go to do the Ceremony today. Gui Li's been acting uppity lately, taking so demn long to appear for the Ceremony, trying to get in your sleeps, suddenly peeking out behind a tree or sumn when finna pee. Youre a pretty cool gobb for the most part, a real catch among gobbs if you forget modesty and go honesty; bich just don't know how good she got. She should be fuggen grateful it's you.

You give the altar your best bullybugg glare before you start.

>yez wantz summat?
>eh, Gooly?
>jez sezzit
>gwan, sezzit
>I dare ye bich

You raise your gobby backhand. Your fingers still have of yez shidd onna, and you torq your waist and leave your shoulders limber, ready to land a reel head-spinneren PEE-EM PSCHLAPP, damp crudd, no talcum.

>shew yer mugg right now sezzit
>I dubbz n tribbz dare ye mogg bich
>yez bedder nat sez wat I finks ye gonnae ya kunt
>but sezzit, gwan
>GWAN!!

The creepicreepi fades. Whether it's your unchartable Goblin (Cha)Rizz(ma) (defined by DnD as Strength of Personality), or a manner of Intellect beyond the lower limits of most standardized tests, you are just too tuff, and Gui Li (still, somehow) not furious enough.

>yerr, fott so.
>fott so.
>rmember ooz 'ole ye ar bich
>yool be here till yer dedder den dedd
>yez bezt get used to gedden used
>gnehh heh heh
>now gedd ovah n bendovah
>time fer yer (simbolly) pluppy pluggs!

Because pluppen a bich is not all jezt about preggen 'er n ploppen moar gobbs and biggerin' yer Mobz, it's also about bullybuggen.

Watchermacall mindbreaken. Dispiriten discouragen n soulcrushen. In a sterile (whatever that means) way, it's almost as satisfying as actually pluppen 'er pre-pubey yum-yumz. Wadevah her dum name was before this.

You do the Ceremony, no trouble. Bich still made you wait an hour though. You're kindy used to it now, just like she is to your impudent trumpetty little prap at the altar before you leave.

>Fugg you lader bich
>jez touchy self n thinky me till ven
>gnehh heh heh

You don't tell Seafood before you head off; he's still meditating cradling the Big 'At Whitey's skull. You're sure he can take care of a whole squad of Humie sorders by hisself, no trouble, even in the chalky crumbly lil girl body.

You'll holler 'im when you got gibbs for his brekkies.

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The way you search out a Humie (or near anyfin else) when you carnt see im is by earen n smellen.

Plenty of tells against Fighty Ones: the jingle and brush of buckles against mail or plate (Front Melee), or baked leather thumping baked leather, horse n baccy n 'erbs n Dog (Second Melee; Rangers, Druids), kushkush perfume n wood or brass polish (fuggen Bards), and whatever spicerack chemmy-set of fuggen weird shid Wizzies always packen. (Rogues and Sorcerors are trickier; they don't have strict types or tools)

Normie folks is even easier, more obvious and careless than Fighty Ones: smell for soap, cooking, shit; listen for creaky floors, doors, flat clumsy stompstomps as heavy as a Knight tryna sneek.

You've had a run of empty houses on Main the last time, but that's just because you were unlucky: deep at night there aren't a lot of smells or lights or whatsits, and the folks on Main aren't real homesteaders; theyre businesses, just pay to get what they need done. So there, hit n miss.

But here in the Skirts everyone does what needs doing themselves. Woodchoppen, green growen, cooken, smitten, everfen. In real Humie hours you'd see all kindsa activity; even right now at night you can taste the gravel a liddle on the dirt roads and find them sweat-salty.

You follow a likely patch of traces like these and get lucky: a clump of cottages each a short yard away from each other, wiv a deep trench and a tall stockade fence over the trench, and a wooden trench-bridge,

=================
=================
''''''''''''''∆'''''''''''''
..~~~~~∆∆~~~~~~
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

that could be handily hoisted in by a rope pulley on the front and back of the waterless moat.

These folk had ganged up to make their clump o cottages defensible and met the Plague as a Mob. Looks like they held out goodish too, whatever the Plague threw at them.

Too bad yer not the Plague, henh henh henh.

•••

The first thing Lenne'rach heard was a thump on a neighboring wall. The first thing he thought was

>Henier and 'Bayah are at it again
>Cuthbert's cule what the hell is that old man on

When the thumping didn't continue in duet with the moans of a muffled cow his eyes snapped open, and his hand went under the pillow. Maggy's still there (picrel), hail Cuthbert. Good ol Maggy.

Barely thinking he threw on the hooded rainer coat with the improvised bite-collar (a wide tin barn-latch beaten round), slipped on his tall swamp boots next the bed, and got out the Convincer, the stout head of a thresh (peasant's flailstaff; agritool) with a knotted clap of lead, leaning against the night table.

His movements moved with practiced hurry, his peasant panoply ready. He slept in two layers of clothes now, for reasons. Long thick collars on all his shirts, even if he had to sew them out of sacking.

He listened and smelled in the dark, out his window, out his door. For the groans of dead air out of gray lungs. For the stink of meat in rot.

For them.

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>>6077806
Breathe, nose in, mouth out, breathe.

Linne'rach kept his back to the cottage wall, creeping. Nothing. Nothing. So far.

They've been quiet before. Gaffy Oiler died that way.

He unlatches the solid bolt, eases his door a little, peeking out at waistheight, crouched, the Convincer extended behind him, ready for an overhead swing. It's practiced, this swing; useful when he had to open doors scavenging. The swing would smack anything waiting to lurch in, and if not brain it outright at least buy him time to kick and roll away from the door. They have less to grab if you're half crouched.

Maggy's in his right, solid comfort. A sock and a chop stop damn near anybody.

>'Livvy

Nothing he could see, in this dark. Still no stink. He relaxes a little.

Doesn't mean anything, he tells himself, to stern up. When trouble starts people you've known for years can turn on you. Even if you've got nothing, same as them. Even less hands means you all die. People go crazy and need someone to take it out on, to feel like they're doing something. Not to spit on the departed, but people that stupid have no business surviving.

>Bemmley. The Mayor's Recorder.

Theyre not many enough to start robbing, since they're skulking. He had a chance against one or two thieves, no matter if they're out-towners.

The moon's up, and they've cleared off all the trees in the area; nothing out that he could see. Still no stink. No sound but empty wind.

Horrid. Told you nothing.

He does the corners to the Henier cottage the same way he does doors: the Convincer extended back, left handed, Maggy cocked in his right.

Nothing. Immediately he does a counter-wise halfway around the back, in case.

>Pashavad. Filthy Daaserai heathen. Good bastard.

Nothing.

"HENIER."

Nothing.

Door still bolted.

Window open; no movement. Nothing in the corners.

"Henier. Speak out."

Nothing.

He makes into the window with a squeeze. Heads for the large double bed he helped the randy old leatherhead make. No one's in it. Empty.

No pillows or blankets or bedspreads. Just straw.

He squats, peers under the bed;clear.

Is some of the straw...dark? He ruffles it with the Convincer; not shadows, dark. He takes the Convincer back, smells the new wet on it. Hastily wipes it off against a dry spot on the blankets.

Blood.

He's darting out of the cottage.

"ALARUM! UP! UP! ALARUM!"

No answer.

He goes into the next cottage along; Snail Birnell's. A log cabin, built by a drunk lumberman.

Door's ajar. Ho.

He hooks Maggy's beard in the edge of the door, peels it back.

scuttlescuttlescuttlescuttlescuttle

He swings on reflex, overextending.

The Convincer Thacks Maggy into the wood of the door. He jerks his hand to get Maggy back, a second's delay, and something stabs into his thigh.

>I'm dead.

But he's fighting, all he's got. Even one less of them is good. It [ii]counts[/ii].

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>>6077829
He swipes Maggy at whatever it is that's sunk pain into his thigh and side.

It leaps clear, just out of reach. It's a... it's pulling its hand back. The blade glows a faint yellow; Phasic weapon!

Linne'rach HalfElven wants to throw in return, throw off the thing's aim. But the Convincer is thonged to his wrist, and Maggy's knucklehoops are still on his fingers.

He brings both up in a desperate block.

>Livvy.

•••

And that's the last un. Worked up a sweat, you did. Just eight sleepy Humie villagers, but all toughies, even the women. They might have been Fighty Ones, though not of any kind you know. No kit, no magic, no skillz. And dat big old un, second to last. Who knew he'd have that much blood innim.

Everyone goes into the Pouch, along with their immediate effects.

Eight's pretty good, for one night. You're bushed and peckish and horny; you can't do another run anyway. If you push it you're going to get dum and die dum.

You were so into the slaughter you forgot that you meant to shiddrawra someone. There's no point if they're all dedd.

Oh well. Tomorrow night. Wiv yez Dagga in yez belt an da Carrionpede under it, the world is your drawra.

Just for a victory treat, you eat the last one's heart.

You're hungry, and it's so long since you've had a nice helffy Humie heart, and it's just one. Seafood's got seven more, plus the bodies.

He won't mind.

He minds verily.

You are obliged on pain of having your bugg- and koomholes seared shut to do the Whore's Stance over incense for hours.

>Yang Wuhan requires 70LM - 11 =69LM
>nice.
>25 days remaining
>Derreschston pop. 72LM
>gen penalty in Derreschston -3

[WAT NEXT?]

>MOAR BLUDD!!

>nerrrh...iz porn fer da porn god a fing? Slutts fer da slutt throne? [same as BFTBG, but total BLOOD gained is divided by 3, min 1, and something something plup-plup-plup]

>else?

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>>6076614
>>6076603
>>6076600
>>6076474
>>6076637
>>6077149
>>6077868

36 hours.

>>6077829
>edit
>he wipes the goresoiled Convincer on the STRAW

>>6077868
>nerrrh...iz porn fer da porn god a fing? Slutts fer da slutt throne? [same as BFTBG, but total BLOOD gained is divided by 3, min 1, and something something plup-plup-plup]

>>6077868
>else? train our fighting ability/talent/skill
(we will have to do it at some point anyway because adventurers WILL show up)
have we healed the damage we took by now? if not do we need heal potions or something for that?
so that penalty is for everything we henceforth do in plague town? in that case, we really shouldnt indulge in our bloodlust often anons. we have much to still loot from this village
no roll this time QM?

>>6077868
Yerr maffs SHIDDER, shtoopid. 70-11 iz 59!

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Rolled 1 (1d10)

>>6078190
>have we healed the damage?
Yes. Toady will allus patch hisself to the best that time and Stuffs permit. He has 12HP currently. Assuming 0hp means "beaten to an inch of his life; he needs CPR and plasma STAT", with 1hp (conscious) and no major breakages (eg, both arms broken) Toady can self-aid at a rate of 1stuffs per HP, and max 4hp per day.

Kludge armor soaks up 2dmg per 3 dmg (phys only), rounded up, trading 1dur per 2 damage soaked. Armor has 12 dur; in full gobby kit Toady has 20hp effectively, equal to a level2 Fighter with Con bonus+2 (by https://www.5ehp.com/). Pretty tough for a lowly mob creature.

>whatabout health pots?
Seafood has some, but trust him to be stingy about it. If you clear the BLOOD gathering quest and preserve his Pall Body he might spare you a few drops on occasion.

Pots will be available for trade if you make it to a proper town or city; given that Stuffs trade for 2:1 with Grains, and grains is 1d10:SilverPiece (rollan now) rely on this to be out of Toady's price horizon. He can always get some from active Adventurers if he kills them fast enough.

>is the -3 penalty for all things in Plague Town?
Outside of Attack and Dodge, yes, General penalty. 80LM translates to about 120-160 actual individuals, counting women, children and large livestock. If 2d4LMs worth of persons (one and a half nuclear family households) vanish per night from Monday, someone is going to notice by Thursday.

>we still have much to loot
Yes, heaps. Toady can be teleported to AD1999 Kosovo and still loot at present rates.

>no roll this time?
QM brain fog. Will ping everyone with next post.

>>6078311
>dough!!!!

okok 59

in that case, per previous post, gen penalty in Derreschston is now -3 -15= -18

Careful, fellows.

>>6078316
ESTABLISHED

2STUFFS : 1GRAIN : 1SILVERPIECE

ECONOMY IS FUKT BEYOND FUKT

Seafood can buy pots for Toady at any Town or City.

You lucky bastiches.

>>6076614
>>6076603
>>6076600
>>6076474
>>6076637
>>6077149
>>6077868

All roll general 1d100.

Forgot.

>>6078317
wtf did I just do.

Yang Wuhan needs 59LM

Derechston pop is still 72LM.

Penalty is -3.

-15 will kick in at pop <60.

I panicked.

>§67 bal - 2 for switching shoddy ax to sickle head
>=§65

>+§11 from killen 11LM
>sounds about right for a bunch of blood soaked rags and two quite nice peasant survivor weapons
>they're not gobby-ergonomic tho
>behh.
>=§76 bal

Rolled 28 (1d100)

>>6078326
Petition to grab some metal wire from somewhere probably a farmer's fencing and stick it through wood handholds to make a Garrote so we can kill people by chokin 'em to death and preserve all that sweet juicy blood in 'em rather than cuttin em up and losing some in the process. It'll make stuffin em in the bag less messy too.