No Good Deed- Shadow of the Demon Lord Arc 1

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Sarky

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Continued on from the Prologue, found here: BY INVITATION ONLY No Good Deed- Shadow of the Demon Lord- Prologue

@Excession @Hair @Ragoza @Chaka @Sideris

Freedom tastes good.

After parting ways with Spite and his employers, you find yourselves at a loss for a while; No clear goals beyond a full belly or ointment to heal the wounds sustained in Callas' little fortress of horrors. Spite's intel is good, and the villages he's marked as non-hostile to nonhumans are just that, although given the volatile nature of the region nobody is exactly friendly. A succession of little communities with forgettable names go by, offering all sorts of work in exchange for food and board and in Ruin's case some repairs or sturdier metal plates to replace the rusty, pitted body parts inflicted on it. Hunting, vermin control, debt collection, shovelling cow shit, writing letters or whatever was going. One village offered almost all they had for the group to get rid of a small bandit group. Relict was looking fully human for days after that one.

And so perhaps a week and a half after gaining your freedom, you find yourselves approaching a larger village than usual. The sun burns reddish orange near the horizon, farmers can be seen finishing off their day's work outside while others have already called it a day and are heading to some tavern or other. A signpost proclaims to the world that you have arrived on the outskirts of Ashton. Abandoned and derelict lumber mills on the west side of the settlement point to a time when a forest existed in that direction. Now the only woods for miles are east, and it's fair to say Ashton's fortunes have declined somewhat, as lumberjacks were forced to learn to farm and raise livestock to replace their lost trade.

Still, the place is doing well enough to afford a wooden palisade and reasonably diligent guards. You are stopped at the gates by a pair of them. They are certainly surprised to see such an eclectic group of travellers, but there's no malice to be seen or heard. They ask for names, for any news about the direction you've come from, and whether you're looking for work or passing through.

"Right, so," the lead guard shrugs as he returns to leaning on his halberd, "Welcome to Ashton. Usual rules apply, stay out of trouble, and if you can't do that at least don't be the one to START trouble. I wouldn't think any inn would turn you away if you've coin, but probably the friendliest for non-humans is the Belching Troll, town centre. Can't miss it, big fuck-ugly stone head above the doors. If you're looking for work, there's a job pole in the square, people start turning up from dawn to look for labourers, hired muscle, that sort of thing. You're expected to haggle but don't take the piss. I guess that's everything. Oh, Sheriff's office is just to the side there, by the wee watchtower, if you see a crime, that's where to go. And the west side is rough, deserted mostly since the trees were used up. Not much on offer there unless you're looking for a knife or three in the ribs. Yeah, that's everything. Come on in, have a nice night."

Inside, the place looks and smells like most small towns. Which is to say people dump their stinking waste on the streets, where it stays until it's carted off in the dead of night. There's a pleasant bustle as people finish work and prepare for an evening's entertainment, and although you draw looks, nobody seems terribly put out by the sudden appearance of an orc, a clockwork, a goblin, a pale giant and a handsome young man who looks like he's been rather poorly.
 
Ruin

The Clockwork is in far better shape than when last we saw them. Ruin has been repaired, their form buffed and polished to a shine. They still wear their strange, many-pocketed cloak, but under it a specially-fitted soft leather sheath covers their torso and adds a little extra protection for their vital inner workings (with some modifications with a slit in the back to allow friendly hands to reach their key). They walk tall and steady, using their iron-heeled staff as a walking stick in a strangely mortal affectation. The staff has been joined by a pair of wicked looking long knives that ride low on Ruin's hips.

"Well, we have arrived. I imagine those of us with physical needs will want to find lodgings. I will accompany you for now, but I will want to take a look around town later, I think."
 
Orm

He's looking sharp for a jotun. Clean clothes, healed wounds, actually eating something close to his fill. The greatsword strapped to his back is still small for his frame but could make even horseborne knight think twice. He's working at the last patch of chin-stubble with a piece of sharp flint while Ruin makes his announcement. "Honestly, they may have something that can charitably house orcs, but I'm a bit too large for even that. I've got my bedroll. I can make do under the stars and near a well. Besides, may well see what this place has to offer. Patchwork Lands are their namesake, but still things to see."
 
Runt

"Stars'll do for me, cousin. Ain't sharing a roof with a pink if I can help it."
He spares Relict a sidelong glance.
"Dead pinks don't count, you're alright."

He's filled out a little since captivity, but Runt is still scrawny by orc standards. A scrawny orc could still wrestle a pissed off horse, of course. A heavy cloak covers a simple tunic, no armour, and he uses a wicked looking battleaxe like a walking stick as they make their way into town
 
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Retch

Retch has repurposed a salvaged cowl as a robe, resulting in a comically voluminous garment that he's constantly tripping over or getting lost in. A reedy voice pipes from within the shadowed hood, "whatever about you wanting to sleep in the rain, I plan on putting a roof over my head tonight. I can check the board after I get a room, since I know half of you can't read."
 
@Hair @Excession @Chaka @Sideris @Ragoza

And so the party splits for the night in an unfamiliar location.


@Hair @Excession

The Belching Troll is indeed almost in the exact centre of town. The ugliness of the large stone head over the door is more due to it being a poorly carved lump of granite, and not actually the severed head of a troll. Conversation doesn't even lull when you enter, and why would it? There are orcs, a couple of dwarfs, one or two elves and over a dozen goblins enjoying a drink, a crude song, and the in the goblins' cases, some manner of farting contest which they find utterly hilarious. Those that are actually possessed of arses, anyway. The implications of that are... troublesome.

The innkeep is a dwarf, the floor behind the bar almost as high as the bar itself so he can look the tallest visitors in the eye, almost. He flips you the kind of salute one who has never seen military service might have heard about in books, and tosses his cleaning rag aside. "Welcome t'Belchin' Troll lads, fine evenin' f'r 'aving visitors. Wot'll youse all be 'avin'?"


@Sideris @Ragoza @Chaka

Away from the shorties, you get to enjoy a quick stroll around town to find a decent patch of land to set up for the night. You even get the odd "Evenin' sirs" from passing folk, mostly humans, the occasional orc, while you encounter a single halfling who nearly bumps into your knees rounding a corner, drops his freshly baked pie in surprise and gasps more in horror at the wasted food than the two colossal, scarred warriors in front of him. His war of conscience resolved seconds later, he kneels and desperately tries to salvage what he can of the pie.

Finding a well towards the west end seems to offer the better balance between getting away from all those humans, and still enjoying some sort of security from the more patrolled parts of town. A drawn bucket reveals it's not the most fragrant water, but it certainly hasn't passed through anyone's guts lately, nobody's been pissing in the well, and a bucket left overnight should have the mud settled by morning.

You've just settled down in a quiet corner to sleep, or in Ruin's case, to wait, when you hear voices approaching. You'd have thought just some folks hurrying home until one says loudly enough to hear "For fuck's sake Warner, of *course* I made sure nobody followed me. Now shut up, it's almost time and the boss don't like bickering."
 
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Ruin

Ruin had come out for the walk abs because they wanted to start exploring - ok, casing - the town. When they heard the voices they crouched down low, drawing their hood up and drawing their heavy cloak about themselves.


They begin slinking forward silently towards the voices. People with bosses who didn't want them followed are usually profitable.
 
@Chaka

Your freshly oiled joints don't fail, and you slide effortlessly and silently from shadow to shadow, your green cloak easily letting you blend in with a mossy patch of half-toppled wall less than a dozen yards from the two figures by the well. You get a clear look at them- One is lean and clean shaven, the other heavily built, with a poorly curated blonde moustache and mutton chops. Both dressed in nondescript clothes and cloaks. You hear the crunch of gravel behind you, and the big man spins round, tense. A figure appears from behind the wall. Concealed behind a deep hood, no features are apparent beyond a slim frame, and a deep rich voice.

"Expecting someone else perhaps, Warner?"

@Chaka @Sideris @Ragoza

A deep, rich voice: "Expecting someone else, Warner?"

A lighter, very local voice, presumably Warner: "No, no, just... Vigilant."

The deep voice: "Commendable. But there will be no watch patrols here tonight. Our man has seen to that. Now. To business."

A third voice, reedy and slightly posh: Everything's ready, sir. One guard became suspicious about the wagon but his body should be found in the west side tomorrow, less his purse and a knife in his gut, just a mugging gone wrong."

The leader again: "I see. Well done, Bors. With everything in place, I have one last task for you both."

@Chaka

The leader moves closer to the big man Warner, producing a large clay stoppered jar from his cloak.

@Chaka @Sideris @Ragoza

"Warner, bar the door of the Belching Troll silently, then throw this jar in the window. Stand back, it will erupt in flames when it breaks. If any creature tries to escape from the ground floor, cut them down, then retreat. In the mean time, Bors will run to the sheriff, and tell him that violence erupted amongst the nonhumans again. Our man will then work his magic on the onlookers, be sure to be well away from the town centre when that happens. Is there anything else? No? Very well, we meet again tomorrow evening at the third place. Ash prevails, gentlemen."

The three figures disperse in separate directions.
 
Ruin

The clockwork is motionless in a way that no fleshy being could be, then they silently pull their long knives from their sheaths. Turning back to the others, he gestured towards the direction of the tavern. Their voice is low but it carries. "Go. Warn the others."

They set off after the large man with the jar alone, moving with practiced silence. Slitting this throat is a noble act, they reflected. And it fulfills my function.

They pad into the dark, keeping pace. Waiting for the moment.
 
Retch

The tip of the nose emerging from the cowl swivels towards the goblins in the corner, and a gurgling sound emanates from the shadowed depths within. A herald Relict will no doubt be familiar with. prrrrrrrp, it starts low, not cutting through the raucous noise of the common room, but it quickly builds in intensity. ppprrrrreeeeeeeeep Where the copious amounts of gas required to maintain the impressive length and volume comes from is a mystery, yet somehow the almost melodious noise continues unabated. rrrRRRRREEEEEEEEErrrrrrreep the rear of the cowl begins to flap as Retch's contribution to the contest begins to drown out the ambient noise of the room. RRRP- RRRP- RRrrp- rrrreeep as the fluttering close of his flatus echoes through the room Retch closes the distance to the bar. "We'll take a room," the reedy squeak is profoundly unimpressive in the wake of the storm he had just unleashed. "A hot meal, too. Don't suppose you know where I could get a sack of rats? Live ones, that is."
 
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Orm

“Always something. Come on, cousin, let’s set a table for the dead and a horn of blood for Grimnir out these idiot sods.” Unhitching the blade from his back with an almost lazy air. “You heard the ominous little shits. One’s got magic.”
 
Runt

The length of chain still manacled to the orc's left wrist rattles quietly as he uncurls it from his forearm before hefting his hefty axe with his right.

"Piss poor offering if y'ask me. Don't think Grimnir'll be impressed with these vermin."
 
Orm

“Every little bit counts. Displeasure means we look for bigger game next.”
 
Runt

"Bigger and better game until the day we die, cousin."
They make haste back to the Belching Troll, onlookers pointedly not noticing the two hulking killers marching down the street with weapons in hand. Just one of those nights here in Ashton. As they walk Runt entreats his grim patron, in Common so that Orm can benefit.
"Allfather Grimnir, Father of Death, Lord of Gallows, we offer blood and sorrow this night. Witness us."