Three Bastards Quest

>>199942
>>Busy yourself with a drink from the barmaid.

>>199942
>Busy yourself by going through your things.

>>199952
That would be like inviting someone to try and steal what we have, whatever it is.

>>199942
>Busy yourself with a conversation with the bartender.

>>199955
It would be good to know what we have on us in case something comes up and we're forced to act.

Anyone feel like tiebreaking? Otherwise it's gonna be a dice roll

>>199962
Exactly.

>>199965
Just use dice roll until more people join.

Rolled 2 (1d3)

>>199971
1. Barmaid
2. Thorough Inventory Check
3. Bartender
Rollin'

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>>199977
You decide to busy yourself by taking a thorough check of your belongings. To that end, you reach under the table and pull out your traveller's backpack, setting down on the chair next to you. Opening it up, you find the evidence of the last leg of your journey: All the pack contains is a day's worth of stale bread and jerkey. Setting it aside, you feel under your cloak. The light fabric keeps the sand out of the rest of your clothes, and the headscarf obscures the majority of your features, preventing you from standing out too much. If anyone were to come up too close, however, your comparatively pale skin would instantly point you out as an outsider - not to mention your totally round ears, if the scarf ever came off.

In a pouch hanging off your waist you have around 200 Desert Lyres, the currency of these southern Elves, provided by your contact long ago. You're also carrying approximately 105 Imperial Faces, but those are useless down here except as trinkets from a foreign land.

Under your cloak, hanging off the right side of your waist, is an ornate saber, also given by your contact. You're not trained in its use, but it'll definitely cut something if you swing it. Tucked into your belt on the opposite side is a small dagger.

You've got two other things in your belt: A small scroll holder, containing a note from your contact with the time and date of the meeting, and, clipped onto it, a local phrasebook. While containing some necessities like "A room for the night" and "How much is this?", it's far from complete.

Finishing your patdown, you reach under your clock and feel around your chest. That's it, your two trump cards are still there. The two things that not many a southern Elven warrior has seen:

Inside a specially made holster hang two "Teppo" pistols: your only inheritance from your father. You glance back into your pack: you have the powder and shot for ten extra bullets, not including the ones already loaded.

"Ai, Schelem!"

You jump in your seat, covering your cloak tightly. Twisting your head, you look up at the source of the voice. It appears one of the rowdy Elves from before has noticed you rummaging through your things. He looks over at your pack

"Potsche va Schmertish lo Veschise? Schete va Scham?" he asks. He looks back at his companions, who are still drinking, then claps a hand on your shoulder.

"Pidye, Varish, Pitsche!" He explains, attempting to stand you up.

You don't understand a word of what he's saying, except for the last part, which you piece together from your phrasebook: "Come, friend, Drink!".

It seems the elf is inviting you to drink with him and his compatriots - luckily, his inebriation appears to prevent him from seeing through your disguise.

What do you do?

>Go along with him
>Attempt to politely decline
>Rudely decline.
>Write in

>>200063
>Attempt to politely decline

>>200063
>>Attempt to politely decline
I get the feeling that pale, Imperial humans aren't exactly a welcomed sight in this land.

>>200063
>Attempt to politely decline

>>200076
>>200087
>>200128

Going to drink with the elf would mean more eyes on you, perhaps even demands to remove your scarf, weary traveller, so us kind residents might gaze upon your handsome face. You decide to politely decline his invitation... If you can find the words. You clear your throat, attempting to switch into the throaty-styled speech of the local citizentry

"Varish..." you say, "Pyzoha, Nye Pitsche."

"Shye!?" The elf looks somewhat surprised at your words. You jump again in surprise at his expression; he looks almost offended. What exactly did you say? Racking your brain, you attempt to go over the finer points of the grammer of the desert elves - and eventually figure it out. You were, in fact, successful in forming a grammatically correct sentence, but in your efforts to do so, you said "Friend, please don't drink." instead of "Friend, please, I don't drink."

Damned personal pronouns!

"Nye, Potsche? Ischbah vo Pitschem Schdele! Ische, yedi!"
"No, ... ? Bar ... Drink ... . ... Go!" - is the limits of your understanding of that sentence.

You attempt to croak out another sentence, but the elf roughly pulls you up by your shoulders. You stumble, nearly knocking over your wooden chair. You turn around, straight into his drunken, smiling face. At least the elf is in good spirits.

>You don't want no trabble
>You want some trabble
>Write in

>>200145
>You don't want no trabble

>>200145
>>You don't want no trabble
>Write in
Put a hand on his shoulder and laugh with him. Lead him back to his friends as if you're about to join them, but then quickly leave the tavern the second you've escorted him back to his friends.

>>200145
>You don't want no trabble

>>200157
>>200161
>>200194
Deciding to defuse the situation, you raise your hands in surrender.
"Pitsche, nye.." You repeat, smiling - though he probably can't see under your scarf, you hope at least the outline makes itself visible.
The elf, however, keeps insisting, attempting to drag you over. Some of his friends have noticed, and are looking in your direction, laughing and waving you over as well.
Defusing this situation won't be easy; but luckily, you have a special skill you pull out in times like these. a skill you've used and honed many times over the years. That skill is:

>Your strength
>Your perception
>Your endurance
>Your charisma
>Your intelligence
>Your luck

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>>200237
>>Your luck

>>200237
>Your intelligence

>>200237
>Your luck

>>200237
>Your Luck

>>200314
>>200282
>>200243
Though the major events in your life have found you to be a decidely unlucky person, you find that with little things, such as a delicate situation in a tavern at the end of the earth, someone seems to be watching over you.
>QUEST EFFECT: When rolling, roll twice. Certain little things seem to play out in your favour...
As the elf begins to push and shove you towards his table, the doors to the tavern burst open, slamming jungle-wood against sandstone. Two burly-looking elves with wide shoulders and thick foreheads muscle through the doorway and start scanning the bar. You never thought you'd be able to call a Desert Elf "pale", but that's the only way you could describe your new friend's appearance when he saw the newcomers.

The contact was mutual. The two elves stomp over, robes dragging on the ground. One of them pushes you away, knocking you back into your chair.

"Ai, Dan'vel," The other says. "Zabyel? Lyre, Varish, Lyre. Gde Lyre!?"
>"Hey, Danvel, ...? Money, friend, Money. Where's money?"
"V-varishe," The drunk elf stammers. "Pyzohaera, Podaschdte..."
>"Friends... Please, ..."
"Nye, Dan'vel. Pdarak, Schebe, van Brische."
>"No, Dan'vel. Present...."

Whatever the conversation's topic, it appears the elves decided to continue it outside. The enforcers grab Dan'vel under his shoulders and drag him out, as he kicks his legs and blathers on. You can't make out any words except "Please".

The rest of the tavern's clientele, including the drunk's drinking companions, watch the exchange intently before returning to their drinking and revelry.

You sigh, relieved, and go back to your sitting. Luck was on your side today.

Returning to your vigil, you continue to wait for your contact. Some patrons leave, some patrons stay, newcomers replace the goers.. A barmaid comes around and you ask for a drink, spending 2 Lyre. She brings it and you knock back the sweet-tasting brew, wondering just how much longer it'd be. If he didn't show, you'd need a room for the night - and your guide stayed on the Sandworm that brought you here, heading back to the capital, Ai'Madah. The worms come to Paessrin only a few times a day, and, in any case, you probably don't have enough money for a last-minute ticket.

You worries soon prove unfounded, however: the door to the bar creaks open, revealing a sun just about to set, and, closer to earth, a tall elf, wearing the typical white robes of these desert-dwellers. The only reason you recognize him as your contact is the three rings pierced through his left ear, and the embroided sun set into his robe: the same he was wearing when you first met, months ago in Eovna.

>>200470
It only takes him a second to pick you out amongst the patrons. He briskly walks over, sitting down next to you and leaning in close.

"Velksche, can you be any more obvious?" He whispers. The barmaid approaches; your companions waves a hand for a round of drinks.

"Obvious?" You ask. You hope, between ambient noise and your whispered tones, no one will pick out your speech in the human tongue.

"Suspicious," he hisses. "Wrapped in foreign cloaks, face covered up, big bag- you scream outsider to all who would hear it. You are fortunate the rabble here are too drunk to listen."

"No harm, no foul, then, right?" you say.

"What?"

"Human expression."

"What it means?"

"Er, pretty much, if you do something wrong, but no one gets hurt, then it's okay."

"Interesting. I will remember it."

Your contact sighs.

"You saved my life, Varish," he says, closing his eyes and pensively rubbing his pointed ear, "but I rather not have to return the favour. Pyzoha, be more discreet."

"Sure."

The barmaid brings the drinks, which your contact begins to gulp down. When he finishes, he slams the cup down on the table and wipes the froth from his mouth.

"Now, let us to business in local style. You know this, but it is tradition. I am called Avi, humble servant of the king of all Ai'Madah. And you?"

You smirk - though you and Avi are well acquainted, there's nothing wrong in doing business in the local style...

"I am called..."

>Jay "Two-Pistols".
>"Bluebird" Jay.
>Jay. Nicknames are stupid.
>Write in.

>>200481
>>Write in
"Lucky" Jay

>>200481
>>200498
Second

>>200481
>Jay. Nicknames are stupid.

>>200498
Backing this

>>200506
Switch mine to>>200498
Thats way better

>>200501
>>200498
>>200509
>>200514
"Lucky Jay."

"Ho-ho," Avi says, bemused. "It is new, yes?"

"A bit overdue, actually," you smile.

"Regardless, to business," Avi says, waving a hand. "48 days ago, you saved my life. For this, I am eternally grateful."

"You've told me as much several times."

"Yes, yes. I bid you, come to Ai'Madah, land of the Desert Elves. And you come. You are given letters and information from me, a humble servant of the king of all Ai'Madah. And you take. Do you know what this means?"

"What?"

"Varish, Varish!" Avi says, leaning in and clapping you on the back. "You are too, now, humble servant of King Dav'ed of all Ai'Madah."

Well, great - a human in service to an Elven king. Better not let news of this get out in Eovna, lest you be drawn and quartered.

"And King Dav'ed calls upon you, humble servant, for he has work for a man such as you."

What now?

>I'm ok with this.
>I never asked for this.
>Give me all the details. All of them. Then we'll see if I asked for this.
>Write in

>>200649
>I never asked for this.
>then kill him

>>200649
>I never asked for this.
>Give me all the details. All of them. Then we'll see if I asked for this.

>>200649
>Give me all the details. All of them. Then we'll see if I asked for this.

>>200649
>>Give me all the details. All of them. Then we'll see if I asked for this.
What line of work? How much is the pay and in what currency are we getting paid per job?

>>200684
Also ask him why did he think that it was ok to just sign him up to the service of a foreign monarch.

>>200715
oops, meant for>>200678

>>200715
>>200689
>>200684
>>200678
"I have questions," you say.

"Ask them, then," Avi grins.

"What gives you the right to press gang me into serving your King?"

"Press gang? What it means?"

"Force me to serve."

"Force?" Avi seems taken aback, "I have forced nothing. You yourself have entered his service, when you accept my invitation. You accept my papers. You accept the guide I send you. You accept the money I send you. You did not think, there was no reason I bid you come here, to what is, from human eyes, the end of the world?"

"Varish," Avi continues. "I bid you come here, because I see what you can do. You are no mercenary or soldier man, but you are good of heart, to save a stranger in human lands."

"And..." he says, poking your chest. Your pistols rattle in their holsters. "You have two things that are not easily found, even in the lands of humans."

Your inherited pistols. The men from across the sea brough their Teppo nearly 60 years ago, changing the face of the continent - the weapons that turned the tides of war, and won humanity its independence for the first time in more than 400 years. They spread like the fire they spewed, and were now near ubiquitous throughout Eovna. These were only the large Teppo, but these small, handheld pistols remained a rarity, toys of dukes and noblemen.

"In your heart, and your assets, the King sees a powerful servant. You wander no more - you have duties to fulfill. And the king's servants are rewarded handsomely - the saber you carry is proof of His generosity. There is work for you already, my reason for meeting you here."

Avi hasn't let you get a word in edge-ways this entire time, but he's done talking, at least for the moment.

"I need information, Avi," you say.

"Of this, I have plenty," Avi pulls out a scroll from underneath his cloak, showing a map of the surrounding area.

"There is cargo in this town that the King requires be sent in safety to him. Yet there are those who would wish this not to be so. You must make it so."

"More than that."

"Velskche, you did not ask so much questions earlier. Very well."

He fingers a route over the parchment.

"The cargo leaves on Worm in tomorrow morning, half hour past the rising of the sun. As you know, Worm goes from here, to Yazrek, then Paesstok, then finally, Ai'Madah. Same route you take to here, but backways. You and me, we ride Worm. We watch cargo. No harm comes to cargo. No harm comes? You are paid. Lyre, Faces, jewels, or weapons. Whatever you desire. And afterwards, we talk."

"That's it? Just watch the cargo?"

"And make for certain to keep it safe."

"Ok, but-"

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"Listen, Jay," Avi says, interrupting. His face is suddenly serious, more serious than you've ever seen it before - even as you pulled him out of the wreckage of his cart, from under the body of the bandit with a bullet hole through his brain. "Lucky Jay. What you do before? Cut trees? Smash rocks? Lie, steal, and cheat? Living an empty life, with empty purpose. Wander through the land, doing petty service. This is a chance, Varish. What reason have you to decline? Is it because my skin is brown, eyes black, and ears sharp? How much has your human king done for you, before he and his fell to their disease? Nothing. But Dav'ed is wise, and he sees potential in your service. Consider that, my friend."

Avi stands up, dropping coins on the table for your drinks.

"Come tomorrow to Worm station. Ten minutes after rising sun. I wait you there."

"Wait!" you shout, but Avi's already out the door.

>>200971
>Not yet, I'll announce when it is

You curse, grab your bag, and run out of the tavern - but Avi is lost, disappeared into the crowds of Paessrin.

The sun hangs low on the horizon, and night markets are setting up their stalls. The low, sand-coloured buildings form winding streets and alleys, filled with brown-skinned,dark-haired elves in white robes. You push aimlessly through the city streets. Up and far behind you, lit up by the sun's last rays, are the huge palm trees of the southern jungles, stretching dozens of stories high over the city.

A servant of a king, even though it is a foreign one - a high position for a Bastard such as yourself, especially one twice-disgraced. Better to serve a king, you think, than a god... but those are times gone by. Better to dwell on the present. Your guide has left you, so you'll need to rely on yourself - of immediate import is finding yourself somewhere to sleep.

>LUCK Check: Roll 2d10.

Rolled 4, 8 = 12 (2d10)

>>200976

Rolled 10, 5 = 15 (2d10)

>>200976
Watch our luck, babyyyyyy!

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>>200983
>>200986
>Target: 7 and up. Lucky!
As luck would have it, you don't need to look far. Your aimless wanderings have brought you right in front of an inn, if you're reading the sign right. The two story sandstone building has torches burning in every room. You push open the woodern door and are faced with a tavern very similar to the one you just left, with the exception that the company here is noticeably more refined. Robes are clean and cut to fit instead of dragging, and people drink out of cups instead of tankards. The air is hazy with Elven smoke. Your eyes water a little.

"Dobsche Neshe, Prigloshem," A female Elf says from behind a counter at the other end of the room. She is dressed in a black robe, the fabric fitting nicely around her body.
>Good evening and welcome.
"Schratve," you reply, forcing your voice into the consistency of gravel. You walk over to the counter, stepping around elegently dressed Elves. Several groups turn to look at the cloaked newcomer. "Komne, Pyzoha."
>"Hello. Room please."
"Tasheke. Neschetvo va? Schdravtvo va? Yeli Porsa Komne?"
>.... Dinner ...? Breakfast ...? ... ... Room?

You don't really understand what she's saying - you really should have consulted your phrase book before trying to get a room by yourself. What do you say?
>Repeat "Komne, Prosche"
>Say "Neschetvo, Schdravtvo, Komne."
>Ask "Schekol ko?" (How much?)
>Say "Nye Pomshemyu" (I don't understand)

>>201130
>>Say "Neschetvo, Schdravtvo, Komne."
>>Ask "Schekol ko?" (How much?)

>>201130
>Ask "Schekol ko?" (How much?)

>>201130
Im curious, OP, do you have a lexicanum of Elf language that you wrote up or are you making this stuff up on the fly?

>>201148
>>201296
"Schekol ko?" You ask. The elf woman looks at you with a mix of confusion and, perhaps, disdain, at your gruff and cold language in what is otherwise a classy environment.

"Vischemdeschet Lyre. Tolke Komne ko Scherok Lyre. Schdravtvo ko deschet Lyre."
>Eighty Lyre. ... Room... Forty Lyre... Breakfast... Ten Lyre.

You have 198 Lyre left on you. A ticket for the Sandworm cost you 70 Lyre when you and your guide rode it from the capital. What do you do?

>Dinner, Bed, and Breakfast - 80 Lyre
>Dinner and Bed - 70 Lyre
>Bed and Breakfast - 50 Lyre
>Just the Bed, thanks - 40 Lyre.

>>201348
>>Dinner, Bed, and Breakfast - 80 Lyre
We need a full stomach for whatever shits going down tomorrow and let's face it, as long as we got enough cash for the worm ride, we'll be covered by our Elvish 'friend' once we arrive to our destination.

>>201348
>Bed and Breakfast - 50 Lyre
lets not spend all our money in one place, though we may go a little hungry tonight we will just fill up tomorrow morning on whatever passes for food amongst the Elves.

Rolled 2 (1d2)

>>201395
>>201429
Tiebreaker:
1. Full course
2. BnB

>>201532
"Komne, e Schdravtvo, Pyzoha." You croak. Reaching into your purse, you drop the coins on the table. You have 148 Lyre remaining. The hostess nods, drags the coins over the counter, and calls an elven boy over. This one is young, probably around 20 years old - he's short and slightly round, and the whites of his eyes are still... white. If not for his dark skin and pointed ears, he'd look just like a human of his age. He takes your bag out of your hands.

"Pyzohaera, Idsche za," The hostess says.
>Please (respectfully), .... ..

The other elf's black robes trail behind him as he carries your bag up the stairs and down a hallway, before leading you to a room at its far end. It's quite nice for the circumstances: A wooden bed with a matress and a blanket, a table and a chair, and a mirror on the wall. A window looks out over the street, still bustling with the sounds of nightlife.

"Za Vanye o drugye, Pyzohaera Sproshte Vnieza. Schdravtvo Utre Nachshe do Shyas do Schonse.
>"... Bath .... Please (respectfully) ... <down>. Breakfast <morning> .... ... <hour> ... <sun>"

The elf leaves a key to your room on the table, then bows, stepping out of the door. You walk over and lock it, then pull the curtains tight over the window. You sit back down on the bed. For the first time since you rode into this town, you unwrap your headscarf, letting it hang around your neck. Long black locks fall over your forehead, which you slick, helped by a fair amount of grease, over your head. Your beard, exposed to the air, starts to itch.

You unhook your cloak, dropping it on the floor. Next, you remove the overcoat beneath it - an import bought at a trader's fair from a merchant from across the sea. Next go your pistols, which you unstrap and leave under the bed's pillow. Your knife and saber, a gift from the King, are unhooked last.

You lie down on the bed, kicking off boots covered in sand. Avi's words come back to you.

A lot of what he said was true. For the few years leading up to your meeting, your life has been somewhat meaningless. You travelled from town to town, doing odd jobs: lumberjacking, herding cattle, loading goods for merchants - jobs that didn't fit someone of your birth, or deserved stature - though it was birth and stature that were made moot, long years ago.

But now what? Here you are, at the ass-end of the known world, pretending to be an elf and potentially serving an Elven king. True, the Desert Elves weren't the same Elves that had ruled your people for so long, but they were - at the least- cousins.

That being said, you now have a choice... or is it just an illusion?

>Meet Avi at the station on time tomorrow morning.
>Go to the station, but don't meet Avi.
>Don't go to the station
>Write in.

>>201651
>>Meet Avi at the station on time tomorrow morning.

>>201651
>Meet Avi at the station on time tomorrow morning.
Arrive at the station early, see if you can find anything out.

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>>201696
>>201704

You're going to take up Avi on his offer.

That's that. No matter what, your life can't continue the way it's been going.

Something had to change, and no better place to start than here. As Avi said, the king was generous... and perhaps, in his service, your actions would have some meaning, earn you some money. Maybe, eventually enough to strike a few black marks from your record.

Sure, you were a Bastard son. Not only that, but a Bastard son twice disgraced. But you were still human, the First damn it, and you were going to get what you deserve. If service to an Elven king was what you needed to get there, then that's what it'd take.

You ball your hands into fists. Getting the king's cargo to the capital - this would be the prologue to the rest of your life.

<END SESSION>
Thank you for playing. This is my first time QMing in a long time, so I hope it was ok. I will post information about the next session in /qsg/
>>186957
and possible in this thread as well a day in advance.

>>201784
I swear on me mum if that cargo are human slaves. Thanks for the session, albeit short. Make a twitter.

>>201784
Thanks for running OP, had a blast!