I. The Sabots-Gonne"The city, man's work, God's playground." A black-lunged poet. A round, another of the strange kind, whose is a dart of brass sound narrow, the wad-cup a stiff niter paper, we load in fore. Nay, not a cannon. A narrow gun before the parapet, whose breech blows out into a horn and a plug. Meant for the the wall, yet for the willing, capable of shoulder. "Vogt?" you say. The vogt nods in turn, leveling the rod before the muzzle, packing it in. He tells me, chin at the gun, "Master. If you do this, the world will know. That you, a mere lordling, can fell goliath or dragon." It is the 1462nd year of our Lord, many an age since the fall of Italy to the Goths. To us. Yea, I am a prince, a free-lord of the Empire, just a shy east of the Friesisk. I hold no more than a manor and to whom the villages I owe protection, and they in kind tithe and corvee labor. The servile know me less, only the mayors, though the village smith and miller know me more.The vogt, sufficed with the ledgers of mayors and arriving to tell me new, was but a ride's too late. He tryed warning me of this so-called-bladders-dragon, yet stomachs prove faster than pony.In front of me, hangs a cruel basket which floats in the air, whose balloon measures like a ox's bladder hundredfold over. From the carrier, a knave levels his six-barrels-gonne, pointing its hollows before us, the slow-match casting embers well into the overcast. "Prithee!" the knave cries out. "Owe your kind regards, release the grain, and I may spare you of my wrathe!"What must I do?>roll 1d20 (averages of first 3, bell curve, intervals of three from check determine extremity, double-crits override, single-crits dont)>let loose the dread sabots-gonne, whose justice sounds louder than a cloud's thunder; DC 12>relent, release the grain, breeches soiled; DC 10>or, other? specify well, lest the unsaid purchase your soul.
>>6462373>let loose the dread sabots-gonne, whose justice sounds louder than a cloud's thunder; DC 12It's literally our main duty.
Rolled 6 (1d20)>>6462397Oh, and a roll.
Rolled 10, 2 = 12 (2d20)>>6462398Locking in. Rolling in lieu.Unless someone were to provide an other between then.
Rolled 13 (1d20)>>6462373>let loose the dread sabots-gonne, whose justice sounds louder than a cloud's thunder; DC 12
Rolled 18 (1d20)>>6462373>Bid the knave closer, as if to submit, so we might shelter from the gonne and cut out his heart with speed and surprise.
>>6462398>>6462735>>6462740Fuck it, different rules. No averages shit.>Anons roll 6, 13, 18 against DC 12. One pass by 1 and 6, one fail by 6. Slight success with mixed severities, both good and bad.The six-barrels stares me down well, its cord showing a whistle a smoke, and if the knave's patience wore ever so thinly, such would mean six times the shot, one landing square in my bosom, the other through dearest vogt, and the rest whistling past, one most definitely striking a poor stable boy."Hands off that dread wall-gunn, good sir, and pass the grain!" shrieks the balloons-knave.Perhaps, it may cross my mind to cajole the knave, to make this poor sort mine own. Offer a court's place, a seat at the table, a roof over his head, and a say in the manor's direction. In exchange, the balloons-knave secures my realm, or perhaps, unveils the secret of the bladder-dragon balloon.But my morals simpler, and my pride, invaluable.Hint: De-escalation, redirection, or co-opting has its reward. Do so via "other" and creative thought. Failing a diplomatic action, most of the time, has a lesser cost than failing direct combat.>18: bid the knave closer, as if submitting, taking shelter.Perhaps, I may step and pray, gutting the knave by feint and a dagger. But he is on a bladders-balloon, and I, on the parapet."Mercy." I say, stepping and praying.The vogt turns to me, saving aside ramrod, and tells me, "Sir. The grain is our tithe."The knave smiles, salivating for promise of grain. This, my opportunity, so I drive my begging knee forward, shoe stringing across stone, lunging my whole self unto the fire-arm, so that I shoulder beneath its breeches-horn.Quick to violence, I am, but swifter than a jack-rabbit, I am not.With but one notice, and a quick finger, each six-barrels muzzle goes aflame, puffing out sulfur and acrid light, two leaden rounds striking parapet, one ripping through the vogt himself, his back misting into sinew, his shirt now hung by a thread.I have a good man brought to pains, and worse of all, the memory of the manor. A good steward of the land, for with it, all the mayors' report were with him and his mind. Knowledge of my realm will prove strenuous, though not without recovery, for the vogt may still live.>6: collateral damage.1/2
>>6462747For myself stepping and praying, lunging unto the sabots-gonne, my posture proves low and true, thus that all other rounds sing above me, mere whiffs of air. Had I stood larger, one may had struck and taken my life.Daring to deliver justice, my finger wraps true, squeezing, turning match unto pan, and births a violence so terrible, the gunn trembles yet firm. The violence shocks forth a thunders-worth sound, breaking all sense, and ringing my ears to a head-tremor's dull. The crack ruptures the sound, a loud boom, like shot breaking wind itself.Smoke plumes forth in two directions, out the fore muzzle, and back the breech-horn. The basket hurts thrice, a small crumple at the front, a greater shred at the back, and worse, the flight of shrapnel swinging to air, the knave stumbling back both from his six-barrels and the sabots-gonne.>13 benefited by 18: fiend out-of-action.Fearing for bruise on body, I take my hand to the shoulder, feeling none but the blouse made dirty. Yea, true was the want of recoil, my shoulder made safe by back-blast blowing out the breech-horn. Otherwise, I too would follow a worse fate, an arm strung by the shoulder, held only by threads."You are out," I say, "and without rounds in the chamber."The knave speaks barely. This, an opportunity.>Cajole, and recruit. But, would I desire a murderer in my court? DC Unknown. Write-in>Call out to my castellan to hurry, and the crossbowmen, of whom number ten. For what? DC Unknown. Write-in.>Load and make ready another, for I am sound and he is not. DC 10.>Otherwise?2/2
Anons, if you may, care to name your lord, your house, and holding... within reason.>[name] von [house], freiherr of [holding]I will go and enjoy my weekend liquor.
>>6462748>Otherwise?Call out for men with grapple and rope for to lay hooks upon the wicker of her bladder-craft and see if it may be pull back from the firmament and atwards Earth>Oskar von Lieblingsmark, Freiherr of Berkenau
Rolled 17, 11, 17 = 45 (3d20)>>6462748>Call out to my castellan to hurry, and the crossbowmen, of whom number ten. For what? DC Unknown. Write-in.Tend to the vogt. That man is our arms, providing reach where we are not, and eyes where we cannot see.>Fredrik von Nassau, freiherr of Roksburg
>>6462766>>6462770I would like to give my support to Oskar von Lieblingsmark & freiherr of Roksburg
>>6462748>Cajole, and recruit. But, would I desire a murderer in my court? DC Unknown. Write-in>"I'll have you know my vogt commands the same weregild as a free knight, but I shall reduce the measure of your atonement and take you into my service as my occultist, if you would but save his life and reveal the secrets of your bladder-dragon and gonne."Support >>6462766's name, house, and holding.Also support commanding our castellan to tend to our vogt.
>>6462748>Call out to my castellan to hurry, and the crossbowmen, of whom number ten. For what? DC Unknown. Write-in.>Tend to the vogt. That man is our arms, providing reach where we are not, and eyes where we cannot see.>>6462750>Fredrik von Nassau, freiherr of Roksburg
