Bay 12 Games Forum

A
There’s no need to be rude, and likely little risk from any potential ambush.

B

Ties to the Baron make it harder to sway the mayor. Beryl, with fewer ties and - probably - a more mercantile mindset will likely be much more easily swayed with the promise of a wealthy patron.

I don’t see a reason why the tavern owner would be of any greater utility than Beryl, but if anybody does, please speak up.

A Chance Meeting

“Hello there.”

The stars stretch out overhead, heedless of the exchange below them as their distant light comes merely close enough to reveal themselves, not others.

“What brings you here at this time of night?”

Wordlessly, the refugee stares at her suddenly-acquired companion. The blindfolded man waits for a bit, then tilts his head.

“What?”

“You’re supposed to be silent out here.” The refugee’s voice has a foreign lilt to it, but a manner familiar to any who’ve dealt with craftsfolk.

The blind man just laughs. “Am I, now? Were you going to say anything, either?”

The refugee turns away, refusing to answer. Her companion gives a brief, knowing snort of amusement. He allows the scene to fall into simple silence for some time, before once more trying to fill the space.

“They tell stories about you, y’know.”

“Do they now.” Her tone is acrid with frustration. “Let me guess. Some sort of heroic resistance against a tyrant who wants to do whatever political thing is locally displeasing and standing up for the rights of this-or-that village standing in as a representation of the common people.”

The blind man’s grin said it all.

“I’m afraid you have the wrong woman.” She increased her pace. The blind man sped up, too, his smile a degree more strained.

“Why, there’s always exaggerations and symbolism in stories, you know how these things are, they’re-“

“Ways to tell people what to think in ways that will make them either think they came up with it themselves or else feel clever when they figure out what your instructions are. I know how these things are.”

The blind man’s smile fully dropped. “Stories are not mental weapons. I do not write mental weapons.”

The refugee shrugged. “What are they, then? They tell people what is good or bad, who to look up to and who to despise. They tell you who to let rule and who to overthrow. They can bind folks together or tear them apart. How many innocent girls get tossed to the flames because somebody told a good enough story?”

It was the blind man’s turn to stare wordlessly at the refugee.

“So that’s the game you wish to play, then. Very well. Then you, too, must admit to making weapons.”

The refugee bristled. “Excuse me?”

“Your every scythe will be weilded in service to feeding armies, your horseshoes and saddles to carry generals’ messages and armored knights. Picks and hammers mine and forge the steel that will become axe, spear, and sword. Every nail you make to roof a house allows another to be used to construct a trebuchet. Am I incorrect?”

“And so I left.”

“After you were ordered to make a sword, and no earlier.”

The conversation faded to silence yet again, but not a comfortable one. The two stalked through the night, onward as they had before.

Finally, the blind man spoke again. Softly, now.

“I do not wish to disparage you. You wield your tools to make tools for others, that they may help themselves as they need. My stories are the same - tools, ways to express oneself, to become more of who you desire to be rather than what you are.”

She was quiet, before finally asking:
“What manner of creature are you, traveler?”

He laughed gently, before responding:
“What manner are you, oh merry blacksmith?”

“A lover of peace.”

“We may agree on that.”

A lapse.

“Do you know what you are seeking in your refuge?”

The refugee’s eyes narrow. “Peace. A place that will not ask me to assist them in waging war and violence.”

The blind man nods, quietly. “Fair. Do you know what I am seeking?” He lets them walk in silence for a moment. “Stories. Not of heroes or kings, you know. Just, peoples’ stories. Something different. Lives that deserve to be remembered, but wouldn’t be. Which, is everybody’s really. But I can’t be everywhere.”

The stars above are beautiful, a slow dance of unearthly colors.

“Do you ever wonder what lies between the stars?”

The refugee starts at the blind man’s tangent. “...no?”

“I think there’s more. More that we can’t see, because the stars are too bright. It’s why you can’t focus too much on the grand heroes and world-shattering events. Everything else gets lost.”

Silence reigns once more. The minutes stretch on as the two walk through the night.

An hour passes. The Traveler nods toward his companion. “Dawn’ll be here in a half hour’s time, but there’s nobody else on this road for a few hours in either direction. You picked your path well, Miss Ashton. Perhaps I’ll see you again.”
He pulls ahead, passes a dilapidated road sign-
-and disappears.

Alethea Ashton narrows her eyes and strides toward the sign.

Leahorn
12 miles

So as an example of what Wealth would be helpful for, it could be used for “Training your Rebels”, but not for “And They Call it a Mine”, yes?

Would “And They Call it a Mine” be something that increases wealth?

The Grey Pact

There are those who fear the night. There are those who stalk the night. There are those who wield the night. There are those who do all three.

Some are born weyrs. Any child of two always will be; a child of one might, though only if born on the night of a full moon. Some become weyrs at a later age; imbibing at least a cup of a weyr's undiluted blood will grant one the transformation, while some curses may inflict the condition. (Despite rumors, victims of a weyr bite are not "infected".)

The transformation of a weyr, despite what the old wives' tales say, are not universally tied to the full moon; some transform at the half moons, others at the new moon. Some transform every night, leading to perpetual insomnia. And although a transformed weyr is not as dumb as a beast, neither are they quite as intelligent as the men and women they typically are, with emotions and instinct reigning above their reason. Therefore, for obvious reasons, many (though, of course, not all) weyrs take efforts to prevent themselves from doing anything foolhardy during their nocturnal transformations; however, there is only so much that an otherwise-nonmagical person can to to ensure a weyr cannot do something.

Enter the Grey Pact.

Like weyrs, many witches attempt to live among "normal" people, be they independent or members of "hearth covens" (as opposed to "wild covens", who keep themselves separate from villages and towns), and prefer that life continue peaceably, if only so that the folks around them do not target them as a scapegoat. As such, witches - skilled potionbrewers and arcanists that they are - generaly agree to provide assistance to their local weyrs to control the animal inside, though the particular means vary from witch to witch. Calming draughts are common, as are wards that prevent the transformed weyr from wandering too far from a safe location. Less common, but frequently more desired, are means to ensure that one keeps their mind during the afflicting nights, while those with nightly transformations frequently seek out those who can provide sleeping potions. Typically, these potions and services will be provided at lower prices than would typically be acceptable; in exchange, weyrs often provide more mundane assistance and favors to their local witches, such as procuring useful ingredients or providing services that, while nonmagical, may raise eyebrows among others, such as the repair and replacement of various brewing tools.

At the same time, there is a mutual understanding of nondefense. Witches and weyrs will help each other, but attention from inquisitors and witchhunters is death; if a witch or weyr wants others to assist them in fighting them off, they will need their own agreement. The Grey Pact is an agreement to avoid such attention being garnered in the first place; once it has been, the most that may be granted is assistance to the unhunted in relocating to quieter ground. There is only so much that can be done to escape the reach of those who would hunt the denizens of the darkness.

Or at least, that is how things stand for now.

---

In case it wasn't clear, "weyr" is how I decided to refer to generalized were-beasts. Werewolves, werebears, weremongeese, weregorillas, the works. Although they'd be weyrwolves et al here.

There is no way in hell that you’re dealing with that swamp like this.

Let’s just get back to base and get some sleep for the night. Nothing else is getting accomplished with a sprained ankle.

I don't think we should get into the habit of changing who people are without their consent. So I suggest we give them the choice of interrogation and death (option a) or being made into an agent the Fox can trust (option b). That way we're not forcing them into it if they're working for the baron out of principle, but if they care more about survival then we get a useful asset.

Hmn, fair enough. +1 to D

Hmn...

One, I think we should go for a modified B. Specifically, we don’t need to modify the Truth of their selves; we just need to reinforce the Truth of their promise to the Red Fox, such that they can’t defy the loyalty that they previously professed.
EDIT: We may be able to simultaneously strengthen the Truth of their role as a double agent while disengaging that Truth’s connection to that of working for the Baron. This would make it so that he’s an even more useful double agent for us.
EDIT2: Switching to Sudo’s suggestion of giving them a choice.

Two, it has occurred to me that the gift from Command that makes such oaths of loyalty binding could very much be made a valid Truth gift. Alternatively, that gift from Faerie Queen that makes any contracts fully binding. Anything that makes sure that promises can’t be broken, you know the deal.