Let's Play Arcanum

So, it seems that Ty'Ler is your typical meta-player.
I bet he will find stolen Garringsburg Painting even before attending quest from Madamme Toussaude.

 

Polly Perkins: Paranoia Laid to Rest

Ty'Ler's good at persuasion and a self-righteous bastard, just like Tyler Durden (also why he starts out fighting unarmed). It only makes sense that he'd deal with Lukan that way. He's not a player, he's a character, and that dialogue would be easy for any smooth talking asshole who's familiar with the region (as he is after his earlier conversation with Ristezze). That attitude's bound to lead him to some trouble eventually, though. Ty'Ler's not my favorite character either. Fortunately, he's not the only survivor we're watching... (I like Polly. She's largely based on my wife.)

#7: Polly Perkins: Paranoia Laid to Rest

1.15.85
I have never known relief like this.

These past two weeks, I've thought myself hunted. Every shadow in this strange land could hide a mortal foe, every snapping twig might be the approach of death itself. For one like me, who has lived most of my life the invisible threat, this was deeply disconcerting. I know how easily a life can be snuffed. I know how many places an assassin can hide in a bare patch of scrub, let alone the forests through which I've been traveling. And the Hand is not some lowly, untrained gang or noisy, indiscriminate death squad. They are the best. That's how they found me, and that's why I joined. If they had betrayed me, I thought it a wonder that I was not yet dead. And it would have been, if they had.

I now know I had been operating under a foolish assumption. I was not the target of the crash of the Zephyr. I assumed the worst when I saw the Hand amulets on those ogres, but it seems I was merely incidental. The real target was some dwarf, apparently, by the name of Radcliffe. A high-profile, high-risk target with a strict deadline, according to my contact. The client who took out the contract is apparently a local power player, and this was some big operation. It had better have been, to be worth risking my life.

My contact here in Dernholm is Vollinger, a prissy little gnome with too much time on his hands. We may have got off on the wrong foot; we met with my knife at his throat. It didn't take long to sort everything out, though. He thought I was dead in the crash his boss orchestrated, and I thought he was trying to kill me. Could have happened to anyone. A few hours of drinking, and all was forgotten. I think I like the greedy little pig-eyed bastard. He's smart, and he thinks before he speaks. My sort of fella. Another thing-- he may be the cleanest person I've ever met. Shoes shined like he thinks he's going to a funeral, never a speck of dust on his jacket. He smells like soap and hair treatment. This could be a great partnership; I like to have a good distraction available when it's time to make a killing.

Vollinger's sent word to Laier that I made it. He's just been placed on an active assignment that he couldn't tell me about, but my arrival may change things a bit. Until we hear back, I'm to stay at the inn here on the Hand's dime. It could be worse. Dernholm's a hellhole, but it's as good a place as any for whiskey.

PP

 

At first I wanted to ask how did Polly circumvent Lukan and his muscle duo on her way to Dernholm, but then I realised she's probably not the kind that's afraid of getting wet and simply swam of the other side of the Shrouded Hills river.

 

Lionel: Cumbrian Girls Approximately

Agreed. I'm sure she could handle it. Up next: (Link in title)

#8: Lionel: Cumbrian Girls Approximately


: Well, at least I'm out of the woods.

It's been a rough few days for Lionel. Though his journey was mostly uneventful, he had to put down an angry black bear a few hours outside of Shrouded Hills. His journey south has finally landed him in Dernholm, the once-proud capital of Cumbria, a dying nation. The hour is late when he arrives in town, but he never considered spending the evening back in the woods and coming into town in the morning. Filthy, worn streets are dimly lit by the occasional flickering lamp, and there is a pervasive smell of rot that reminds him of his youth in the Tarantian Boil. Still, figuring that anything's better than another night spent under a damned tree, he walks up the street until he sees the shingle of an inn. The walls are filthy and caving slightly under a dangerouly sagging roof, but as he sees through the windows light and people and the promise of a bed, Lionel walks past a booze-saturated pile of old rags that almost certainly contains a person somewhere and into the warmth of the bar.

A few heads turn when he enters, but most turn back with just a simple sneer in his direction. Lionel takes stock of the room. A leather-clad half-orc in the corner nurses his beer with an expression that labels him no one's friend. A destitute human woman with angry sores on her face massages her bruised arm and doesn't make eye contact. In the back, a reasonably well-dressed woman who must be the innkeeper doen't even look up from cleaning a stain on the floor. The bartender wears a mask of indifference, his eyes sunken and tired. There are three people at the bar. A man in a dark jacket is talking to a curly haired blonde who may be a half-elf; by the looks of her black leather, the man's name is John. Next to them, a gnome in a ridiculously rustic suit and top hat glares with beady eyes straight at Lionel, his left hand in his jacket. Lionel knows trouble when he sees it, and after years as a body guard, has learned how to deal with it in a place like this. He walks to the bar and turns deliberately to face the gnome in question.
: Evening.

: I've no interest in anything you'd have to say, half-breed.
: [Speaking loudly enough to attract some attention:] Sir! We've only just met and you say such things! [He spreads his arms wide, tactfully opening his own jacket just enough to reveal his holstered revolver.]
: [Glancing around, slightly off-put by the watching eyes] I find your very presence distasteful, to say the least.
: Please, I only wish a moment of your time.
: [The gnome gives Lionel a strange look.] Hmmm. Maybe you and I should speak...
: Er, thank you so very much? Might I ask you a few questions?
: I suppose...
: What do you know of this place?
: Aren't you just full of questions? Can't you let a bloke enjoy his ale...?
: I didn't mean to bother you. Just asking a simple question...
: Yeah? Well, here's a simple question for YOU. What is someone like you doing all the way out here in the middle of this disreputable kingdom? Not exactly the kind of place that someone goes for a holiday...
: Do I look like the sort of man who takes holidays? I'm looking for work.
: [The gnome appears to have lost interest in Lionel.] Well, you came to the wrong place. Haven't you heard? There's no work anywhere in this pissant little country.
: Well, that's a shame.
: It is at that. Now if you'll excuse me, I'll be returning to my ale...
: By all means.
This business taken care of, Lionel turns to the bartender.
: Hello, sir.
: [His tone and his expression flat] What'll it be?
: I'll have a beer. [He hands over 2 coins.] Say, friend, do you know a Sarah Toone?
: Sure. Moved here a few years back. Some sort of family trouble.
: I've got a message for her. Any idea where she lives?
: [His face scrunches up.] A message from who? That girl don't need any more trouble.
: It's nothing like that, I promise you. It's to do with her mother's will.
: [The bartender glares at Lionel coolly, then shrugs.] She's on the main street, about a block that-a-way. Boarded up stone house.
: Thank you, sir. [He buys another drink.] So Ms. Toone's living alone out here?
: 'Fraid so. No one much to turn to, either. Her daddy was a technologist, built mining contraptions, so no one in these parts wants much to do with her. Apart from Jayna, of course, but she's no better off.
: Jayna?

: Oh, have you met Jayna Stiles? Poor girl, living all alone the way she does. And always studying her books... says she wants to be a healer!
: I see... Well, you have my gratitude, sir. It's about time I turn in.
: Right you are. Innkeeper's around the corner.



Lionel rents a room for the night. He's charged double the usual rate, being a half-orc. In the morning, he followed the barman's directions to the home of Sarah Toone. The woman stood alone in a dark room, mopping the floor.

: Excuse me, Ms. Toone?

: [She looks up disdainfully and her tone is acidic.] Go away, half-breed. I don't need your aggravation.
A man can have dignity, or food. Not both.
: Please, excuse my presence, madam. I mean no offense.
: [She sighs heavily and sets her mop against the wall.] No, I must apologize to you. There is no call for me to treat you that way, no matter who you are. My name is Sarah Toone. Pleased to make your acquaintance.
: Likewise, I'm sure. Are you the daughter of Bessie?
: [She suddenly looks very sad.] Yes, yes I am. Why do you ask?
: I am trying to find a way to free your mother's ghost.
: Oh? And why, may I ask, are you doing that?
: Your brother is rather upset, understandably. I offered to help.
: My brother? Upset? Why? He should be happy, the dog! He got what he wanted, after all.
: He told me you didn't like him.
: "Not like him"? That is an understatement. Do you know what he did? He convinced my mother to sign the mine over to him, and then he sold it to those thugs in Tarant! She killed herself over that!
: How did he convince her to sign?
: She always wanted me to run it, as my brother was notorious for bungling things. He convinced her that "for legal reasons" it should be in his name as she was getting old, and I was not yet of legal age. She resisted at first, but my brother always was able to wear her down. He was insidious in that way.
: But why did she kill herself over him selling it?
: Her only wish was that the mine stay in our family, as it had been for more than three generations. It was our heritage. She often told me that she would rather be dead than to have anyone else but a Toone run it.
: Did you know she's calling your name? Why is that?
: Yes, I had heard that...I don't know why. I think she realized that I was the only one she could trust. Perhaps she wishes she had come with me...or...[she chokes back tears]...or she feels I deserted her when she needed me...I just couldn't stand to watch her life being ripped away from her.
: Can you tell me who owns your family's mine now?
: I can't recall, offhand, but I think I wrote it down somewhere...[she shuffles through some papers]. Yes, here it is. Stanton Importers, 25 Lion's Head Circle, Tarant.
: [He writes this down.] Thank you. So, what was your brother's excuse for selling the mine?
: He concocted some story about the buyers threatening his life if he didn't sell. I think he owed them money, actually, but he would never admit it.
: That bastard... The whole damned town was dependent on that mine...
: Believe me, I know.
: So why did you move here? This place has seen better times.
: I knew what my brother was going to do as soon as he "stole" the mine from me and my mother. I couldn't bear to watch. I tried to get my mother to come with me, but she wouldn't leave her home. I moved here because I had nothing...I don't even own this place, it was deserted.
: Your brother wouldn't help you out? He seems to be well off.
: Are you serious? I would never ask for his help.
: I see... Listen, Sarah, would you be interested in owning the mine again?
: Of course I would...but I thought you were working for my brother.
: I was, but I don't think I like him much anymore.
: Hah! Join the club. You know, I am beginning to like you. [She sighs.] I can't pay you for your help, you know.
: Ah. Well... [He thinks of Doc Roberts, and he sets his jaw.] No. That is quite alright. I want to help you out.
: I thank you for that...but I realize the strong appeal of money. I want you to know I would hold no ill will towards you if you decided to help my brother instead.
: Don't worry. I'll be setting out for Tarant later today.
: Thank you. [She picks up her mop and sees Lionel to the door.]
: Oh, before I go, I understand you have a friend named Jayna?
: Ms. Stiles? Yes, she's a nice girl. Studying to be a healer. I worry about her though.
: Why's that?
: Well, let's just say her studies aren't very popular around here.
: Can you point me towrd her home? [Sarah looks unsure.] I may need some medicines for the trip to Tarant.
: Oh... yes, she lives in a wooden house on the southern edge of town, just by the docks.
: Thank you. I hope to return with some news shortly...



Lionel finds the healer's house with ease, knocks, and enters. The walls are lined with book shelves and drying herbs. The woman of the house is obviously a half-elf. She's young, and though pale and a bit skinny, is quite attractive. Lionel trips over his own tongue as he speaks to her.
: I, ah, that is... Erm, so--

: (Oh gods, a half-wit half-orc.) I do not have time for half-orcs. Please leave.
: [Regainging his composure] Madam! Did I hear you correctly? What have I done to offend you?
: I don't mean to be rude, but I just don't like you, sir. Please, just leave me alone...
: Madam! Please! Can't we talk in a more civilized manner...?
: [The woman seems a little embarrassed at her words.] I'm sorry. Sometimes I don't think before I speak. Perhaps we might start again?
: I'd like that, madam. Are you Jayna Stiles?
: Yes, I am. How can I help you?
: Your friend Sarah told me you're a healer. May I ask, what are you doing here in Dernholm?
: Oh... You know Sarah. [She relaxes.] What am I doing here? Well, what does anyone really do in Dernholm? Not much to do in this town...wasn't always this way, to hear the way my parents used to talk about it. [She seems a little sad, sighing.] Yes, I guess you could say I'm a healer, if I'm anything at all...
: What sort of healing do you do?
: Well...I don't really do any of it very well. There hasn't been a decent doctor around here for a very long time, and our best midwife died not too long ago. I really want to learn, but there's not really anyone to learn from. [She gets a determined look in her eyes.] But I'm still trying! You see, it's really important to me that I become a great healer....
: Why is that, Jayna?
: Well...[She looks to the ground. Lionel sees that this is difficult for her to talk about.]...there was a disease that came to Dernholm a few years ago. As I told you, there hasn't been a doctor here for a long time. We didn't have any medicines, and shipments from Tarant are very scarce...
: And so?
: Well, my parents got sick, you see...[Tears well up in her eyes.] They were so brave, right up until the end...but they died. Many others died here as well. No one around knew how to deal with such sickness, and so all we could do is sit here and watch our loved ones pass away. [She dries her eyes.] And it was then that I decided...
: What did you decide?
: I decided that I never wanted to watch people die that way again. I decided to become a great healer...to save others from the pain I felt when I saw my parents die. And so that's what I've been trying to do...
: I see. How are your studies progressing?
: Not too well, unfortunately. As I said there's not anyone to learn from around here. I have a little healing skill, but I'm just no good at magick. [She lowers her voice, leaning towards you.] Actually, I'm very interested in some of the newer, technological practices...
: Really? [His eyebrows rise slightly and he smiles. She flinches back, almost unnoticeably.] Do you really think technology is better?
: Shhh! Keep your voice down! Don't you know? You can't even talk about such things around here...it's the law! King Praetor got it in his old noggin a long time ago that technology is terrible, and he doesn't want anyone even thinking about it. [She looks about.] You see where THAT has gotten us...
: Yes, well... Do you know much about...er...THAT sort of healing?
: Not a whole lot. I've read a few textbooks...I have to keep them well-hidden, mind you...but there really just isn't much to be learned around here...
: [With growing excitement] Well, why don't you leave? Go to, erm, Tarant, maybe?
: [She sighs.] I can't really afford to. My parents weren't wealthy people, and I don't make much money here in Dernholm. Plus, it's not all that safe for a woman to be travelling all by herself. I'm afraid that I'm stuck here, for now...
: Hmmm. Maybe you'd like to come along with me...?
: [Hope flares in her eyes, mixed with fear.] What? What do you mean?
: Well, I'm...er...travelling. I'm going to Tarant to help Sarah Toone get her family mine back. I'm a bit of a technologist myself, and I could really use a scientific healer...
: Really? I mean...I don't know very much...I don't know how much help I would be...
: Perhaps we could learn things together...?
: [She laughs aloud, clapping her hands together, and Lionel's stomach feels suddenly light.] Oh yes! That sounds just wonderful! [She looks Lionel in the face again, and her smile fades somewhat.] I mean... Well... [Her face becomes determined.] Yes. Any friend of Sarah's is a friend of mine. I'll work my very hardest to learn while we're abroad...you can count on me, sir! I won't let you down... [She takes a few things from her wooden chest, grabs two books from a shelf, puts them in a rucksack, and turns back to Lionel.]
: So... you'll, er, come along, then?
: Yes! I would love to come with you! I'm ready to go right now!
: Well! Wonderful! I-- Er... Yes. Then let's do so.



On their way out of town, Jayna is practically skipping. Though she seems slightly leery of Lionel's company, she teems with excitement at the thought of leaving Dernholm for good.
: So, Jayna, What can you tell me about this place?
: Well, that's a long story. You see, Cumbria was once a powerful kingdom...I don't know a lot of history, but I do know that Dernholm was once as powerful as Tarant, or Caladon...
LI:So I've heard. What happened?
: Well...King Praetor decided long ago that he would tolerate no technology in his kingdom. He was, well...influenced...by his mage "counselors". King Praetor assumed the throne at a very young age, and he was very impressionable...
: Please, continue...
: Well, eventually there was a war between Tarant and Cumbria, and Tarant was victorious. The Dragon Knights... King Praetor's Elite guard... were almost all wiped out in the final battle. Dernholm crumbled, deteriorated into what you see here today...
: I see... Very interesting. Thank you, Jayna.
: So... we're really doing this, then? We're going to Tarant?
: Of course.
: Well, come on! [She laughs, and runs along past the end of the road. Lionel takes off and passes her.]

 

I'm curious - how much do you tailor what happens to your characters due to random in-game events? Or do you mostly ignore them (even if you die, in which case you reload) as you know in a fairly asciptive sense what is going to happen next? I haven't read too many LPs, most mentionable is DE's epic one, so I'm not too sure how authors decide how things are going to play out?

 

I ignore most of the random events because I've plotted out most of the story in advance, but that's not the case with all LPs. Most of the ones that are about gameplay rather than roleplay go through random events in detail.

There will be a few deaths which actually happened during gameplay, though, and I've worked them into the plot. Likewise a few of the random encounters (more would get redundant fast) and equipment changes. There weren't very many deaths, though; all three main characters have strong builds.

 

Well it's nice to hear you have put so much forethought into your LP, should make for it being very interesting in the long run as it has been already.

 

Hope so. Thanks for the vote of confidence!

 

Re: Lionel: Cumbrian Girls Approximately

Like your descriptions before and during the pub scene and the atmosphere they created.

Another thing, the latest update shows that Lionel apparently has more compassion than I anticipated.

Figured he would choose Percival's coin over working towards returning the mine to the rightful owner. He also appears to actually care about the welfare of the people of Shrouded Hill and how it was affected by Percival. Didn't expect that from a cynical half orc.

Then again, so far it's nothing more than words. Half expecting it will all turn out to be deception and that 500 coin will be worth screwing over Sarah and Jayna for him.

Not sure how this situation is supposed to be interpreted. What exactly was going on in Lionel's head when he thought about Doc Roberts? How did that influence his declared decision?

 

Half-Orc is emulating Doc Roberts, whom he hero-worships. Duh.

 

Lionel: Hos before Bros

Thanks for the comment, Muro. It may be deception, as you point out, or that he's just working both angles to see which one plays out. He may still be debating the issue.

As for the Doc Roberts thing, I was hoping it would indicate that Lionel prized the respect he received after helping out with local concerns, and that he recognized that helping with the mine would help his friend, the doctor. Doc Roberts himself, having a "fair pay for a fair day" sort of mindset, might not object to taking the deed to Percival, but he would likely bring it to Sarah if it were his choice to make.

Edit: Awesome, third page. The second was getting annoyingly image-heavy.

Edit: Spot on, Grakelin. Edit again: Scranton, eh? I grew up near Pittsburgh.

#9: Lionel: Hos before Bros

Just a short one today. Thanks for the encouragement.

The journey out from Dernholm toward Tarant is long and forlorn. The failing kingdom of Cumbria, in its decline, has spent little on infrastructure, and travelers in any direction must walk for several days through barren wilderness. The closest thing to a proper road through the once-proud nation is a loose trail of decaying relics from the last war with the Unified Kingdom dotted here and there throughout the area. There are many clearings where the grass may never grow again, scorched by magic or sullied by saltpeter. To the right kind of mind, it's a fascinating and perhaps even inspiring glimpse into recent history. To Lionel, on the other hand, it's a miserable, mosquito-infested patch of blighted forest and featureless dirt.

He tries not to let this show to Jayna, who does not yet seem convinced she's made a wise decision in accompanying him, but the only pleasure he finds in this sort of travel is shooting wild animals. It always gives him the odd sense that he's getting his own back against the landscape. Jayna, for her part, is suitably awed by his shooting.

: Impressive! ...Tell me, is this normal?
: What do you mean?
: Well, do wolves often attack travelers like that?
: No. But if they're hungry enough and you get in their territory, they see you as either a meal or a threat.
: But we've come across six of them in the past couple of hours... How can there be so many around here?
: You see that cave on the hillside?
: Yes?
: It's a den for the blasted things.
: Really? How can you tell?
: ...There are signs. Ways the dirt's packed, some of the weeds growing around the mouth... You just have to know what to look for.

Lionel, looking back at the half-elf, is pleased he decided against answering honestly. He didn't know the first damn thing about tracking, but a half-orc's superior olfactory senses are not often received well in polite company. Besides, the respect in her expression is worth a few lies.



: Wait... A lot of people travel this way in Cumbria. If those wolves aren't afraid to attack them, shouldn't we do something about it?
: Oh... (Shit.) Of course! Yes, let's go in there... Stay behind a bit, though.
: Oh, I will.



The cave is dank, filthy, and full of wolves and plague-infested rats. Jayna is happy to take Lionel's advice, standing back to let him work. In the back of the cave is a rotting corpse. Lionel is surprised to see Jayna, rather than recoiling in horror, begin to examine and to loot it.
: He's been picked clean. A soldier, by the look of his helmet. Looks like he was quite young, too... Mid-twenties, if I'm any judge. And he didn't die here. He was dragged quite a way.
: Er... Really?
: These wolves must have been a real threat. [She smiles at Lionel] You've done travelers here a good turn.
: [Timidly returns the smile.]



From here, they continue north and reach the great, deforested plains of Morbihan. This is more to Lionel's liking, bereft as it is of noisome animals and sight-obscuring plants. He nearly begins to whistle, but stops himself when he sees the sour look on Jayna's face as she takes in the flat expanse of dead grass all around them. He's about to speak up when two figures leap from behind a nondescript stump. Lionel's revolver is out in a moment and he's pushed Jayna behind him before one of the green bandits speaks.



: Stop, huma...[he pauses to take a look at Lionel]. Hah hah! I thought you human! But you one of us! You can go, friend!
: [Stares coolly at Lionel, then turns and begins to walk away.]
: Wait, I-- (Blast...) [To the orc] Hold on... I don't approve of all this! You're giving us a bad name! [Jayna looks back.]
: What?! Go 'way, boot licker, or we beat you cuz we true orcs!
: You'll be licking my boots before this is through, swine! [He fires, hitting the armored orc in the arm. The two bandits charge him together. He barely manages to get off a second shot before deeply regretting this foolish attempt at chivalry when one plunges a rusted axe under his floating ribs. The situation looks bleak until Jayna, standing behind the armored orc, slits his throat with her dagger.



They turn their attention one the second orc, whose life Lionel extinguishes with a bullet to the heart. The brute has hardly struck the ground before Jayna has her bandages out and Lionel's shirt off. She begins cleaning his wound.
: It's not that deep, and it didn't cut into any organs. [she applies a medicinal poultice over the bottom layer of bandages.] You should be fine.
: ...Thank you.
: You did the right thing, not letting those savages get away with it.
: ...Yes.
: That jacket's pretty well ruined, though. I don't suppose you have anything else to wear?
: Well...
: Go ahead.

She turns around and walks a few paces away for modesty's sake. When she turns back around:



: ...
: ...
: ...I'll go with my other clothes. [He pulls his trousers back on and picks up his jacket.]
: Come here. I think I need to adjust your bandages.

She pulls out her dagger. Lionel's eyes widen and he starts to run. In a few seconds, they're both laughing. The pair continue toward the smog of Tarant, still distant, but now visible on the horizon.

 

Yeah, I've lived near Scranton all my life. Own a beet farm just outside of town.

 

You're really breathing some life into Jayna, considering how dull she is ordinarily. Great stuff.

 

These are very enjoyable. Please continue.

 

Polly Perkins: This Is an Ex-Wizard

Glad you guys are enjoying it! I hope it continues to please.

#10: Polly Perkins: This Is an Ex-Wizard


: Perkins. Get up. We're active.
: Oh?
: The half-orc in the bar's a contact. Grab your things. We're going to Blackroot. [Vollinger adjusts his tie.]
: Finally. Who's the mark?
: Some hedgewizard.
: You know the client?
: [Fiddling with his cufflinks] Not one of ours. An Underground elf named D'ak Taan. We're to meet him for a cozy little drink at the Sour Barnacle when the job's done.
: The Sour Barnacle?
: Local bar. Good atmosphere.
: Right. Anything special I should know?
: Our man knows there's a price on his head. Even knows who sent us. We won't be the first.
: So long as we're the last. Anything else?
: It's not really the wizard the elf's after. He's got a statue in the house. Some kind of elven holy relic. [He inclines his head in Polly's direction.] Suppose you'd know more about it.
: Not my area.
: [He shrugs.] Well, the point is, we're only getting paid for the statue. Everything else is at our discretion.
: Right. Let's move.

Polly and Vollinger travel light and move quickly. Mere hours later, they've arrived. Blackroot is a port town. It wasn't much to look at until recently, but trade has been booming since it changed its allegiance from Cumbria to the Unified Kingdom. Things have been moving fast, and the town even has a railroad now, a rare and expensive wonder of modern engineering. But Polly and Vollinger are not here for sightseeing.


: [Knocks twice at the door, then opens it and walks in.]
: Ahhh! A thief in my house! What do you want?
: I need the contents of your chest. Don't cross me. [He tugs at his black leather gloves.]
: What? Are you one of D'ak Taan's cronies? [He sticks out his chest, but his knees are quaking.] D-didn't he tell you what I did to the last cretiin he sent here?
: [Vollinger's hand disappears into his suit jacket.] Perhaps you'd like to show me.
: [Recoiling and clutching his collar] Please! I was only joking! [He looks Vollinger over, considering.] M-maybe you and I could strike a deal, eh?
: [His eyes narrow.] Keep it short, old man.
: Okay! Okay! I will give you a very powerful scroll, as long as you leave the rest of my belongings. It will help you to kill D'ak Taan and his crew, and then you can have all of HIS treasures!
: Hmm. Sounds intriguing. And you are a gnome. All right. Done. Hand it over.
: Oh, thank you so much, good sir! You won't regret your decision! Thank you! [He shuts the door behind Vollinger, and retreats back a few steps. He covers his head in his hand and takes several slow, deep breaths.]
: Good gods... That was--ggk!


: [Raps on the wall] Hurry up in there. Taan's already at the tavern.
: [Walking out with the statue under her arm] Let's go see an elf about a grog.

 

Ty'Ler Do'Urden: Faces of Tarant

Rather a long one today. Recognize anyone?

#11: Ty'Ler Do'Urden: Faces of Tarant

Ty'Ler, Virgil, and Sogg have finally completed their long journey to Tarant. They encountered only one site of interest on the way: an old stone altar in a clearing littered with various mammalian remains.

: Hold on a moment. I just have to know what this is...
: Very well, sir.

: There's an inscription on this altar stone...

: "Great Torg, Mighty Torg..." I've never heard of such a thing...
: Torg? He's an ol' ogre god. Ver' powerful. Ver' wise.
: Really? How do you know about this?
: There was this half-ogre I met once, Ogdin someth‌in'. Smart boy. Knew all sorts of things. I jus' wanted to drink, but he kept going on about human and gnomish history and all that. So I asked him, what about ogres? And he said he didn't know much, but he'd heard of Torg. He told me a story about him. Don't really r'member it, but it was... important... [His eyes stare into the distance.]
: I see... What sort of a god is this Torg?
: Sir! I really don't think this is the sort of thing you should concern yourself with.
: [Shoots Virgil a nasty look.] He's strong. Hard. Knows about discipline.
: Thank you, Sogg. I really don't know much about the gods of this land... I'll have to look into this.
: [His lips and eyes narrow, but Virgil says nothing. The party continues on.]


This journey is now behind them, however, and they have at last entered the sprawling industrial city of Tarant. Evening is upon them and they are exhausted from their trek, but the excitement of finally reaching their destination urges them on.

: Well, here we are. What shall we do, sir? Joachim's telegram should have arrived by now, there's this letter from that poor woman in the crash, and we have the address for those jewelry dealers...
: [Looking in a shop window] Those can wait. There's something much more urgent I must see to. [He opens the door, and the others follow him into the shop.]

As they enter, a well-dressed elf with a tape measure around his collar and a spring in his step emerges from the back room.

: Are you being served, sir?
: Ah, no. Is there someone here who can assist me?
: Yes, I'm free!
: Oh, good. It's always nice to spend time with one's own kind, eh?
: I'm sure I don't know what you're implying.
: Never mind. I'm looking for something in a smoking jacket.
: Ah! Say no more, sir! I have just the thing. Now this article is hand stitched in Ashbury from finest red velvet. Note the filigree on the lapel, sir. Just the thing for a self-assured elf about town.
: Oh yes. Very fine. I'll try one.
: Wonderful. Do you know your size, sir?
: Erm, no, I'm afraid not.
: Not to worry, sir. It's but the work of a moment... [The tailor takes his tape measure from about his neck and sets to work.]
: Um, do you really need my inside leg for a jacket?
: Oh, yes, sir. It affects the setting of the pocket on the hip, sir.
: ...I see.
: Oh my, sir is broad shouldered for an elf, isn't sir.
: Ah, well, I was in the military for a few years.
: Oh really? I suppose it was just one term of service?
: Yes, but I had quite a long one.
: Is that so? That must have made sir very popular. Now, let's try a 28... [He helps Ty'Ler into the smoking jacket.] Oh, this *is* you, sir. Definitely you. Just the style for a distinguished gentleman. I can just see you now, reading your evening paper in the gentlemen's club, a glass of cognac in your free hand, the other patrons thronged about waiting on tenterhooks to benefit from your wisdom...
: Are you sure about the fit? It seems a bit tight to me.
: Mm, they are being worn tight this season, sir.
: It, er, it grips me under the arms.
: Yes, well, there's a lot of tension in Caladonian wool, sir. That's in the lining, sir, you see.
: I don't know. I think I'd better try the next size up.
: Certainly, sir. [The tailor takes the garment back to the rack and returns a moment later, jacket in hand.] Let's see how this fits.
: [Pulls it on.] Hmm. Yes...
: Oh yes, you're absolutely right, sir. That's much better.
: Yes, indeed. Although it seems to me the sleeves may be a bit long...
: Oh, don't worry, sir. They'll ride up with wear.
: Really.
: Oh, yes, sir. And this velvet is a very durable and hard-wearing material. Rarely needs cleaning, and it can last a lifetime. I do wish I could afford one.
: Oh... yes, very well. I'll take it.
: Wonderful, sir! I'll just ring up your total...
: I must say, you're quite the silver-tongued salesman.
: Well, ever since I was on my mother's knee, I learned from the best, sir.
: Oh? Who's that?
: My mother, sir.
: I see. Well, I fancy myself a bit of a conversationalist. I don't suppose you could give me a quick lesson?
: For 92 coins, sir, I'll be at your beck and call.
: That sounds very agreeable.


The two elves spend several instructive minutes in the back room, exchanging fine points of the garrulous arts. When they emerge, Ty'Ler feels confident that he could sell the Garrillion Bridge to any given tourist. After settling up and bidding his new friend a fond farewell, Ty'Ler rejoins his companions and precedes them through the door.

: That went well, I thought.
: [Scrutinizing the jacket] Yes, of course, sir.
: Wonderful salesman, that man.
: Indeed, sir. He must have been.
: Oh? Why?
: Because when you asked for a larger size, he came back with precisely the same jacket.
: [Stops short.] He--
: It is a nice fit, though.
: Yeah, ver' becomin'.
: ...Neither of you is ever to speak of this again. Clear? Come with me. We have a dying wish to fulfill.


Walking down Devonshire Way, Ty'Ler spots a uniformed officer of the law.
: Excuse me, officer. Have you a moment?

: Sir, it is a pleasure.
: I'm new here. Could you help me?
: Certainly. I'm Constable Gladstone. What can I do for you gentlemen?
: I have a message to deliver to a guard by the name of Jared. He may be posted at the Vermillion train station...?
: Oh! Yes, I know the man. He's a captain of the guard, you know. Just down the street that way. He's on duty at the doors right now. Give him my best.
: Thank you, sir. May all your watches be untroubled.



: Hello, officer.
: Hello. What can I for you?
: Might I ask who you are?
: I am called Jared. Captain of the Vermillion Station guard.
: I see. We, uh, were part of the rescue team for the IFS Zephyr. I have a note for you.
: [He reads the note.] Wilhemina! Where is she?
: I'm sorry, sir. She's dead.
: Noooooo! [He begins sobbing.]
: You have my condolences, sir.
: And my prayers.
: [He continues to sob for a few moments before composing himself.] I know I've no right to ask this of you, but...could you do me a favor?
: Of course.
: Could you stop by the stonecutter's for me? I need a tombstone made for my... for Wilhemina. It is very important to me. His shop is on the corner of Mulligan Bone Alley and East End avenue. Tell him to come round to visit me, I can't leave my post.
: Of course.
: Thank you.



: Hello? Can I help you, sir?
: Jared, the captain of the Vermillion guard, sent me. His girl has died; he needs a head stone.
: Oh, how sad. I will be sure to stop by later to speak with him about it. Thank you.
: Thank you, sir. I'll let him know.



: [Jared looks up from the ground slowly as Ty'Ler approaches. Tears run down his cheeks, though his expression is stoic.] Yes, sir, can I help?
: We spoke with the stone cutter. He will be dropping by.
: Thank you. Please, leave me to my grief.
: You have our sympathies. Good evening, sir.

: Well, then, gentlemen. Do either of you know much about this city?

: Tarant? I don't, uh, know much about the place. [Virgil looks uncomfortable.] I don't much like cities... always feel so crowded, hedged in. I'd rather not say anymore about it...
: I see. And you, Sogg? Know anything about this place?

: Huh? [He squints, wobbling a little.] Looks like Tarant. I think we should stop by Grant's Tavern... uh, over on Kensington, I think. Best wine [HIC!] in th' city. Or there's always Caleb Malloy's in the Boil, but ya gots t' be [HIC!] careful over there...
: Really? I must say, Sogg, you're very well informed. Do you have the time, Virgil?
: I thought you carried a pocket watch.
: Misplaced it in Shrouded Hills, I believe. Never kept very good time, anyway.
: Well, it's nearly eleven.
: Grant's Tavern, eh?
: Best bar in town.
: Sounds just the thing. Lead on, Sogg.


The bar is cheerful but subdued, the bartender a fresh-faced young man with easy rapport:

: Good evening, sir.
: What can I help you with, sir?
: A bottle of the house and three glasses.
: As you say, sir.
: Tell me, what advice have you for someone new to the city?

: Sure. I'm not from around here myself. If you're trying to find someone in Arcanum, try the Hall of Records here in Tarant. They seem to know where a lot of people live...
: I am in your debt, sir. Is there anything else you can tell me?

: Well, I hear it might be a good idea to lock up your valuables. There's been a number of robberies in the city, mostly of precious art.
: That's appalling! [He spills some of his wine. Virgil and the bartender share a glance.] I'll have to have a word with the guard, see if we can help in any way. I can't believe--
: Yes indeed, sir. We shall have to offer our services. In the morning. For now, I think we'd best be about our business, yes?
: Yes. Y-eesss. Yes. [He rises.] Thank you, sir, for your servicing. Our complimentaries to Mister Grant.
: [Looking back and forth from Virgil to Ty'Ler.] Er, right. Thank you, sir. I'll... pass that along.
: You just see that you do, my man. [Adjusts his gauntlets.]
: Come along, sir. Sogg, you can bring the bottle. [Turning away, he leaves a hefty tip on the bar.]


: Sir, if you don't mind me asking, are you much of a drinker?
: Not really, not, not, not real-ly, no. But I can hold my liquor quite well, so I'm told, you know.
: Of course, sir. Now, I see the telegraph office is next door. Shall we go along to retrieve Joachim's message?
: Just what I was going to suggest. Come on, you two!
The telegraph office is run by a slim, bloodnut human.

: Evening, all. How may we at the Tarant Telegraph Office help you today?
: Do you have a telegram for Virgil?
: I'm sorry, sir, I'll need--
: My identification, sir. There should be a message from an Elder Joachim.
: Ah. Yes, indeed, sir. [He shuffles some papers around.] Yes, we do as a matter of fact. That will be 2 coins.
: Here you are.
: And here you are. A pleasant evening to you.
: And to you, sir. [Takes the message outside to read it. His face pales and he silently hands the telegram to Ty'Ler.]


: The telegram sent by Elder Joachim... I don't know what to make of it. It seems that he thinks it very important to find out why these men are trying to kill you...much more important than being here to protect you...
: I thought that was supposed to be your job, Virgil...
: It is, blast it! I'm sorry...I don't mean to get so angry...I just don't have any idea what's going on here. All I know is that Joachim showed me a better way, a new faith, and now I'm involved in something even I don't believe. [He looks at Ty'Ler, questioningly.] What do YOU think?
: [His glassy-eyed stare and curling upper lip would frighten his companion, were he not also staggering slightly backward.] Per'aps I am who you say. I'm certainly willing to accept the possibility...

: Aren't we quite a pair? The would-be elven god and his jester. [He laughs.] I don't know which one of us is crazier. We'll probably both end up in the asylum. [Smirking.] Might be a tad safer, in any case. At least there you know who the bloody mad men are...
: [Steadying himself on a lamppost] Are you mocking me, Virgil? I may not be an elven god... at least, not yet... but I damn well know what's righteous. Believe what you like. I'm undecided. Either way, we have to deal with the task before us.
: [Virgil studies Ty'Ler for a moment, then nods his head.] Yes...there is a particular wisdom in your words. [He laughs.] And crying about this prophecy gibberish isn't going to keep a knife out of your ribs. I'll shut up for a while, and we'll concentrate on that ring. If we find the owner, maybe we'll find out why those bloody assassins want it so badly...
: That sounds fine, Virgil...
: Alright. [He seems relieved.] Listen, Tarant is a big city, and a man needs to watch what he does and who he talks to. Believe me, I know a lot about surviving in places like this. This, and worse. Just keep one eye always open, and one hand always on your weapon. You can't trust strangers, and sometimes not even your friends. I used to, uh...
: Sounds like you know a lot about surviving in the streets...
: I used to...well...that was another time. [He looks down.] I...uh...know my way around. Just be on your guard, and I'll be watching out for you as well...
: Virgil...what is it? Where do you come from?
: No! I don't want to talk about it! [He shakes his head.] I'm sorry, I don't mean to...there's so much I have to learn. Joachim says the free man is defined by what he does today. I'll look no more behind me...
: I see. Let's go Virgil...
: Yes. Let's, uh...let's keep moving forward... Look, it's been a long night... Why don't we rent a room for the evening?
: Great idea. Sogg, do you know any good hotels?
: Uh... There's Poone's. But it's not too posh. Never seen an elf there.
: Hmm... Any action to be found there?
: Oh, for gods' sakes... Follow me. There's a place called the Bridesdale next to the station.


The trio proceed up the road toward the inn, Ty'Ler and Sogg staggering slightly and Virgil's eyes darting into every dark corner. On arrival, they find a particularly grand one story building with a beautifully uniformed halfling doorman.

: Greetings, sir. And who might you be?
: My name is Ronald Langley. I am the doorman for The Bridesdale Inn, the finest hotel in all of Tarant.
: So you would recommend staying here?
: Oh, I highly recommend staying here at the Bridesdale, sir. The décor is quite modern, the rooms richly appointed and the rates are the lowest you will find in all of Tarant. I am sure you will be extremely pleased if you decide to stay with us.
: Wonderful! Before we go, are there any sights in Tarant that you would recommend?
: University park is probably the "must see" area of Tarant. That quarter of town is a wealth of knowledge. It houses the city hall, the zoological society, and the university. They are simply awe inspiring!
: Hmm. That sounds great, but I'm looking for something more adventurous...
: [He winces] Oh really, sir!
: (It never hurts to ask.)

: I see. [Ronald reaches into his pocket and produces a business card, which he hands to Ty'Ler. He continues in hushed tones.] Then Madam Lil's is the place for you. I am sure that she will have something to satisfy your adventurous nature.
: Thank you very much, sir. I'll certainly keep that in mind. Come along, Virgil, Sogg.



A few short minutes later, the room is paid for and Ty'Ler, having placed his new smoking jacket on the bedpost, has fallen asleep in his clothes.
: Virgil, I think our man may have a [HIC!] problem wi' his drink.
: (Gods help us...) Yes. I'll deal with it.
: [Nods as if to say that's taken care of. The two proceed to their rest.]


Ty'Ler is the first out of bed and proceeds to the lobby for a newspaper.

: Hmm... [Goes out to speak to a paperboy. A few minutes later, he returns, looking thoughtful.]
It's another half-hour before the others leave their room.
: Good morning, sir. How's your head?
: Virgil, good morning. Take a look at this.
: Hmm? Oh dear.
: Quite so. We really will have to look in on this.
: We will?
: But before we do, I don't suppose you know where this is printed?
: Oh, well, yes, actually. Why do you--
: No questions. Lead on, brave Virgil! This is a day for action!


Mr. Langley tips his hat as they leave. Virgil and the others proceed a few blocks away to the Tarantian Editorial Office. Ty'Ler knocks, and enters. A balding, middle aged man with extraordinarily bushy eyebrows is smoking a cigar inside.

: Good morning, sir! Might I ask your name?

: I'm Mr. Wright. Editor of the Tarantian, finest newspaper in all the land. Who are you?
: My name is Ty'Ler Do'Urden.
: What can I help you with, Mr. Do'Urden?
: I might have a newsworthy story for you.
: Excuse me. If I may just borrow my friend a moment... (Sir, I hope you're not about to--)
: Nonsense, Virgil. I'm not the sort for sneaking about. There are wrongs to right, and I've no time for hiding. So, Mr. Wright, are you interested?
: Well, this is the Tarantian. News is our business. We pay quite well... for a good story. What have you got?
: [Pulls out an older newspaper from his pack and sets it on Mr. Wright's desk.]

: I am the sole survivor of the IFS Zephyr crash. Does that qualify as a good story?
: No! YOU? You are the sole survivor from the IFS Zephyr tragedy?
: My passport and my ticket, sir. [He produces them from a jacket pocket.]
: What a godsend! What a human interest spread!
: Excuse me?
: Just an expression. Industry jargon. No offense meant. But I must have your story! I'll pay you 500 coin, on the spot, if you'll answer my questions.
: Oh really? Five hundred! You've got yourself a story, Mr. Wright! Ask away!
: Oh gods... [Covers his face in his hands.]
: First of all, I realize it was a very traumatizing experience. Please take your time. If you need to stop for a few moments, I fully understand. Are you ready?
: Yes. Thank you for your understanding. We can begin.
: So Mr. Do'Urden, you are the sole survivor from the horrendous IFS Zephyr disaster?
: Yes. I am sorry to say that no one else survived the impact.
: Do you have any idea what caused the great air ship to plummet?
: There was a tremendous explosion... it shook the entire vessel...
: Yes...
: I didn't see anything in the air, but I heard the sound of gunfire...
: [He scowls.] Gunfire? At that altitude? How is that possible?
: I also heard engines... I believe there were two different ones.
: Engines? The Zephyr was a one of a kind. What else could have been up there with you?
: There was wreckage also, near the blimp. Some strange craft...
: More flying craft? Incredible! [writing notes frantically] So you don't think it was an accident? ...Or sabotage? ...You're telling me that the IFS Zephyr was shot out of the sky deliberately? By some sort of secret air craft?
: Yes. That's as much as I've been able to piece together.
: Astonishing. Simply astonishing! Sir, may I take a quick photograph?
: Of course. [Ty'Ler poses. Mr. Wright takes the photo himself.]
: [looking very strange - a mixture of shock and elation] Mr. Do'Urden! You've just given me the story of a lifetime! Thank you so much! Here... Here's the coin I promised. You've more than earned it. I've got to get this to the presses immediately! Goodbye!
: Goodbye. Oh, before I go, one final thing-- do you know where I can find the university? There's something I need to research.
: Of course. Take the steamrail. There's a station just outside; you can't miss it. Thank you again! Good day, sir.
: Good day.
: Sir--
: Later, Virgil. [adjusts his jacket.] I have to see a man about a god.



The headline goes out with the morning edition. By midday, it's the talk of the town.

 

You couldn't find image for Jared's avatar other than Mr. Bean?
It's not even funny.
Also, captain guarding door? Doesn't he have anything better to do? I suppose for city where thugs wandering freely at night he will surely have a lot of reports to deal.

 

Actually if you looked Pyotr at friartuck's link you'd have noticed that he chose Rowan Atkinson for his role in The Thin Blue Line, not for Mr. Bean. That's like saying that Black Adder and Mr. Bean are the same.

 

Right on, Jojobobo. Atkinson's easily one of my favorite actors. I grew up on his early work and I still never miss an appearance if I can help it. Blackadder and the Thin Blue Line taught me what comedy is. His stand up show still sends me into fits of laughter whenever I think of the sketches. Keeping Mum may be the all-round best comedy I've seen in the past decade. I pity those who see him and think only "Mr. Bean."

As for Jared's position, the in-game dialog identifies him as captain of the Vermilion station guard, unlike Captain Wheeler who is just a captain of the guard. Since the uniform and most of the equipment is the same, I assume they're distinct branches of the same organization, and the fact that the captain can be found guarding the doors indicates that it's not the most prestigious branch. Reminds me of Pratchett's Guards! Guards! and Men at Arms, and the differences between the Palace Guard, the Day Watch, and the Night Watch.

 

That wasn't the point of my statement.
Even if it isn't Mr. Bean, Thin Blue Line is still a sitcom and Jared quest doesn't have a single one comedy overtone in it. Well, maybe except a captain guarding door.