OOC : DM checks the character sheets to see who knows the Casio cantrip (instant effects : add 2 numbers, tell the time to the second, look boss; Ongoing effects : play bossa nova rhythm at 80-160 bpm, remember a sequence of up to 24 notes) but can't see it anywhere.
Burt attempts to gauge the sun's height above the horizon but fails on account of all the walls and ceilings in the way.
I feel I'm being subtly nudged towards going outside to check the sun's position...I don't like it, but I suppose I'll do it. Burt will go outside to judge if he's got enough time to enqwyree at the cloth-ear before going to the union meeting and checking that out.
OOC : So you didn't get that I'm subtly nudging you towards learning the magic of the School of 80's Electronics ? Ah well, another set of intricate plotting and balancing goes in the bin along with the property management module and the Goonies-esque bandit cave. I forbid you all from learning Neonmancy for the rest of the campaign.
Outside it's still light, though the evening is wearing on. You don't see any people on the street turn into were-creatures so it's probably safe to say it's not night-time. Oops! Spoiler alert! Anyway, there's plenty of time to cross the street to Tarnlar's, your shadow stretching long out before you like someone has spilled a jar of ink labeled "Burt and the Black Knight" on the ground. If that's what you want to do.
The Black Knight, who, finally deciding that although there are incalculable ways to avoid saying a color whilst thoroughly hinting at it, that for at least this one introduction he will in fact say, The Black Knight. So anyway, The Black Knight chimes in, "Erhm, did anyone else see those bullet thingies headed towards the board? Seem to have given me a bit of a flesh wound. Mind you, it's in me hammy extremities so not all that painful since theire basically robotic arms, if robotic arms existed that is, which is why these are made of ham."
But quickly realizing that though others may have seen flying projectiles, nobody seems all that put out by it so simply adds... "Um yes, the clothesiearie, that one seems nice, and then for desert a nice union meeting. Those always seem entertaining."
You get used to the flying things, living the life I lead.
Burt stares wistfully at nothing for a solid 12 seconds, just until things get awkward, then suddenly moves forward toward the clothes thing. No sense dwelling on the not-so-distant, possibly plot fueling past. Onward!
He marches straight through the doors of the Rue 1421 (see what I did there?), and straight up to the counter. I'd like to make and enqweery on that bulleted bulletin that almost billeted me in an early grave.
The man behind the counter's eye twitches a little as his practiced smile wanes a little but practice makes perfect and it soon bounces back. The smile that is, he doesn't have bungee eyes. Yet. The module is yet young! He smooths out his moustache and leans forward, steepling his fingers as the smile turns to a sneer.
"Dear... man, I'm not sure how things are done in the dung trough your mother squirted you out into, but here, at least within the confines of this fine establishment, there are rules , we follow protocol, after all what little is there to separate those savages beyond the door-jamb from the wolves that howl in the night other than a few basic manners. And high fashion, of course but I see..." He looks the party up and down, "..that one ought not be so ludicrously optimistic. Now, I'm quite sure I haven't the faintest idea what you are trying to convey with your verbal dysentery but perhaps you'd care to start again? With a good day and a doffing of hats? Should you find yourself hatless, rejoice for you are in the right place - no head in Silverymoon nor foot in Neverwinter has ever seen fare so grand, so now."He stares down the formidable point of his nose at you expectantly.
Burt attempts to crank up the charm: Why, my good man! I'm so used to dealing with the other simpletons of this town I was unprepared for a man of such statutory intellect. My sincerest apologies, and may I say, what a high class establishment you have here. He ends it off with his most dazzling smile.
"Well,well good sir, this is assuredly a most fine emporium. Whilst my colleague here is most enkwiriry, I would take great pleasure in purusing your wares. Wouldst thou be in possession of any gently used limbs perchance?"
The mans sneer extends as if trying to bifurcate his face - I mentioned his smile was practiced, I never said he was good at it - and he drips an approving "There now, so much more civilised." Stepping away from the desk, he makes a show of checking some of the cloaks and tunics hanging behind the counter and in a bored voice continues " however I'm afraid I still know nothing of which you speak. Unless things have changed greatly since yestereve, there is no 'bulletin board' in The Swinging Sword, why even a backwater such as this wouldn't stoop to such cheap railroading tactics. This isn't Ultima Online, my good sir - here we disdain the tawdry murderfests you adventurers call work, here we value social intercourse"
He's interrupted by a woman coming through the curtain at the back, forbidding looking, black hair pulled up into a towering bun, sewing two sections of cloth together as she goes. She scowls at Burt, and mutters - she has several needles gripped in her lips - "I think we all know what kind of intercourse he values".You both recognise her from the Inn, this is Maegla Tarnlar, the one woman in town who has steadfastly resisted Burts charms across many rolls (hidden and open) so presumably this snide prick is her husband Helvur.
"Your wit my darling is as ever, blunt as your features." Maegla's scowl turns on Helvur but before they can come to blows a small boy comes screaming through the shop - "Mammy! Heeeeeelp he's infected!"- followed by another even smaller one who has what looks like dried porridge hanging from his face, goose-stepping with arms outstretch and groaning "I want your braaaains, Morton! I WANT YOUR BRAINS!" Bort cowers behind his mother's skirts and pleads "Don't let plague-Bort get me!"
Maegla appears unimpressed, peeling the porridge scab off Bort's face and gently slapping both of them about the chops with it. "Boys! I've told you before! Don't play with your food! Now for the last time, stop this plague nonsense and get back to cataloguing those possibly haunted prosthetic arms and legs we acquired from when the mannequin graveyard in Landsward was rezoned as commercial! Don't make me tell you again!"
Bort's face sets hard, like frozen angel delight. "S'not nonsense! We saw 'em! Out by Lance Rock! The plague is real, an I'll prove it too, I've saved up my allowance and I'm gonna hire some venturerers to go and check it out! You'll see! Put a 'fishul ad on the bullet-in board n' everything."
"What if the venturerers get the plague though?"Morton asks. He gets a hard shove in the shoulder for his trouble.
"Shut up stinkface, I'll just send out more. Constabubble Harbuck sends venturerers out all the time, they never come back, and more always come along. Maybe I'll send you out and you can go and infect them with your stinky face and never come back. Because your face STINKS!"
Maegla says nothing, grabbing a firm grip of both of their wrists with a single hand and dragging them both out back. Helvur's smile creaks back into place. "Yes, so about those expensive clothes you wanted to buy from me?"
"Well you see good sir, as it happens, there is a bullet in board across the way there and not just a moment ago two bullet ins happened by. Went all the way through in fact," Aldy says holding up his left arm displaying two holes going straight through. "That haunted bit sounds a bit off putting but if you have a left arm that's a little less haunted than the others, I could put it to good use." Then waving his arm like some other sci-fi characters not in this story realm whatsoever he waves his right arm and adds "I could take the arm now and pay you at a later date." (Persuasion: 15)
At this point one may be wondering who in some gods name is Aldy? It turns out that is the nick name his mum called him when he was a lad and he sometimes reverts to it to seem a little less threatening because THE BLACK KNIGHT sometimes throws folks off their game. Aldy of course being the known and accepted shortened form of Ruthaldamorf which is much longer to say, write, and remember; requiring one to do thread search, for certainly ones memories are sewn into the fabric of life and a cloth-eerie-ere seems a great place to search threads. Why else would the mistress of the story be sewing?
I'm a fan of many kinds of intercourse, really. And yes, as you now know, this place HAS in fact stooped to railroading us along. Why, there was even a floating arrow hanging over this place so we knew which one to go to. And did you notice that exclamation point over your head marking you as a quest giver? I'm assuming it has something to do with that plague your lovely, quite articulate son mentioned. And Ruthy here is right, we can earn our merchandise through whatever quest that mark denotes.
"Perhaps I'm being too subtle, my.... friends. I am a purveyor of quality textiles in their chicest configurations. If you're looking for someone to pay you to go galavanting around the countryside stabbing all and sundry I'm afraid you are in the wrong place. Unless you want to look like a Waterdhavian noble while you do it... But no, you're going to go dressed like that aren't you, like two tramps going to an Orc cavemaid's quinceañera. Be off with you!"
Behind him the curtain pulls back and you see the younger of the boys - Bort - stick his head through and hiss "Pssssssst!" at you. From behind him someone thunder-whispers "you're doing it wrong, put on the hat you dunce!". Bort disappears a moment and returns wearing a hairband with a rudimentary exclamation mark attached to the top of it, and with more confidence and gusto repeats "Psssssssst!" while gesturing for you to leave the shop and meet him around the back.
After looking more closely, Burt realizes that he doesn't, in fact, have an exclamation point, just a large cowlick that looks amazingly like one. My mistake good sir! I realize now that you definitely aren't the kind of guy that would have any sort of punctuation over their head. So we'll just be off then! He motions for Ruldy to follow him out, and heads around the shop to look for Bort, which is just short of being the greatest, manliest name ever.
OOC : I'm going to blame Penguini for the delay but I've just had a very busy weekend with very little mobile coverage and I left my notes on the next bit at work. Not that you'll notice when it unfolds. For god's sake don't look for the bit that looks like I might have needed notes for it rather than having been made up off the top of my head. Anyway, sorry for the delay!
So... Before we continue I need one of you to roll 6 D30s and reroll any doubles. Or pick 6 numbers between 1 and 30. Or cut open a chicken and read the gizzards, whatever you like as long as I gets me numbers!
Around the back of the Clothiers is a cluttered work-yard that backs onto a dilapidated building to the north east - Burt, being a resident, would know that this is a boarding house run by "Mother Yalantha" who he may or may not have slept with (your choice as I never rolled for it) - with a few storage sheds dotted around the periphery and what smells a lot like stabling to the north west. Bort meets you at the gate, hands on his hips and his ! hat proudly wedged onto his head. Behind him, Morton is going through a number of tarp wrapped packages. You can also see a girl, older than her brothers, sitting on a stool outside the back door of the Clothier reading a heavy tome and another, older still, sitting at a makeshift dressing table made from a number of storage chests brushing her hair. "There's only 2 in this one! Them Landswarders ripped us off!" Morton calls back to Bort who ignores him because he's observing the traditions of the form and waiting for you to click on him.
Burt, not being incredibly computer savvy, still thinks double-clicking is a thing, so he'll double-click on Bort three seperate times for a total of 6 clicks. The pattern of clicking also just happened to spell out the word "ass" in morse code, so he also giggles a little upon reading this. Whatcha got for us Bort? Crime solving? Snoutlaw killing? Solving a criminal snoutlaw killing? Killing a crime while solving a snoutlaw? Snoutlawing a solve while criming a kill? I could go on. Maybe. Actually, I'm kinda running out of different ways to put that.