While the misty streets outside the tavern carry the sound of the escaping drow soldier, your keen eyes reveal only his trail, bloody and limping, fleeing into the night. Gadus, with the help of his keen-eyed familiar, manage to catch a glimpse of the soldier just as he rounds a corner. The three blasts catch his back and face with sizzling impact, but he remains standing, if unsteadily. With a cry, he flings himself down another dark alleyway, and is lost to the shadows of night. The darkness seems to cling to him tightly, and even those among you with dark vision find your sight becoming increasingly clouded. It becomes clear that, if the inn was familiar territory, after a fashion, then the night is incontestably theirs.... (That was insanely close, but barely not quite enough, this time!)
You regroup back inside the inn to figure out what comes next. Tavern goers leave in ones and twos, fondly, even tearsomely, grasping hands and touching familiar walls and seats. Barak sits near the stains of blood on the ground, slightly in shock. Sereena's words shake him from his reflections.
"Eh... oh, oh yes. Right. What's the..." the turns and looks at a large clockpiece over the bar. "Oi Stewy! Don' forget the clock! Me granda made it by hand, he did." He turns back. "Apologies, miss. It's just... a lot to take in. We're not afraid of violence, here, but this place has been in the family for generations now. And we all heard of Patterson's, down in the wharves." He catches the momentary blankness on Sereena's face. "This kind of thing has happened before, you see. Just last week, really. A brawl with a few of their off-duty regulars. Nobody died, that night, but they came back the next evenin an took everyone they found there away. No one's heard of em since. So, I guess that means I got a few hours to enjoy the place. Right! The message!" He turns and starts walking towards the back of the inn. He smiles. " Given the time, the match is already started. Besides, I think it'd be better explained if he told you himself. Seein' how you four handled yourselves tonight, I suppose you all might want to come along too. It's quite a sight - and a deal more profitable than this old place, anyway. No one pays attention to old inns anymore. Sports: now that's the way of the future."
The few tavern regulars who have stayed have arrayed themselves in rows on either side of Barak's path. As he passes by, they start to produce brightly colored pendants and banners, face paints and small horns. The lines are arrayed by color: Green and red. Barak, reaching the end of the rows, reaches down and pulls back a bearskin rug, catching a strong brass ring and revealing a trap door. A breath's length of silence, and a distant cheer rumbles up from the gaping maw of the trap door. The fans begin to climb down, genteelly alternating between sides in a show of gentlemanly rivalry that seems tonally quite at odds with their words.
"Please, you go on down first, you blithering idiot." "Well no, my dear moribund heckler, that was Jemison who just went down, an' he switched to the proper team just last week after we smashed you so thoroughly." "Ah, but you'll see tonight! Young Borune's back on the field - he'll show yo-" The conversation continues as they descend down the steep ladder steps, the sounds of their voices receding and becoming lost in the dim roar from below.
Barak beams, even as dark drapes are drawn across the windows, and every piece of furniture not nailed down is moved through the kitchens to the back. "Coming?"
Anansi stows one of his daggers as he follows. "Very interesting set-up you have here. Smart for everyone to leave though. Once the drow Internal Affairs gets ahold of someone, you're not likely to see them again."
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Gronk in Bastion, Kingdom of Medrin Elixisysin Talaveroth (Team 2) Uthal in Lost Continent of Theviranne
"Color me interested Bar Master. If this is anything like the 'games' back home, this might become a habit," Gadus offers cheerily.
<Seems we're in for a treat Bekate.> <Food? I should'a nicked a piece of that meat pie I saw earlier. I'm so hungry I could probably eat a whole Drow.> <No, blood and glory.> <...>
As Gadus makes his way toward the stairs, Bekate swoops near and perches on his left shoulder, just in time to disappear below along with his master.
Sereena, with a deer in headlights look on her face, asks, “Barak, are you ok? Will you have to completely give this place up? Or is there a chance to salvage it? I am sorry this evening turned out this way. I pray Ilmater can turn the tide in the darkness here. But Barak, what message? From whom?” Her jaw drops as Barak leads the group to the tunnel. “This is amazing! Tell me about these sports,” she says to Barak as the make their way down the trap door, completely distracted by the sounds and smells emanating from below.
Seemss the humble tavern master has more than meetss the eye... What pray tell are the ssports engaged in down here? It feels... gladiatorial.. Salazar sheathes his gladius style blade and follows the others down the stairs.That ssaid there will most likely be several different exits so we can escape the Matriarchy troops, but I don't think we should stay for entertainment. As Master Barrak said it took them a day for a beating, I imagine the response will be quicker now we've killed some meat.
"Now, watcher step, ere! That's right - Ey Stewy! Don't forget to see to that gnome fellow with the Peg! I'll be wantin words with him, once he wakes. Now, where was we? Ah, yes, the message. Well, if you are who you ought, I should think you would know. Tis from Redrickson is the message - an excellent clan if there ever was one. I'm distantly related, you know - oh yes. My aunt's half brother's cousin's (twice removed) in-law is the Old Block himself's eighth great grandniece. A fine party they threw - I can still remember it. Somethin they did special to the beer..." He shakes his head. "Listen to dwarf talk about family, and yer ears are like as turn to stone. Don't you all worry about the inn. It'll be closed shop before sunup, and we'll stage a grand reopenin in a few months, or whenever those drow decide to bugger off to wherever they came from."
As he regales you, he leads you down a seemingly rough carved, though very sturdy tunnel. Two long pieces of metal form tracks beneath your feet, and the tunnel is well-lit from regular torchlit sconces. As you go, the cheering gets louder, vibrating along the floor, and especially the metal tracks.
"Now, what yer about to see might seem confusing, for the first few minutes - but a quickie explanation won't hurt you. Much. To win the game, each team must have scored the most points. To score points, you havta knock down the opposin team's banner in the proper zone - now watcher step there, that plank's rough, that is - and dependin on the strike, and the zone, you get yer points. Now, each team has different, well, callem 'roles' fer now. It'll make more sense once ya see it. Big fellows stand to the front, take hits and deal em, outlastin their opponents and drivin through to the banner. Quick ones go around the sides, and sometimes in the melee itself, to sneak up on yas and take points as ye can. Sometime's you've special ones, what can fly or dig, an sometimes there's other special conditions. Both teams select weapons on a points system - I won explain that, jus now - so that things are balanced, like. Let's see, now. Ah! Here we are!"
He leads you all up to a tall iron door, where a few gruff looking dwarves and clearly inebriated gnomes are standing outside, "catching the fresh air", as it were. From within the slightly ajar portal, you can make out the flickering shadows of hundreds of moving figures, bright lights, and over all a deep, bass thrumming, now filling the atmosphere and shaking you to your very bones. It becomes very hard to hear anything (Perception DC 10 at disadvantage to hear each other shouting at close range) as Barak enters the door before you.
Listening to Barak talk, Gadus couldn't hold back a smile. The Dwarf's rambling and meandering speech reminded him of the days he and his younger brother spent with Jaxon, their older cousin. Their cousin's wife, Medea, had an older cousin that spoke in a similar manner, full of tangential digressions and random observations, taking much longer to reach his conclusion than necessary.
"So I'm assuming there's a league, with all the colors being shown, do the teams stay the same each season?" Gadus shouts at the barkeep.
“Well I am relieved to hear that Clan Redrickson survives! I may have seemed unsure because I was also expecting some others from my temple as well. It appears they will have to be sought out. This game does sound interesting but perhaps seeing it played will make more sense. Is it easy to enter into one of these games or are there requirements?....”
Sereena continues to listen to Barak, somewhat comforted by his ability to handle the changes that have taken his city by storm. As they approach the door she becomes distracted by the curiosity of it all.
This post has potentially manipulated dice roll results.
14
What kind of wagers are placed on these teams? It sseems you do well out of the betting good sir. Is there an established bookmaker or syndicate? I imagine independents are frowned upon? Sully isn’t too keen on playing but is wondering if there is a way to make some coin out of drunken gamblers
This post has potentially manipulated dice roll results.
Perception: 1911
Anansi sheaths his dagger and tries to peer as far down as he can to see exactly what sort of sport this is. He has an idea from the description but right now his imagination is failing him.
At Gadus's shout, Barak grins. Three separate cheers drown out his reply, but a few words still sneak through. "The @)&ms are spo(**&!# *% clans and a few gui*#&." He leads you into the large arena, gesturing as if to embrace the atmosphere as he does so. The room is shaped like an oblong bowl, with two dozen rows of seats encircling an oval playing field that is about 50 meters wide, and twice that length. A great box hangs as if suspended over the whole arena, casting diffuse colored lights around the area, and occasionally spearing the ground with brightly colored lines. Around the outer edge, enormous flags cover the walls, brightly colored and emblazoned with heraldic insignia. The stands are in a state of constant motion - easily two thousand viewers are packed tightly into the arena, waving flags, shouting, exchanging brightly colored writs with specific dwarves located around the upper edge of the stands, denoted by their pointed yellow caps...
Down in the arena, a scraping, bashing sound, like two cast iron skillets colliding, accompany a shower of sparks and a vibration felt in the bones through the stone floor. Looking down, you behold a scene of utter confusion. A melee of some kind is transpiring below, a battle of metal fought between strange, towering armored figures wielding crude or improvised seeming weaponry. Great clouds of dust are kicked up as these titans bash each other with ringing blows. A solitary metallic figure, about as tall as Sereena, dodges out of a cloud and starts sprinting for a line on the sand on one end of the field. As you watch, a long chain of brown, almost rusted-looking links abruptly swings out of the dust cloud, ensnaring the running figure about the legs and dragging it back into the cloud with a tooth-wrenching squeal. The arena goes almost silent as one, then another, ringing blows cascade from the cloud. A single figure emerges - large, easily 3 meters tall: a metal golem of some kind, harnessed about and encompassing a much smaller figure wearing full plate mail. With a groan of overclocked servos, it lifts a smaller broken golem over its head and displays it to the crowd, as if holding up a trophy. In the battered mech's crushed fingers, a long pole, topped with a banner of bright green with grey trim.
The crowd goes wild.
Within a minute or so, all but a section marked with brown and gold pendants falls to a quiet, businesslike murmur, as more writs are exchanged, payments are made, and crowds mill about to elbow their way to better seating. Barak frowns slightly at the dust settles. He shouts at a passing yellow-capped gnome in a condensed version of the dwarf language. (For dwarf speakers)
"Oi! Gettem to fetcher a sprinkle for the field - couldn hardly see nothin from row eight onup!"
Turning back to you all, he nods to Sully's remark. "You just talk to Ankarg here - he'll fill you in on what's good odds these days. In here, anyone will take a bet. Now, as to Mr's Redrickson and co., well, I'm afraid to inform you that things have been, well, hectic to say the least. I do wish I had noted you earlier - could've got you in to see the show a little earlier, and you might've caught him before the match. As it is, you'll just have to watch it through. It's a treat, though - a rematch from last week. Redrickson vs. Borune, tonight, with Young Borune himself in the fray. Redrickson's the reignin' champ, you see, after Ironclad - the largest mech on the field to date - swept the floor against three other clan-league teams before the invasion, including a match against Borune. They've been a wee bit peeved o'er that'un, no doubt. But look at me - ramblin' again. Well, you all can stay down here, if you please, or you can have my booth for the evenin - least I could do, what for helpin' me and the city be rid a few Drow. I'll let Redrickson know you're here, and I'll bring him once his bout is done. Let Ankarg know if you've any need for refreshment, and I'll have it sent up."
With that, he turns and pushes into the seething crowd, quickly finding a stream and disappearing among the motley of shouting dwarves and gnomes. The lights overhead start to flicker, and a countdown appears on the far wall, showing a clock with five minutes to run. Two banners are put in bright light as well - one a deep, red, with an anvil shown in white relief for insignia, and an azure banner featuring a knot in fluorescent purple. Somewhere, a band begins to play - heavy, stomping music that raises the pulse and excites the senses.
The dwarf Ankarg gestures towards a door in the side of the stadium, pushing it open and pointing to a long row of wide, dark windows near the top of the stadium walls.
“Hey Ankarg, which direction are we heading?” Sereena asks. While walking to the rooms, Sereena continues to ask him “So how do the games work on getting a bet in? Who is playing now and when does Redrikson compete? I’d like to put a wager on him and his. Also, Barak mentioned refreshments and food....what can you bring us?”
”Wait a minute? Is that the Redrickson emblem I see on the field now? So much for getting a bet in I guess.”
Sereena watches the match intently nearly ignoring those around her.
Gadus nods at Ankarg as he steps in line making his way to the VIP seating. As he passes the dwarf he says, "A bottle of red wine if you have it, and maybe something for the bird here to nibble on."
<It's so noisy here, and unnatural> <Bah, whats more natural for us than competition? A place like this, the smell, sound, taste -- this is the essence of sport!> <Yes, there's few things you humanoids enjoy more than cock measuring.>
The excitement in the hall is intoxicating for Gadus as it brings back the same rush he would get during the Olympic games back at home. But his heart turns melancholic for a moment as his mind turns to his brother and his wish of bringing him back home to family.
<I hope we find Magi soon. I don't think Mother is taking it well.> <Don't worry Master, he'll show up sooner or later, he always does. Let's just enjoy these "games" for tonight.> <Right. I wonder how Dwarven wine tastes...>
In the thickest Scottish brogue you've ever heard:
"Aye, ma'am, jes righ here thisaway to tha speshul beuths. Redrickson, aye, that'll be the ol' anvuls. If'n it's a bet yer wantin', I'd bet Redrickson, personally. Old Ironclad's never been beat - 'n gave the Borunes a right whuppin' las' match. Tha bets run everywhich way, ifn tha's your want. For or against, Redrickson or Borune, 'n how well'r badly. There's a points system, you see. Knock dow'n an enemy mech - tha's a point. Do it in yer opponent's zones, that's an extra point. Claim yer opponent's banner, that's 10 points. It's a simple game, in three rounds, an bloody fun, when ya get dow'n to it. Now, there're a few high stakes group bids down on t'other side of th'rena, though most o' that will've closed out by now. Still, bettin' sharks'd take you up on two ta one odds in'a jiffy, giv'n tha chaos o'tha game. You'd get better odds to bet for Borune - much be'er, but as I say', Ironclad's never lost. It's yer money, o' course. An' o' course, master, a bottle of Barak's finest. We've still a wee drappee o' Three-Peaks Frœster-veinn - a personal fav'rite o' Barak. And I daresay there's a dusty bottle or two o' sweet Elf-reds, though I cannough read tha dam labels meself. I s'pose their nice enuff - again, if'n your tastes run tha' way. And, er, for the bird, well, there's a new delicacy tha's been sellin out this month - it's a hot buh'ered corn dish, lightly seasoned an' served fresh and fluffy as a lobster."
"Three-Peaks is fine, have yet to taste that line. And the bird doesn't need anything so fancy, a bit of leftover scraps would suffice," Gadus responds in kind.
"I would take one of those elf reds, and be happy to translate the bottle for you if ya like." Anansi is confused and intrigued by the game and sits down to watch with great interest.
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Gronk in Bastion, Kingdom of Medrin Elixisysin Talaveroth (Team 2) Uthal in Lost Continent of Theviranne
“Ankarg I do believe that you have show to be most hospitable. Since betting on the match seems to be concluded for now, I will just save my gold til the next time. I will also try some of that Three-Peaks please. So Ankarg, how long have you been working for Barak? Do you know the Redricksons as well?”
As if simply saying the word 'bet' were a magical summoning ritual, two swarthy dwarves start shouting hoarsely at you, one waving a ledger and the other a fist full of scrunched, colored papers.
Ankarg glares politely at them for a moment and translates. "These fine gentlemen couldnae help bu' o'er hear you wantin' a bet, an offer fine odds on the match. For every gold piece you promise on a Borune victory, they'll put up five against ya, or alternatively fer evry two on Redrickson, they'll put in one on Borune. Private bets only, payment on match conclusion."
The two dwarves stare at you hopefully, greedfully, their antics paused at the scent of a possible deal to be made.
Ankarg takes a step up the door. "Righ' up this wae to the lounge area, masters, an I'll have yer drinks fer ya in a jiffy. Unless you'd rathr conduct business with these - er - reputable gentlemen, in which case Ah'l leave you to't."
Up the fastidiously clean and carved staircase, those of you who ascend fine a dark, cool chamber filled with soft couches and divans, the scents of expensive alcohol, leather, and subtle perfumes, and only the loudest roars of the audience audible as a dull hum against shaded floor-to-ceiling windows. The furniture is arranged in two roughly closed off partitions, with one of the wide areas already occupied by a few figures in fine clothes, reclining and conversing in muted tones while the numbers on the far wall of the stadium count down. Three minutes flash in red and blue, alternating like lightning strikes.
I dislike trusting matters to chance. I'll pass at this time if you could thank these fine gentlemen Salazar will follow Ankarg up the staircase and will take a seat with his back to a wall, preferably where he can see who comes and goes as well as the match
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Perception 4
Since Sereena is still at the door, she asks Barak “We may not have much time....is there a quick message you have for me?”
Scene the 1st:
While the misty streets outside the tavern carry the sound of the escaping drow soldier, your keen eyes reveal only his trail, bloody and limping, fleeing into the night. Gadus, with the help of his keen-eyed familiar, manage to catch a glimpse of the soldier just as he rounds a corner. The three blasts catch his back and face with sizzling impact, but he remains standing, if unsteadily. With a cry, he flings himself down another dark alleyway, and is lost to the shadows of night. The darkness seems to cling to him tightly, and even those among you with dark vision find your sight becoming increasingly clouded. It becomes clear that, if the inn was familiar territory, after a fashion, then the night is incontestably theirs.... (That was insanely close, but barely not quite enough, this time!)
You regroup back inside the inn to figure out what comes next. Tavern goers leave in ones and twos, fondly, even tearsomely, grasping hands and touching familiar walls and seats. Barak sits near the stains of blood on the ground, slightly in shock. Sereena's words shake him from his reflections.
"Eh... oh, oh yes. Right. What's the..." the turns and looks at a large clockpiece over the bar. "Oi Stewy! Don' forget the clock! Me granda made it by hand, he did." He turns back. "Apologies, miss. It's just... a lot to take in. We're not afraid of violence, here, but this place has been in the family for generations now. And we all heard of Patterson's, down in the wharves." He catches the momentary blankness on Sereena's face. "This kind of thing has happened before, you see. Just last week, really. A brawl with a few of their off-duty regulars. Nobody died, that night, but they came back the next evenin an took everyone they found there away. No one's heard of em since. So, I guess that means I got a few hours to enjoy the place. Right! The message!" He turns and starts walking towards the back of the inn. He smiles. " Given the time, the match is already started. Besides, I think it'd be better explained if he told you himself. Seein' how you four handled yourselves tonight, I suppose you all might want to come along too. It's quite a sight - and a deal more profitable than this old place, anyway. No one pays attention to old inns anymore. Sports: now that's the way of the future."
The few tavern regulars who have stayed have arrayed themselves in rows on either side of Barak's path. As he passes by, they start to produce brightly colored pendants and banners, face paints and small horns. The lines are arrayed by color: Green and red. Barak, reaching the end of the rows, reaches down and pulls back a bearskin rug, catching a strong brass ring and revealing a trap door. A breath's length of silence, and a distant cheer rumbles up from the gaping maw of the trap door. The fans begin to climb down, genteelly alternating between sides in a show of gentlemanly rivalry that seems tonally quite at odds with their words.
"Please, you go on down first, you blithering idiot." "Well no, my dear moribund heckler, that was Jemison who just went down, an' he switched to the proper team just last week after we smashed you so thoroughly." "Ah, but you'll see tonight! Young Borune's back on the field - he'll show yo-" The conversation continues as they descend down the steep ladder steps, the sounds of their voices receding and becoming lost in the dim roar from below.
Barak beams, even as dark drapes are drawn across the windows, and every piece of furniture not nailed down is moved through the kitchens to the back. "Coming?"
Anansi stows one of his daggers as he follows. "Very interesting set-up you have here. Smart for everyone to leave though. Once the drow Internal Affairs gets ahold of someone, you're not likely to see them again."
Gronk in Bastion, Kingdom of Medrin Elixisys in Talaveroth (Team 2) Uthal in Lost Continent of Theviranne
"Color me interested Bar Master. If this is anything like the 'games' back home, this might become a habit," Gadus offers cheerily.
<Seems we're in for a treat Bekate.>
<Food? I should'a nicked a piece of that meat pie I saw earlier. I'm so hungry I could probably eat a whole Drow.>
<No, blood and glory.>
<...>
As Gadus makes his way toward the stairs, Bekate swoops near and perches on his left shoulder, just in time to disappear below along with his master.
Sereena, with a deer in headlights look on her face, asks, “Barak, are you ok? Will you have to completely give this place up? Or is there a chance to salvage it? I am sorry this evening turned out this way. I pray Ilmater can turn the tide in the darkness here. But Barak, what message? From whom?” Her jaw drops as Barak leads the group to the tunnel. “This is amazing! Tell me about these sports,” she says to Barak as the make their way down the trap door, completely distracted by the sounds and smells emanating from below.
Seemss the humble tavern master has more than meetss the eye... What pray tell are the ssports engaged in down here? It feels... gladiatorial.. Salazar sheathes his gladius style blade and follows the others down the stairs. That ssaid there will most likely be several different exits so we can escape the Matriarchy troops, but I don't think we should stay for entertainment. As Master Barrak said it took them a day for a beating, I imagine the response will be quicker now we've killed some meat.
"Now, watcher step, ere! That's right - Ey Stewy! Don't forget to see to that gnome fellow with the Peg! I'll be wantin words with him, once he wakes. Now, where was we? Ah, yes, the message. Well, if you are who you ought, I should think you would know. Tis from Redrickson is the message - an excellent clan if there ever was one. I'm distantly related, you know - oh yes. My aunt's half brother's cousin's (twice removed) in-law is the Old Block himself's eighth great grandniece. A fine party they threw - I can still remember it. Somethin they did special to the beer..." He shakes his head. "Listen to dwarf talk about family, and yer ears are like as turn to stone. Don't you all worry about the inn. It'll be closed shop before sunup, and we'll stage a grand reopenin in a few months, or whenever those drow decide to bugger off to wherever they came from."
As he regales you, he leads you down a seemingly rough carved, though very sturdy tunnel. Two long pieces of metal form tracks beneath your feet, and the tunnel is well-lit from regular torchlit sconces. As you go, the cheering gets louder, vibrating along the floor, and especially the metal tracks.
"Now, what yer about to see might seem confusing, for the first few minutes - but a quickie explanation won't hurt you. Much. To win the game, each team must have scored the most points. To score points, you havta knock down the opposin team's banner in the proper zone - now watcher step there, that plank's rough, that is - and dependin on the strike, and the zone, you get yer points. Now, each team has different, well, callem 'roles' fer now. It'll make more sense once ya see it. Big fellows stand to the front, take hits and deal em, outlastin their opponents and drivin through to the banner. Quick ones go around the sides, and sometimes in the melee itself, to sneak up on yas and take points as ye can. Sometime's you've special ones, what can fly or dig, an sometimes there's other special conditions. Both teams select weapons on a points system - I won explain that, jus now - so that things are balanced, like. Let's see, now. Ah! Here we are!"
He leads you all up to a tall iron door, where a few gruff looking dwarves and clearly inebriated gnomes are standing outside, "catching the fresh air", as it were. From within the slightly ajar portal, you can make out the flickering shadows of hundreds of moving figures, bright lights, and over all a deep, bass thrumming, now filling the atmosphere and shaking you to your very bones. It becomes very hard to hear anything (Perception DC 10 at disadvantage to hear each other shouting at close range) as Barak enters the door before you.
Perception: 13
Listening to Barak talk, Gadus couldn't hold back a smile. The Dwarf's rambling and meandering speech reminded him of the days he and his younger brother spent with Jaxon, their older cousin. Their cousin's wife, Medea, had an older cousin that spoke in a similar manner, full of tangential digressions and random observations, taking much longer to reach his conclusion than necessary.
"So I'm assuming there's a league, with all the colors being shown, do the teams stay the same each season?" Gadus shouts at the barkeep.
Perception 9 14
“Well I am relieved to hear that Clan Redrickson survives! I may have seemed unsure because I was also expecting some others from my temple as well. It appears they will have to be sought out. This game does sound interesting but perhaps seeing it played will make more sense. Is it easy to enter into one of these games or are there requirements?....”
Sereena continues to listen to Barak, somewhat comforted by his ability to handle the changes that have taken his city by storm. As they approach the door she becomes distracted by the curiosity of it all.
14
What kind of wagers are placed on these teams? It sseems you do well out of the betting good sir. Is there an established bookmaker or syndicate? I imagine independents are frowned upon? Sully isn’t too keen on playing but is wondering if there is a way to make some coin out of drunken gamblers
Perception: 19 11
Anansi sheaths his dagger and tries to peer as far down as he can to see exactly what sort of sport this is. He has an idea from the description but right now his imagination is failing him.
Gronk in Bastion, Kingdom of Medrin Elixisys in Talaveroth (Team 2) Uthal in Lost Continent of Theviranne
At Gadus's shout, Barak grins. Three separate cheers drown out his reply, but a few words still sneak through. "The @)&ms are spo(**&!# *% clans and a few gui*#&." He leads you into the large arena, gesturing as if to embrace the atmosphere as he does so. The room is shaped like an oblong bowl, with two dozen rows of seats encircling an oval playing field that is about 50 meters wide, and twice that length. A great box hangs as if suspended over the whole arena, casting diffuse colored lights around the area, and occasionally spearing the ground with brightly colored lines. Around the outer edge, enormous flags cover the walls, brightly colored and emblazoned with heraldic insignia. The stands are in a state of constant motion - easily two thousand viewers are packed tightly into the arena, waving flags, shouting, exchanging brightly colored writs with specific dwarves located around the upper edge of the stands, denoted by their pointed yellow caps...
Down in the arena, a scraping, bashing sound, like two cast iron skillets colliding, accompany a shower of sparks and a vibration felt in the bones through the stone floor. Looking down, you behold a scene of utter confusion. A melee of some kind is transpiring below, a battle of metal fought between strange, towering armored figures wielding crude or improvised seeming weaponry. Great clouds of dust are kicked up as these titans bash each other with ringing blows. A solitary metallic figure, about as tall as Sereena, dodges out of a cloud and starts sprinting for a line on the sand on one end of the field. As you watch, a long chain of brown, almost rusted-looking links abruptly swings out of the dust cloud, ensnaring the running figure about the legs and dragging it back into the cloud with a tooth-wrenching squeal. The arena goes almost silent as one, then another, ringing blows cascade from the cloud. A single figure emerges - large, easily 3 meters tall: a metal golem of some kind, harnessed about and encompassing a much smaller figure wearing full plate mail. With a groan of overclocked servos, it lifts a smaller broken golem over its head and displays it to the crowd, as if holding up a trophy. In the battered mech's crushed fingers, a long pole, topped with a banner of bright green with grey trim.
The crowd goes wild.
Within a minute or so, all but a section marked with brown and gold pendants falls to a quiet, businesslike murmur, as more writs are exchanged, payments are made, and crowds mill about to elbow their way to better seating. Barak frowns slightly at the dust settles. He shouts at a passing yellow-capped gnome in a condensed version of the dwarf language. (For dwarf speakers)
"Oi! Gettem to fetcher a sprinkle for the field - couldn hardly see nothin from row eight onup!"
Turning back to you all, he nods to Sully's remark. "You just talk to Ankarg here - he'll fill you in on what's good odds these days. In here, anyone will take a bet. Now, as to Mr's Redrickson and co., well, I'm afraid to inform you that things have been, well, hectic to say the least. I do wish I had noted you earlier - could've got you in to see the show a little earlier, and you might've caught him before the match. As it is, you'll just have to watch it through. It's a treat, though - a rematch from last week. Redrickson vs. Borune, tonight, with Young Borune himself in the fray. Redrickson's the reignin' champ, you see, after Ironclad - the largest mech on the field to date - swept the floor against three other clan-league teams before the invasion, including a match against Borune. They've been a wee bit peeved o'er that'un, no doubt. But look at me - ramblin' again. Well, you all can stay down here, if you please, or you can have my booth for the evenin - least I could do, what for helpin' me and the city be rid a few Drow. I'll let Redrickson know you're here, and I'll bring him once his bout is done. Let Ankarg know if you've any need for refreshment, and I'll have it sent up."
With that, he turns and pushes into the seething crowd, quickly finding a stream and disappearing among the motley of shouting dwarves and gnomes. The lights overhead start to flicker, and a countdown appears on the far wall, showing a clock with five minutes to run. Two banners are put in bright light as well - one a deep, red, with an anvil shown in white relief for insignia, and an azure banner featuring a knot in fluorescent purple. Somewhere, a band begins to play - heavy, stomping music that raises the pulse and excites the senses.
The dwarf Ankarg gestures towards a door in the side of the stadium, pushing it open and pointing to a long row of wide, dark windows near the top of the stadium walls.
“Hey Ankarg, which direction are we heading?” Sereena asks. While walking to the rooms, Sereena continues to ask him “So how do the games work on getting a bet in? Who is playing now and when does Redrikson compete? I’d like to put a wager on him and his. Also, Barak mentioned refreshments and food....what can you bring us?”
”Wait a minute? Is that the Redrickson emblem I see on the field now? So much for getting a bet in I guess.”
Sereena watches the match intently nearly ignoring those around her.
Gadus nods at Ankarg as he steps in line making his way to the VIP seating. As he passes the dwarf he says, "A bottle of red wine if you have it, and maybe something for the bird here to nibble on."
<It's so noisy here, and unnatural>
<Bah, whats more natural for us than competition? A place like this, the smell, sound, taste -- this is the essence of sport!>
<Yes, there's few things you humanoids enjoy more than cock measuring.>
The excitement in the hall is intoxicating for Gadus as it brings back the same rush he would get during the Olympic games back at home. But his heart turns melancholic for a moment as his mind turns to his brother and his wish of bringing him back home to family.
<I hope we find Magi soon. I don't think Mother is taking it well.>
<Don't worry Master, he'll show up sooner or later, he always does. Let's just enjoy these "games" for tonight.>
<Right. I wonder how Dwarven wine tastes...>
In the thickest Scottish brogue you've ever heard:
"Aye, ma'am, jes righ here thisaway to tha speshul beuths. Redrickson, aye, that'll be the ol' anvuls. If'n it's a bet yer wantin', I'd bet Redrickson, personally. Old Ironclad's never been beat - 'n gave the Borunes a right whuppin' las' match. Tha bets run everywhich way, ifn tha's your want. For or against, Redrickson or Borune, 'n how well'r badly. There's a points system, you see. Knock dow'n an enemy mech - tha's a point. Do it in yer opponent's zones, that's an extra point. Claim yer opponent's banner, that's 10 points. It's a simple game, in three rounds, an bloody fun, when ya get dow'n to it. Now, there're a few high stakes group bids down on t'other side of th'rena, though most o' that will've closed out by now. Still, bettin' sharks'd take you up on two ta one odds in'a jiffy, giv'n tha chaos o'tha game. You'd get better odds to bet for Borune - much be'er, but as I say', Ironclad's never lost. It's yer money, o' course. An' o' course, master, a bottle of Barak's finest. We've still a wee drappee o' Three-Peaks Frœster-veinn - a personal fav'rite o' Barak. And I daresay there's a dusty bottle or two o' sweet Elf-reds, though I cannough read tha dam labels meself. I s'pose their nice enuff - again, if'n your tastes run tha' way. And, er, for the bird, well, there's a new delicacy tha's been sellin out this month - it's a hot buh'ered corn dish, lightly seasoned an' served fresh and fluffy as a lobster."
"Three-Peaks is fine, have yet to taste that line. And the bird doesn't need anything so fancy, a bit of leftover scraps would suffice," Gadus responds in kind.
<Rude.>
<Chuckles.>
"I would take one of those elf reds, and be happy to translate the bottle for you if ya like." Anansi is confused and intrigued by the game and sits down to watch with great interest.
Gronk in Bastion, Kingdom of Medrin Elixisys in Talaveroth (Team 2) Uthal in Lost Continent of Theviranne
“Ankarg I do believe that you have show to be most hospitable. Since betting on the match seems to be concluded for now, I will just save my gold til the next time. I will also try some of that Three-Peaks please. So Ankarg, how long have you been working for Barak? Do you know the Redricksons as well?”
As if simply saying the word 'bet' were a magical summoning ritual, two swarthy dwarves start shouting hoarsely at you, one waving a ledger and the other a fist full of scrunched, colored papers.
Ankarg glares politely at them for a moment and translates. "These fine gentlemen couldnae help bu' o'er hear you wantin' a bet, an offer fine odds on the match. For every gold piece you promise on a Borune victory, they'll put up five against ya, or alternatively fer evry two on Redrickson, they'll put in one on Borune. Private bets only, payment on match conclusion."
The two dwarves stare at you hopefully, greedfully, their antics paused at the scent of a possible deal to be made.
Ankarg takes a step up the door. "Righ' up this wae to the lounge area, masters, an I'll have yer drinks fer ya in a jiffy. Unless you'd rathr conduct business with these - er - reputable gentlemen, in which case Ah'l leave you to't."
Up the fastidiously clean and carved staircase, those of you who ascend fine a dark, cool chamber filled with soft couches and divans, the scents of expensive alcohol, leather, and subtle perfumes, and only the loudest roars of the audience audible as a dull hum against shaded floor-to-ceiling windows. The furniture is arranged in two roughly closed off partitions, with one of the wide areas already occupied by a few figures in fine clothes, reclining and conversing in muted tones while the numbers on the far wall of the stadium count down. Three minutes flash in red and blue, alternating like lightning strikes.
I dislike trusting matters to chance. I'll pass at this time if you could thank these fine gentlemen Salazar will follow Ankarg up the staircase and will take a seat with his back to a wall, preferably where he can see who comes and goes as well as the match