The caravans were running dry and, more importantly, he thought if he kept after the same type of target the League would send hunters after him. I need to change targets. The death might be honorable but there is much more damage I can do.
And that's when he came across a merchant on the road, who said the fire at Torch had gone out. It seemed to the slave this was a perfect opportunity. The human had thought him an idiot and, the slave conceded, it wasn't entirely unfair. He spoke the common trade language horribly. But that was his speech, not his comprehension.
A few days later, the slave arrived in Torch, walking up the side of the hill and into the first ring of the town. Defensible. Elevation, angles of fire, choke points. I could destroy a lot of the League's metal men here.
One night at the bunkhouse, listening to conversations, and he'd learned all he needed to know. Indeed, the torch had gone out. None knew why. And an axe such as the slave's might come in handy. I will wait. They cower and simper just like slaves. They are afraid. The League will come. I have a new target. I will wait.
The next day, as he had the night before, he went to the Copper Coin for food and drink. In their trades language, he said to the serving wench, "More burnt beast and weak ale." She seemed offended. He didn't care. It was over cooked. And the ale was weak. If these "free folk" did not have the strength to handle real spirits, that wasn't his fault.
Many of the other patrons stayed away from him, averting their eyes. It looked like there were still bits of...something, once living, hanging from his axe. He noticed the source of their immediate concern, picked it off the axe, studied it, took a bite of it, then popped the rest down his gullet. In their language, he said, "Is no problem. Just ox pulling cart. Is...ox tar tar." He scraped the flat of the axe against a bench, dropping the last of the rotting flesh to the floor, then sat and waited for his ale.
In Town Diplomacy Check (DC 5): 1d20-2 7
And that's when he came across a merchant on the road, who said the fire at Torch had gone out. It seemed to the slave this was a perfect opportunity. The human had thought him an idiot and, the slave conceded, it wasn't entirely unfair. He spoke the common trade language horribly. But that was his speech, not his comprehension.
A few days later, the slave arrived in Torch, walking up the side of the hill and into the first ring of the town. Defensible. Elevation, angles of fire, choke points. I could destroy a lot of the League's metal men here.
One night at the bunkhouse, listening to conversations, and he'd learned all he needed to know. Indeed, the torch had gone out. None knew why. And an axe such as the slave's might come in handy. I will wait. They cower and simper just like slaves. They are afraid. The League will come. I have a new target. I will wait.
The next day, as he had the night before, he went to the Copper Coin for food and drink. In their trades language, he said to the serving wench, "More burnt beast and weak ale." She seemed offended. He didn't care. It was over cooked. And the ale was weak. If these "free folk" did not have the strength to handle real spirits, that wasn't his fault.
Many of the other patrons stayed away from him, averting their eyes. It looked like there were still bits of...something, once living, hanging from his axe. He noticed the source of their immediate concern, picked it off the axe, studied it, took a bite of it, then popped the rest down his gullet. In their language, he said, "Is no problem. Just ox pulling cart. Is...ox tar tar." He scraped the flat of the axe against a bench, dropping the last of the rotting flesh to the floor, then sat and waited for his ale.
In Town Diplomacy Check (DC 5): 1d20-2 7
