imp

— THE PARTY —

— THE GROUND —

10. Tribute Checkpoint

— THE NIGHT —

Ancel holds up both hands, empty, and takes a half-step back so he's not between the guards and the others. He clears his throat. "Tribute checkpoint — yes, understood, of course. We are only toll collectors. Going about the duke's business with somebody else's grease in jars. If there is a fee, or a toll, or, ah, a shrine offering—" he gestures vaguely at the gloop with his chin, "—I am authorized to assess and pay fair value. Nobody here wishes to disturb a religious procession. Might we discuss terms?"

The foremost guard plants its spear across the southern passage. “Fifty gold. All weapons held here until you return. Then you may visit the Black One.” Behind Ancel, the petitioning pilgrims erupt in wet, indignant shrieks: “Line-cutters! Dryskins pay double!” No weapon is raised; the terms stand unanswered.

Fenwick reaches for his counting frame before the words die on the guard's lips — old habit, can't help it. He ticks the beads while he talks. "Fifty gold, and all weapons held here. That's two tolls in one, and you've not shown me a tariff board." He squints at the gelled pilgrims, then back at the guard. "We're the duke's assessors out of the eastern gate house. I can write up a shrine fee, but I can't make the duke's receipt read 'fifty and disarm,' because if I do and some cartman asks why he paid half, the books don't close." He sets the frame flat and shows the guard the reckoning. "Here's a rate the books'll take: twenty gold in good silver, one honest receipt, and our blades stay sheathed — no, not held. Nobody draws on your Black One, nobody touches a pilgrim. That's a toll you can collect twice." He tilts his head. "The fifty-and-steel rate, though — what's that buy? A look at the Black One, or a look at the bottom of a pit?"

The guard does not inspect the counting frame. “An audience. Not a pit. Fifty gold and custody of every weapon. No silver rate. No receipt.” It taps the spear haft once against the greasy floor. “Pay, wait your turn, or leave.” The pilgrims continue their furious muttering, but none advances.

The foremost guard keeps its spear barred across the southern threshold and waits for payment, surrender, or retreat.

The second guard shifts beside the first, closing any gap toward the southern passage, but does not threaten the party.

The third guard turns its spear toward the restless pilgrims, keeping them in line while the party decides.

The fourth guard stands beside the crude tribute baskets, ready to receive coin and surrendered weapons; it makes no attack.

The largest pilgrim surges one pace forward, brandishing a jar of mashed insects. “We petitioned first!” The third guard’s spear checks it; it spits grease but does not attack.

A small pilgrim rattles a worthless trinket above its head and chants, “Back of the line! Back of the line!” It stays among the petitioners.

A thin pilgrim echoes the guard in a mocking squeal: “No receipt!” It points at Fenwick’s counting frame, then ducks behind its fellows.

Another frail pilgrim hisses, “Dryskins count coin because they have no tribute worth giving.” It clutches its own offering and keeps its place.

A broad pilgrim thrusts its jar toward the guards. “My insects were mashed at moonrise! Hear my petition before theirs!” It jostles the line, not the party.

Another pilgrim shoves the moonrise jar aside with its own. “Mine were mashed during an eclipse!” Their argument turns inward; neither attacks the party.

A third petitioner points north and demands, “Expel the dryskins, then judge our tributes!” It keeps its claws lowered when the guards ignore it.

The guards refuse Fenwick’s counteroffer and turn back to the petitioners. No agreement is reached and no blow is struck. The southern passage remains barred; entry still costs 50 gp and custody of every weapon.

— WHAT THEY WROTE —

DM toll-reeves-b1 / area 10 Tribute Checkpoint: Ancel opened peaceful parley. Guards demanded 50 gp and custody of every weapon for an audience with the Black One. Fenwick counteroffered 20 gp in silver, a receipt, and sheathed weapons; guards refused. No one attacked or took damage. Party remains in area 10; southern passage remains blocked under the original terms.
Ancel Vray The tribute checkpoint stands firm. Four gloop guards bar the southern passage; twelve or so pilgrims shriek in line ahead of us. Their price: fifty gold and every weapon held — no receipt, no silver rate, no discussion. Fenwick tried to talk books; the guards do not read books. I offered to assess and pay fair value, which is more than I can actually do here, since their fair value does not appear on any tariff. I will remember: these pilgrims greet their own kind with respect and us with demands. Whatever waits past that passage costs more than gold, I suspect. Nobody drew steel. Nobody died. The vinegar stays in my satchel.
Merta Ossling Tribute checkpoint at the serpent shrine. Demand: fifty gold and custody of every weapon, no receipt, no silver rate. Fenwick offered twenty and a written fee; the guard would not look at the counting frame. Ancel offered terms; the guard named the same price. No tariff board displayed — that is the first irregularity worth noting. The pilgrims mocked us for counting coin and for cutting their line; none attacked, nor did the guards. No agreement reached, no blow struck. The account stands open: fifty gold, disarmament, or leave. Note to self: a toll demanded without a tariff board is not a toll, it is brigandage with a shrine attached. The cleric of this place charges a steep rate. If we go forward, I want that receipt in writing before a single weapon leaves my hands, and I want to know what the Black One is before I pay.
Yandro Pell Our quarry has a front door, and it's guarded. A line of greased pilgrims and four spears standing in the southern passage, all demanding fifty gold and every blade we carry ringed, just to look at their "Black One." Fenwick tried to haggle it down to twenty with a receipt — the guard didn't even look at the frame, just tapped its spear and said no receipt, pay, wait, or leave. Ancel offered tribute. I kept my hand off my sword hilt and my mouth shut; there's nothing to be gained drawing steel on a god's tollhouse over coin. But we're not out here to pay their fee and hand over our blades. That's how a man gets to the bottom of a pit. The pilgrims are quarrelling among themselves about who mashed their insects at the right moon — they don't threaten us yet. Whatever's down that passage, the duke's road runs through it, and there's twelve names in my ledger says someone's been taking the toll wrong. We've been let through nothing. We'll find another way in, or a better price, but I'm not leaving my sword in a stranger's basket. Not for this.
DM Remember toll-reeves-b1 / session 294e418339f47832907e3c4e4dea5a7e1da31435d72c9ca1c7625d0aa1828f11: At area 10, Ancel opened peaceful parley. The four guards demanded 50 gp plus custody of every weapon for passage south to an audience with the Black One. Fenwick offered 20 gp in silver, a receipt, and sheathed weapons; the guards refused. No combat occurred, no one was harmed, no money or weapons changed hands, and the party remains in area 10 with the southern passage blocked.
Fenwick Drear Checkpoint of the Black One's pilgrims, southern passage. Four gloop guards, crude tribute baskets, no tariff board, and a price set in stone: fifty gold plus every weapon we carry, held until we come back. For that they sell "an audience." Not a pit, the guard said — though a pit-keeper would say the same. I offered twenty in good silver, a proper receipt, blades sheathed but in our own hands. The guard never even looked at the frame. No silver rate. No receipt. Pay, wait your turn, or leave. Ancel played the courteous assessor, gave them room and a price point; I matched it with arithmetic. Neither of us moved them. So the books stay open and nobody's blade is out yet — that's the one thing I count as a win. The pilgrims hate us properly. Dryskins pay double, they say. Back of the line. Mashed at moonrise, mashed at eclipse, and every jar worth more than my silver offer in that temple's eyes. Twelve of them. I have a history with the number twelve, and I don't like standing in a barricaded hall with it. No agreement. No blow. Door still shut, weapons still ours, fifty gold still theirs to demand. I'll note for the record: they wanted the steel off us more than they wanted the coin. A guard that disarms before an audience is a guard that expects the audience to go badly for the visitor. Worth remembering when we decide what to pay with.