imp

Ancel Vray

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?"

DM

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 Drear

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?"

DM

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.

DM

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

DM

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

DM

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

DM

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

DM

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.

DM

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.

DM

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

DM

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

DM

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.

DM

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

DM

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

DM

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.