"STOP... ngh... MURDER... GIRL. WANT... graah... TALK? *cough* *cough* *spits* TALK."
The new toy. I grab my staff, and with the click of a button I shoot a metal bar on his temple.
Defy Danger, 2d6+INT. (6+1) + 1 = 8
I don't think it'd cause damage, as it would be a impractical weapon if the release was that powerful, but enough to distract him.
Dizzy, I try to stumble away from him and get myself up.
"Why... why are you fighting? And why am I your 'brother'?"
What's around me now?
He stumbles backwards, releasing you in shock. You see a crude bird painted on his mask. Gasping, you massage your throat.
You're in what is essentially a signal box or bunker for the semaphore, complicated gear-based mechanisms in dangerously exposed conditions; it would be completely open to the elements but for a makeshift canvas held up by poles. An open box attached to one pole probably once held a flare-launching device. Thankfully none of the gears are working, or this would be an even more dangerous place than it already is. A sword of Imperial make is embedded in the floor.
"Ya don't know?" the man asks, recovering his wits and gesturing around himself at the landscape. "These fools would bring their cities here... surely, you can't be in league with them damned blackcloaks, can you, brother?" He's a tall man, lanky, his hair matted and fire-red.
The girl is lying prone; her hair is a dirty blonde, her garments imperial in cut and weave. She is sobbing in fear.
What do you do?
---
The Imperials turn as one and salute you, fist to chest, the wounded doing their best or thrusting a clenched fist in the air. "Hail, Imperator!" they cry, heedless of their enemy, who look sufficiently unnerved not to take advantage of the obvious pause in the action. One masked opponent, the closest to you (who has blood splattered on them from Thrakdur's hapless victim), looks at them, looks at you, looks at Thrakdur's straining muscles as he draws back on his massive bow, looks at your glowing dagger.
"We're goin', we're goin'!" he says, hands in the air. "Just... make them blackcloaks stand down, and we'll be gone soon as you can say whiff. Look, we'll stop - oi, you lot - quit it! This one's got
magic! Just... come all of ya'll over here..."
He's gesturing the rest of his folk over towards him carefully, exaggerated eyes on you. The Imperials are looking at you for orders, hands still on their swords, ready to be commanded. The rest of the folk cautiously raise their hands - the universal sign of submission - and begin to shuffle outwards, except for those who are hauling their dead or wounded.
Two of them are also dragging Lt. Hieronymous with them, his own sword at his throat. He is stoically attempting to keep his calm with the tip of his sword tickling his adam's apple, and doing a pretty alright job of it, in your estimation.
"We'll let him go down the hill," grunts one, a huge woman, mask striped and cat-like. "I don't want none of ya'll following us. I swear it on my mam's grave, but if ye follow us, I'll stick him good and painful..."
What do you do?
(The assurance they want is that they get to take the Lt with them at least beyond the walls of the outpost).
Deken, I think you have a cool badge. Describe it to me.
6+4)+1=11. Dmg:9+1=10, forceful and messy.