Life on the edge of a blade, existence on the daily coin. Now's the time to go on
A Life of Coin. (A Warhammer Fantasy Mercenary Quest)
- Thread starter Dapperlad1
- Start date
- Mature Fantasy Action
- Created
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A New Leaf 1.1
- Location
- Albania
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Rain pours down outside a packed tavern, the din and drench muted by thatched roof and wooden walls underlaid by stone. The crackle of a fireplace and a calm hum of people break through the rest as dozens drink frothy Imperial beer. Woodsmoke and smiles fill the air. All except you are smiling.
One hundred guilder for one man's life, a life changing sum, dragging you out of the muck and filth of common sellsword life and into something more. Something better. The knife in your belt hangs heavy for a half pound chunk of metal and wood, wrapped in leather and cured. You spent your last ten Shrapnel sharpening the thing.
Just a life, plenty of those are lost every day. Your breath quickens, a taste of acrid anxiety falling across your tongue and a break of sweat on your skin. State Regiment service having not prepared you for the risk of a close quarters assassination.
A hundred guilders. You see him, a confident braggart with two women hanging off his arms. One that pissed off the wrong man, the sort of man willing to find and pay a veteran a lord's wage for a life. It's none of your business why, it doesn't particularly matter to you.
A calming drink settles you- one, two, three, four steps. He glances towards me confused, drunken face catching up with what is in all likelihood an expression of outright confused terror on mine. The women scream, your knife planting in his gut, twists, then again, then again. He freezes, paling like a sheet with widening eyes and a pitiful expression on his face.
You stab again. And again. Heat coils up your arm with the blood spray of a tideway splitting open. You throw him off to the ground and give him one more wound, between the third and fourth rib, pointed up. That stops any twitching.
Then, the escape. It's rather simple, no one stops the bloodsoaked madman and the rain outside stops any calls for guards carrying far. Clean up the face, wash off the hand, cut the bloody tunic sleeve off and stomp away.
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"You'd make a killin' as a knife for hire, sellsword." A fatter man, Leopuld, hums with a purse of guilder in his hand, dangling from the strings that hold it shut. "Altdorf State Troops on your tail though, bad for a man's lifespan in that there profession." He grins with crooked, rotted teeth, decades of mistreatment showing clear in the black and brown expression.
"I'll make a killing where I please, Leopuld. Give me the money or I'll make that here." Your patience has run thin. The State Troops are in the streets after a murder, and when the rain stops so do any chances of an escape. The tone you use seems to have the appropriate effect, making Leopuld take a breath and his smile to grow more genial.
"'Course, sellsword, 'course. I trust we'll be seein' ya' around eh?" He hands over the purse, and doesn't deserve a response as you twist on a heel and stomp off to parts unknown, driving through a doorway and into the pouring rain. Then through the streets, cobbled masterworks of Imperial architecture backed by buildings so dense and tall you'd think Elves built this place. But no, that's another district of the Imperial Capital, Altdorf.
The gates are held open most days with the traffic so great that any closing of them would result in a miles long blockage. Even open the blockages still reach a mile of hooting, hollering and complaining merchants and their caravan hands just trying to make some money. In the downpour a miserable State Trooper glances at you with tired eyes, not quite recognizing your face in the deluge and going back to standing guard.
You breathe a sigh of relief as you make it to the gates, and then, out. A caravan's offering travel north, to Talabecland. Ignorant barbarians by the reckoning of the Empire, safety to any man seeking anonymity. A guilder goes to them, enough money that they feed, house and haul you without asking a question beyond where.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Two months on the caravan, and five more Guilder, but you're finally here. Talabheim, a capital, somewhere where you can spend the money, make a life beyond mere knifemanning. Make something greater.
At the crater's edge you enter the gatehouse and walk down a steeper than hell passageway. The guards laugh as you nearly stumble, having to get to grips with the odd angle, making your way to the city beneath. Hundreds of thousands of souls contained in the midst of this place, lurking past. State Troops march in proud columns, gleaming breastplates and generously dyed clothes shining brightly as they go to war somewhere distant. Maybe half of them will return.
Criminals stand in corners and alleys, eyeing up everyone but you, a man with grim eyes and a few scars to your name, there's no world where an easy mark is you, and it's not so lean a time as to need to go for more dangerous marks. So their eyes flit across.
You march off to the nearest inn with lodging, a Screaming Spaniel, its namesake restfully sleeping in a corner without a care in the world. The inside of this place making a vast and incoherently large city feel small, more familiar, homely in a sense. Cleaner than the Altdorf alehouse you took a life for no reason other than pay.
"Joy! A new face 'round 'ere!" A feminine voice from a pretty lass draws your attention. A bar maid rests an elbow on the table, brunette hair spilling out of a head scarf, curled at the edges while soulful eyes take you in. She's lovely.
"Just a traveller, miss." You reply with the tired tone of someone well-broken by the road's rigours, blowing any possible chance that you'll have a warm bed tonight with that milquetoast response. She chuckles.
"Can I help ya' to a drink an' a meal then? It ain't so expensive, a few pennies an' you can 'ave a warm belly." She promises, now seeing you as a paying customer. Well, sounds good enough for the moment.
"I'll buy a month's lodging as well, miss." You respectfully twirl a guilder from your fingers over to the woman. "Food's included I hope, as is reasonable drink." The expression she has is now very filled with a spontaneous gold lust.
"Aye, lord, anythin' else I can help ya' with?" She grins, moving to get you a drink immediately. The sigh you let out is one of a variety of emotions, a complicated mix of things that can't quite be ironed out to one feeling.
"Just that miss." You answer back with nary a worry or feeling, making the woman move off to serve you instead of lurking for a paying customer. A few minutes later, a frothy lager, three sausages, a chunk of bread and some pig-fat fried eggs on a plate are planted in front of you, providing something that isn't trail food to eat.
A good day so far.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Ninety seven guilder after everything's said and done, enough to do plenty, plenty. Just have to figure out what exactly.
People come and go, faces that don't matter, names that slip your mind until they become relevant again. Fingers rattle on the bar of the tavern, five days here.
Ten days, still little opportunity. Something has to give, a new plan, a functional plan has to form. You breathe out some worry, thinking on what to do. A notice board on the wall of the inn provides a spark of direction, something to focus on. Two, specifically.
A mercenary company recruitment ad, one requesting 'Strong, able-bodied men and women for the Band of the Falcon', some mercenary group you've never heard of trying to acquire men. The other plan is a little less direct, but perhaps you might get luckier.
[X] The Band of the Falcon. You're a veteran of the Halberdiers, you've gritted your teeth and traded steel and blood with the worst the world slings at the Empire. They'll take you, and then you can get some experience in the career of fighting for coin instead of country.
Starting Statistics.
[X] Start your own. You've spent plenty of time in the backline, books, accounting and leadership alike. Now, you just need to find the people to do the work of fighting. Somewhere.
Guilder: 97.
One hundred guilder for one man's life, a life changing sum, dragging you out of the muck and filth of common sellsword life and into something more. Something better. The knife in your belt hangs heavy for a half pound chunk of metal and wood, wrapped in leather and cured. You spent your last ten Shrapnel sharpening the thing.
Just a life, plenty of those are lost every day. Your breath quickens, a taste of acrid anxiety falling across your tongue and a break of sweat on your skin. State Regiment service having not prepared you for the risk of a close quarters assassination.
A hundred guilders. You see him, a confident braggart with two women hanging off his arms. One that pissed off the wrong man, the sort of man willing to find and pay a veteran a lord's wage for a life. It's none of your business why, it doesn't particularly matter to you.
A calming drink settles you- one, two, three, four steps. He glances towards me confused, drunken face catching up with what is in all likelihood an expression of outright confused terror on mine. The women scream, your knife planting in his gut, twists, then again, then again. He freezes, paling like a sheet with widening eyes and a pitiful expression on his face.
You stab again. And again. Heat coils up your arm with the blood spray of a tideway splitting open. You throw him off to the ground and give him one more wound, between the third and fourth rib, pointed up. That stops any twitching.
Then, the escape. It's rather simple, no one stops the bloodsoaked madman and the rain outside stops any calls for guards carrying far. Clean up the face, wash off the hand, cut the bloody tunic sleeve off and stomp away.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
"You'd make a killin' as a knife for hire, sellsword." A fatter man, Leopuld, hums with a purse of guilder in his hand, dangling from the strings that hold it shut. "Altdorf State Troops on your tail though, bad for a man's lifespan in that there profession." He grins with crooked, rotted teeth, decades of mistreatment showing clear in the black and brown expression.
"I'll make a killing where I please, Leopuld. Give me the money or I'll make that here." Your patience has run thin. The State Troops are in the streets after a murder, and when the rain stops so do any chances of an escape. The tone you use seems to have the appropriate effect, making Leopuld take a breath and his smile to grow more genial.
"'Course, sellsword, 'course. I trust we'll be seein' ya' around eh?" He hands over the purse, and doesn't deserve a response as you twist on a heel and stomp off to parts unknown, driving through a doorway and into the pouring rain. Then through the streets, cobbled masterworks of Imperial architecture backed by buildings so dense and tall you'd think Elves built this place. But no, that's another district of the Imperial Capital, Altdorf.
The gates are held open most days with the traffic so great that any closing of them would result in a miles long blockage. Even open the blockages still reach a mile of hooting, hollering and complaining merchants and their caravan hands just trying to make some money. In the downpour a miserable State Trooper glances at you with tired eyes, not quite recognizing your face in the deluge and going back to standing guard.
You breathe a sigh of relief as you make it to the gates, and then, out. A caravan's offering travel north, to Talabecland. Ignorant barbarians by the reckoning of the Empire, safety to any man seeking anonymity. A guilder goes to them, enough money that they feed, house and haul you without asking a question beyond where.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Two months on the caravan, and five more Guilder, but you're finally here. Talabheim, a capital, somewhere where you can spend the money, make a life beyond mere knifemanning. Make something greater.
At the crater's edge you enter the gatehouse and walk down a steeper than hell passageway. The guards laugh as you nearly stumble, having to get to grips with the odd angle, making your way to the city beneath. Hundreds of thousands of souls contained in the midst of this place, lurking past. State Troops march in proud columns, gleaming breastplates and generously dyed clothes shining brightly as they go to war somewhere distant. Maybe half of them will return.
Criminals stand in corners and alleys, eyeing up everyone but you, a man with grim eyes and a few scars to your name, there's no world where an easy mark is you, and it's not so lean a time as to need to go for more dangerous marks. So their eyes flit across.
You march off to the nearest inn with lodging, a Screaming Spaniel, its namesake restfully sleeping in a corner without a care in the world. The inside of this place making a vast and incoherently large city feel small, more familiar, homely in a sense. Cleaner than the Altdorf alehouse you took a life for no reason other than pay.
"Joy! A new face 'round 'ere!" A feminine voice from a pretty lass draws your attention. A bar maid rests an elbow on the table, brunette hair spilling out of a head scarf, curled at the edges while soulful eyes take you in. She's lovely.
"Just a traveller, miss." You reply with the tired tone of someone well-broken by the road's rigours, blowing any possible chance that you'll have a warm bed tonight with that milquetoast response. She chuckles.
"Can I help ya' to a drink an' a meal then? It ain't so expensive, a few pennies an' you can 'ave a warm belly." She promises, now seeing you as a paying customer. Well, sounds good enough for the moment.
"I'll buy a month's lodging as well, miss." You respectfully twirl a guilder from your fingers over to the woman. "Food's included I hope, as is reasonable drink." The expression she has is now very filled with a spontaneous gold lust.
"Aye, lord, anythin' else I can help ya' with?" She grins, moving to get you a drink immediately. The sigh you let out is one of a variety of emotions, a complicated mix of things that can't quite be ironed out to one feeling.
"Just that miss." You answer back with nary a worry or feeling, making the woman move off to serve you instead of lurking for a paying customer. A few minutes later, a frothy lager, three sausages, a chunk of bread and some pig-fat fried eggs on a plate are planted in front of you, providing something that isn't trail food to eat.
A good day so far.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Ninety seven guilder after everything's said and done, enough to do plenty, plenty. Just have to figure out what exactly.
People come and go, faces that don't matter, names that slip your mind until they become relevant again. Fingers rattle on the bar of the tavern, five days here.
Ten days, still little opportunity. Something has to give, a new plan, a functional plan has to form. You breathe out some worry, thinking on what to do. A notice board on the wall of the inn provides a spark of direction, something to focus on. Two, specifically.
A mercenary company recruitment ad, one requesting 'Strong, able-bodied men and women for the Band of the Falcon', some mercenary group you've never heard of trying to acquire men. The other plan is a little less direct, but perhaps you might get luckier.
[X] The Band of the Falcon. You're a veteran of the Halberdiers, you've gritted your teeth and traded steel and blood with the worst the world slings at the Empire. They'll take you, and then you can get some experience in the career of fighting for coin instead of country.
Starting Statistics.
Statistics
| Movement | Weapon Skill | Ballistic Skill | Strength | Toughness | Wounds | Attacks | Initiative | Leadership |
4 | 3 | 3 | 3 | 3 | 1 | 1 | 3 | 8 |
| Tactics | Accounting | Negotiate | Intimidate | Investigate | N/A | N/A | N/A | N/A |
55 | 30 | 25 | 45 | 35 | 0 | 0 | 0 | 0 |
[X] Start your own. You've spent plenty of time in the backline, books, accounting and leadership alike. Now, you just need to find the people to do the work of fighting. Somewhere.
Statistics
| Movement | Weapon Skill | Ballistic Skill | Strength | Toughness | Wounds | Attacks | Initiative | Leadership |
4 | 3 | 2 | 3 | 3 | 1 | 1 | 3 | 7 |
| Tactics | Accounting | Negotiate | Intimidate | Investigate | N/A | N/A | N/A | N/A |
55 | 45 | 35 | 35 | 30 | 0 | 0 | 0 | 0 |
Guilder: 97.
- Location
- Albania
- Pronouns
- He/Him
I'll take this!
- Location
- Albania
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaand this!
- Location
- Albania
- Pronouns
- He/Him
And you can post!
Hey new Dapper quest watched.
[X] Start your own. You've spent plenty of time in the backline, books, accounting and leadership alike. Now, you just need to find the people to do the work of fighting. Somewhere.
How hard can running our own group be.
[X] Start your own. You've spent plenty of time in the backline, books, accounting and leadership alike. Now, you just need to find the people to do the work of fighting. Somewhere.
How hard can running our own group be.
Innocence
The Glory
- Location
- When was the last time you looked behind you?
- Pronouns
- It/Its
[X] Start your own. You've spent plenty of time in the backline, books, accounting and leadership alike. Now, you just need to find the people to do the work of fighting. Somewhere.
I am once again being dragged kicking and screaming into my pw vault to find my login to this website again, help me please
I am once again being dragged kicking and screaming into my pw vault to find my login to this website again, help me please
[X] Start your own. You've spent plenty of time in the backline, books, accounting and leadership alike. Now, you just need to find the people to do the work of fighting. Somewhere.
[X] Start your own. You've spent plenty of time in the backline, books, accounting and leadership alike. Now, you just need to find the people to do the work of fighting. Somewhere.
[X] The Band of the Falcon. You're a veteran of the Halberdiers, you've gritted your teeth and traded steel and blood with the worst the world slings at the Empire. They'll take you, and then you can get some experience in the career of fighting for coin instead of country.
Look, so long as it's not run by a white haired twink with a weird red egg necklace this'll be grand.
It's.....it's not lead by a white haired twink with a weird red egg necklace is it? Guys? Hello?
....dammit I better get a tanned tomboy waifu out of this at least....
Look, so long as it's not run by a white haired twink with a weird red egg necklace this'll be grand.
It's.....it's not lead by a white haired twink with a weird red egg necklace is it? Guys? Hello?
....dammit I better get a tanned tomboy waifu out of this at least....
It was the Band of the Hawk but a falcon is a type of hawk, and the fear of white haired twinks with egg necklaces is my main justification for starting our own.
[X] The Band of the Falcon. You're a veteran of the Halberdiers, you've gritted your teeth and traded steel and blood with the worst the world slings at the Empire. They'll take you, and then you can get some experience in the career of fighting for coin instead of country.
Harem Builder RPG.
Harem Builder RPG.
Last edited:
OKY GUYS LOOK- Guts didn't rail the twink. IF we rail the twink we won't have a problem, right?
- Location
- redding
[X] The Band of the Falcon. You're a veteran of the Halberdiers, you've gritted your teeth and traded steel and blood with the worst the world slings at the Empire. They'll take you, and then you can get some experience in the career of fighting for coin instead of country.
If by rail you mean violently bludgeon to death with an iron bar at the soonest convience then totally.
What do you do when Griffith grabs you by the inner thigh and says "You're a kind man in a cruel world"
At that point I just close my eyes and pretend not to hear his dying gasps as I choke him to death.
BUT- what if twink is actually... A WOMAN!
Also like, it'd be rad if we took someone's merc comp from them. They'd have more starting stuff. Also we'd have better stats.
I know I voted for other, but can go either way.
[X] Start your own. You've spent plenty of time in the backline, books, accounting and leadership alike. Now, you just need to find the people to do the work of fighting. Somewhere
Night_stalker
Slava Ukraini!
- Pronouns
- He/Him
[X] The Band of the Falcon. You're a veteran of the Halberdiers, you've gritted your teeth and traded steel and blood with the worst the world slings at the Empire. They'll take you, and then you can get some experience in the career of fighting for coin instead of country.