You came to Panau in search of riches and to seize opportunities. It does not want you, the prodigal descendant of strange lands, bearing a strange accent and a strange mien. But it will be yours, that dream of wealth and power.
Hustle Baby: A Dieselpunk Crime Quest
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Prologue: Bem-vindo ao Panau
- Location
- boundless optimism
Panau is freedom, invention, and the pushing of boundaries. Panau, gateway between the Continent and Novo Mundi! Where industrial machines refashion the world within and without, the first truly free nation on the Spine, where the staid rule of kings and emperors give way for vital men of knowledge and learning to steer the ship of state. The first to dream of true freedom, the old families of Panau say, and look where they are now. Every man a king! Every man, lord of their domain, be it in business or politics!
So they say. Truth is, there's a young Sanarran sitting in Ganso Island packed cheek to jowl with hundreds of their countrymen that just don't smell the free air of Panau. To them, the so-called free air really is just the rank stench of unwashed flesh and acrid oil smoke. They boarded the ship weeks ago on the cheapest birth. They stabbed someone for the ticket. But it was better here than in Sanar. Anything is better than Sanar.
It's a slow, miserable shuffle. Panauans don't speak the Sanarran language. They can't understand the accents of weary grandmothers and too young boys packed off to strange shores. Neither do they want to, the nameless Sanarran muses. Why should they? Their country. We just have to adapt.
"Atan," a woman behind them says, "could we exchange places? My child is-" Almost crying. Starving. They weigh inconveniences- stand in this office a bit longer, or suffer a kid's crying like a drill in their ear? The first one wins out.
"Say no more," the Sanarran says, and lets her pass. The child starts crying anyway. Black damn. This is what you get for charity. Still, the line shuffled on, and eventually they come face to face with the wine-reddened officer handling this boatload of human flesh. He makes a cursory gesture, to sit down at the bench as the officer grabs a new document.
"You," he barks. "Name." It isn't a question.
[]- "Aimar Khatri."
[]- "Ariel Khatri."
The officer snorts but writes it down. "And your sex?"
[]- "Male."
[]- "Female."
[]- "It's not your business. It's not Panau's business."
He writes it down and they feel a rush of color to their cheeks. The room suddenly feels unbearably hot at this intrusion. But then it passes. It will soon be gone, and the document will be consigned to some dark census room where no one will touch it. As good as forgotten.
"Date of birth."
"Eighth day of Setting, Year Alubaatar twenty eight."
For the first time the official shows something other than vague derision and apathy. "A civilized date," he clarifies, features sharpened into disgust and irritation. "You jimmy-plains are in Panau now, and you'll use Panau's measures."
Gritted teeth. "Fine. Third week, first day of month eight. Year a thousand and… nine?" The conversion takes a second. They're not entirely sure with this insane system.
"See? You're learning. I'll write Sanarran, and you'll tell me what you have planned out and you're free to go." The door behind him could be a portal to heaven for all you care.
[]- "I'll be looking for dockwork." Panau's harbor is a stopping point for half the world, and half the world's money flows through here. Starting in the docks will give you plenty of criminal oppertunities, but also contending with your fellow criminals and private guards.
[]- "I'll be developing the Hinter." Working in the rural areas of Panau will give you essentially free reign, but you will also have little to no resources outside of what you can steal from caravans and company storehouses.
[]- "I'll be a servant. I'm not proud." As a menial for Panau's richest, you'll come across secrets and dirty deeds they would not like to see exposed, as well as access to their manors. In addition, many of them could do with a footpad to remove their enemies.
The official nods, and drops the yellow broadsheet into a leather binder. There. Done. The Sanarran leaves for the next one to be subjected. When they step outside the full stench of Panau hits them. In the distance, almost hazy in this mid-morning mist, giant towers loom, spun out of glass and steel. The sound of the dock cranes blot out almost everything. It invites introspection.
What's Panau to you?
[]- They believe in Panau more than anyone. Panau's promise- of freedom, prosperity, it spoke to a liberated serf, free to travel the world. The village brought them a ticket, and they bidded the clan goodbye as they rode to the port, promising to return with a suit sewn with gold threads.
+ Reasonable Man (2): You have been known for your icy calm and amiable manner. Even as a child, your peers went to you first to arbitrate disputes, so you are skilled in maneuvering the shoals of interpersonal relationships. However, slights to your person are felt keenly, and each must be repaid even if it proves detrimental.
[]- Here is where they'll get richer and richer. Their uncle travelled to Panau once on business. And he returned a very rich man, and had to leave to see his investments come to fruition. The family decided that the youngest would all seek their fortunes oversees, away from the troubled homeland.
+ Head For Numbers (2): Your mind is an abacus. You can derive percentages, calculate rates, and catch irregularities in ledgers with a glance, having been trained from a young age to do so. But you feel risks keenly, being conscious of your investments. 'Adventure' is a synonym for 'disaster' in your mind.
[]- Panau used them and tossed them away. There was a khagan that Panau didn't like, there was an army they sponsored to get rid of him. But the army failed and the soldiers fled to their foreign masters, if you believe the propaganda. Now one of them is here, among the faceless many.
+ Military Training (2): Panau's finest military officers came to train General Temur's men. You learned from the best, the tactics used to clean jungles and mountains of aborigines turned to clear the port cities room by room. You excelled, aggressive, bold, and nearly fearless. Good traits for a soldier. Not a civilian.
A/N: Next two posts reserved for the character sheet/misc lore and the mechanics. Uh, feel free to ask anything about the setting.
So they say. Truth is, there's a young Sanarran sitting in Ganso Island packed cheek to jowl with hundreds of their countrymen that just don't smell the free air of Panau. To them, the so-called free air really is just the rank stench of unwashed flesh and acrid oil smoke. They boarded the ship weeks ago on the cheapest birth. They stabbed someone for the ticket. But it was better here than in Sanar. Anything is better than Sanar.
It's a slow, miserable shuffle. Panauans don't speak the Sanarran language. They can't understand the accents of weary grandmothers and too young boys packed off to strange shores. Neither do they want to, the nameless Sanarran muses. Why should they? Their country. We just have to adapt.
"Atan," a woman behind them says, "could we exchange places? My child is-" Almost crying. Starving. They weigh inconveniences- stand in this office a bit longer, or suffer a kid's crying like a drill in their ear? The first one wins out.
"Say no more," the Sanarran says, and lets her pass. The child starts crying anyway. Black damn. This is what you get for charity. Still, the line shuffled on, and eventually they come face to face with the wine-reddened officer handling this boatload of human flesh. He makes a cursory gesture, to sit down at the bench as the officer grabs a new document.
"You," he barks. "Name." It isn't a question.
[]- "Aimar Khatri."
[]- "Ariel Khatri."
The officer snorts but writes it down. "And your sex?"
[]- "Male."
[]- "Female."
[]- "It's not your business. It's not Panau's business."
He writes it down and they feel a rush of color to their cheeks. The room suddenly feels unbearably hot at this intrusion. But then it passes. It will soon be gone, and the document will be consigned to some dark census room where no one will touch it. As good as forgotten.
"Date of birth."
"Eighth day of Setting, Year Alubaatar twenty eight."
For the first time the official shows something other than vague derision and apathy. "A civilized date," he clarifies, features sharpened into disgust and irritation. "You jimmy-plains are in Panau now, and you'll use Panau's measures."
Gritted teeth. "Fine. Third week, first day of month eight. Year a thousand and… nine?" The conversion takes a second. They're not entirely sure with this insane system.
"See? You're learning. I'll write Sanarran, and you'll tell me what you have planned out and you're free to go." The door behind him could be a portal to heaven for all you care.
[]- "I'll be looking for dockwork." Panau's harbor is a stopping point for half the world, and half the world's money flows through here. Starting in the docks will give you plenty of criminal oppertunities, but also contending with your fellow criminals and private guards.
[]- "I'll be developing the Hinter." Working in the rural areas of Panau will give you essentially free reign, but you will also have little to no resources outside of what you can steal from caravans and company storehouses.
[]- "I'll be a servant. I'm not proud." As a menial for Panau's richest, you'll come across secrets and dirty deeds they would not like to see exposed, as well as access to their manors. In addition, many of them could do with a footpad to remove their enemies.
The official nods, and drops the yellow broadsheet into a leather binder. There. Done. The Sanarran leaves for the next one to be subjected. When they step outside the full stench of Panau hits them. In the distance, almost hazy in this mid-morning mist, giant towers loom, spun out of glass and steel. The sound of the dock cranes blot out almost everything. It invites introspection.
What's Panau to you?
[]- They believe in Panau more than anyone. Panau's promise- of freedom, prosperity, it spoke to a liberated serf, free to travel the world. The village brought them a ticket, and they bidded the clan goodbye as they rode to the port, promising to return with a suit sewn with gold threads.
+ Reasonable Man (2): You have been known for your icy calm and amiable manner. Even as a child, your peers went to you first to arbitrate disputes, so you are skilled in maneuvering the shoals of interpersonal relationships. However, slights to your person are felt keenly, and each must be repaid even if it proves detrimental.
[]- Here is where they'll get richer and richer. Their uncle travelled to Panau once on business. And he returned a very rich man, and had to leave to see his investments come to fruition. The family decided that the youngest would all seek their fortunes oversees, away from the troubled homeland.
+ Head For Numbers (2): Your mind is an abacus. You can derive percentages, calculate rates, and catch irregularities in ledgers with a glance, having been trained from a young age to do so. But you feel risks keenly, being conscious of your investments. 'Adventure' is a synonym for 'disaster' in your mind.
[]- Panau used them and tossed them away. There was a khagan that Panau didn't like, there was an army they sponsored to get rid of him. But the army failed and the soldiers fled to their foreign masters, if you believe the propaganda. Now one of them is here, among the faceless many.
+ Military Training (2): Panau's finest military officers came to train General Temur's men. You learned from the best, the tactics used to clean jungles and mountains of aborigines turned to clear the port cities room by room. You excelled, aggressive, bold, and nearly fearless. Good traits for a soldier. Not a civilian.
A/N: Next two posts reserved for the character sheet/misc lore and the mechanics. Uh, feel free to ask anything about the setting.
Character Sheet
- Location
- boundless optimism
ARIEL KHATRI
Description: You. A Sanarran soldier from General Temur's Army of the Free, which was crushed months before she washed up on Panau.
Traits
Military Training(2): Panau's finest military officers came to train Khagan Temur's men. You learned from the best, the tactics used to clean jungles and mountains of aborigines turned to clear the port cities room by room. You excelled, aggressive, bold, and nearly fearless. Good traits for a soldier. Not a civilian.
Description: You. A Sanarran soldier from General Temur's Army of the Free, which was crushed months before she washed up on Panau.
Traits
Military Training(2): Panau's finest military officers came to train Khagan Temur's men. You learned from the best, the tactics used to clean jungles and mountains of aborigines turned to clear the port cities room by room. You excelled, aggressive, bold, and nearly fearless. Good traits for a soldier. Not a civilian.
Last edited:
Mechanics and Misc. Lore.
- Location
- boundless optimism
Mechanics
All rolls will be resolved using a pool of d6 dice, with the highest number being the final result. Rolling a 6 means you've succeeded, and a 5 is a success at a cost. In opposed rolls by another entity, the one with more 6's win, while a tie is a success at a cost.
There's four sources of dice- character Traits, racket Specialties, equipment Assets, and Manpower. The first three have a maximum dice pool of three, so if you commit a character with a Trait of 2 in a task, have a relevant Speciality of 1, and further commit an Asset of 3, you can roll 8 dice. Manpower is not limited this way- you can commit as much Manpower to any action as you have Manpower, but if a one is rolled then that tick is taken away permanently.
Character Traits are loose descriptors of specialities with a narrative drawback. Anyone who has a Trait is a major character and will be your lieutenants. Ex:
> Arsonist (2): This character is especially good at any sort of chemistry relating to making flammable explosives. However, without burning something in the last few weeks they feel particularly antsy.
Racket Specialties: Rackets are criminal operations you run. Specialities are side benefits of owning one, on top of the regular money they make you. Ex:
> Meth Lab (1): This lab produces amphetamine of questionable quality. Still, you give them to a body and they'll forget what pain is. Handy for a fight.
Equipment Assets: These are items that are either purchased with Funds or created by someone with a relevant Trait. Some Assets such as guns have a limited number of times they can be used before you have to purchase extra charges. Ex.
> Automatic Abacus (3): A handy mechanical computer. You'll never have to worry about being shortchanged on goods, as long as your clerk is loyal. They are loyal, right?
Your gang as an organization has three universal statistics- Funds, Heat, and Manpower. Funds is how much money you have at any give time of the week, calculated by adding all the Funds of each discrete racket you have. Heat is similar, but it's a representation of how much attention you draw from the police. Too high and a lieutenant might be arrested, or a racket closed. Manpower is an abstraction of how many hangers on you have at any given time. They don't depend on rackets, but each racket has a Manpower requirement- without it the racket becomes defunct and no longer produces money.
In addition to their Manpower requirement, rackets require a character with a trait to take charge of it. Without one, they will only produce one Fund, but retain their Heat and Manpower statistics.
Here's an example of a racket:
> Loan Sharking: (Funds: 3 Heat: 1 Manpower: 2/2) A collection of thugs directed by accountants to shake down idiots who make poor fiscal decisions.
Speciality: Pressed Labor (1): If they can't pay you in cash, you'll take their labor. There's always someone you can force into doing your scutwork.
Finally, there's Scores. Scores are miscellaneous items you get from heists, robberies, and other daring and illegal activities. They can be converted for a set amount of Funds, but this will also increase your Heat for the next turn by their given amount. Ex:
Family Jewels (Funds 5 Heat: 4): Some rich family's emeralds. Your family's now.
All rolls will be resolved using a pool of d6 dice, with the highest number being the final result. Rolling a 6 means you've succeeded, and a 5 is a success at a cost. In opposed rolls by another entity, the one with more 6's win, while a tie is a success at a cost.
There's four sources of dice- character Traits, racket Specialties, equipment Assets, and Manpower. The first three have a maximum dice pool of three, so if you commit a character with a Trait of 2 in a task, have a relevant Speciality of 1, and further commit an Asset of 3, you can roll 8 dice. Manpower is not limited this way- you can commit as much Manpower to any action as you have Manpower, but if a one is rolled then that tick is taken away permanently.
Character Traits are loose descriptors of specialities with a narrative drawback. Anyone who has a Trait is a major character and will be your lieutenants. Ex:
> Arsonist (2): This character is especially good at any sort of chemistry relating to making flammable explosives. However, without burning something in the last few weeks they feel particularly antsy.
Racket Specialties: Rackets are criminal operations you run. Specialities are side benefits of owning one, on top of the regular money they make you. Ex:
> Meth Lab (1): This lab produces amphetamine of questionable quality. Still, you give them to a body and they'll forget what pain is. Handy for a fight.
Equipment Assets: These are items that are either purchased with Funds or created by someone with a relevant Trait. Some Assets such as guns have a limited number of times they can be used before you have to purchase extra charges. Ex.
> Automatic Abacus (3): A handy mechanical computer. You'll never have to worry about being shortchanged on goods, as long as your clerk is loyal. They are loyal, right?
Your gang as an organization has three universal statistics- Funds, Heat, and Manpower. Funds is how much money you have at any give time of the week, calculated by adding all the Funds of each discrete racket you have. Heat is similar, but it's a representation of how much attention you draw from the police. Too high and a lieutenant might be arrested, or a racket closed. Manpower is an abstraction of how many hangers on you have at any given time. They don't depend on rackets, but each racket has a Manpower requirement- without it the racket becomes defunct and no longer produces money.
In addition to their Manpower requirement, rackets require a character with a trait to take charge of it. Without one, they will only produce one Fund, but retain their Heat and Manpower statistics.
Here's an example of a racket:
> Loan Sharking: (Funds: 3 Heat: 1 Manpower: 2/2) A collection of thugs directed by accountants to shake down idiots who make poor fiscal decisions.
Speciality: Pressed Labor (1): If they can't pay you in cash, you'll take their labor. There's always someone you can force into doing your scutwork.
Finally, there's Scores. Scores are miscellaneous items you get from heists, robberies, and other daring and illegal activities. They can be converted for a set amount of Funds, but this will also increase your Heat for the next turn by their given amount. Ex:
Family Jewels (Funds 5 Heat: 4): Some rich family's emeralds. Your family's now.
Bem-vindo ao Panau 2
- Location
- boundless optimism
Panau slowly comes to life in the weeks of toil that characterized Ariel's days. It is divided, characterized, dominated by the Canal that runs through the middle, bottlenecking half of the world. She slept in a cheap apartment block of a building. It was a little expensive, but the landlady kept it in good shape. The pipes never leaked, the walls didn't have a speck of mildew on it. It was a bit of an odd place, though. It smelled like sickly sweet incense and at the dead of night Ariel was frequently woken up by her neighbors screaming to high heaven with their boyfriends. Goddamn daily occurrence. She was often tempted to lodge a complaint but she was too tired to move at night.
Her pay was never consistent, except for the fact that it was low. Each captain, each company, had their own rates. If you didn't like them you could go and starve, and some days she did, curled up in a back alley counting rocks as her stomach turned in on herself. There are always more of you zigs, one spat at her when she declined. Ariel left that corner fantasizing about murder, and how hard it would be to get away with it.
It couldn't be that hard, she concluded after a brief meal of goat cheese on flatbread from a countryman selling real good food (cumin lamb, tripe noodles, not that saucey crap the Panauans favored) out of his front doorstep. The wardens were few and far between and they seemed more interested in thievery and thuggery. There were so many alleyways, so many buildings under construction. The sewers were plentiful. Ariel passed by a gun store every bleary morning and she had a niggling feeling that the back door wasn't locked.
When the clouds cleared she could see all the way up to the mountains. The vertebrae of the Spine, that single thin strip of jutting land that circled the world north to south, dominated the sky. There was a curious feeling of being trapped, hemmed in by the city that spilled from the apathetic mountains into the sea.
She got over the mountains quick after someone told her that the rich people lived there. The religious discomfort was replaced by a sense of vague irritation fostered by the feeling that the condescending coin khagans and their glass walled manors sneered down at her. Come to think of it, they never did come down to the canal. They were felt invisibly, by the nervous chatter of the overseers. Mr or Ms. such and such will be furious if you do not meet quotas! No lunch break! Get to work!
It was backbreaking. Little pay for so much work. The orders came fast and sharp and she could barely understand them. When she didn't her pay was docked. If she slacked even a little, to catch her breath moving the boxes and bags of… things? her pay was docked. Docked, docked docked. And then when the sun sank beneath the waves she crawled back to the sickly sweet scented tenement hall and sunk like the sun beneath the sheets. Again and again and again.
The job was so easy that trained monkeys could probably do it. The ships came in with crates and parcels. Cloth and iron and hardwood came in, were loaded on horse drawn coaches or stored in giant warehouses by the rapidly soring muscles of the longshoremen. What came out were finished things like machine sewn dresses, electric lights, and in one case, a giant iron engine as tall as she was. That one took ages to load up properly and nearly broke her back.
Her only solace was the blue dollars she got. Five Panau rial a week. One of those rial would go to Ms. Agarwal for rent. Two more just for food. And the remaining two rial were stored up for a meaningless tomorrow. Who was she kidding? What was she expecting, scrimping and saving like that? A manor up in the mountains? Ha. So one evening, she brought a sukkah pipe and a bottle of hard liquor and smoked and drank herself into a pleasant stupor. The next day she woke up groggy. But for a moment she forgot about the pain. And that was good. Even the fucking overseer, last in a long line of many, was somewhat more bearable.
The days were not good but they passed well enough, even if it was at the bottom of a bottle, and sometimes facedown in a back alley. Those days she spent in the company of Batzorig Monkhbat, a gambler and a fellow drunk. They played cards and drank to the homeland and sang songs to the great plains, whatever that meant. It was better here, in Batzorig's lists and lists of late night bars than the tenement building that smelled like rotting fruit.
She had a sneaking suspicion that Batzorig was never as drunk as he made himself out to be. When they bet money Batzorig always acted like he was keen on staggering over, and then when the pool was full up he revealed some winning hand or another. Sometimes the other gamblers took offense but Ariel was always the one to finish those fights.
One night, as she staggered back to the Agarwal tenament, Monkhbat drunkenly turned to her and said, "atan, my atan, ye ever tire of this shite, you come find Uncle Bats. I'll set ye up. Always need me a hardy lad."
"I'm a woman," Ariel said.
"Hardy lass," he corrected himself. He slapped her shoulder and faded into the misty night. Ariel shook her head and staggered back into the building. A headache built in her skull. That was some rough stuff. Ms Agarwal was blocking her way in the narrow hallway. She didn't look too happy.
"Ms. Khatri," she greeted her in a smoker's voice. "You look wiped."
"Yeah."
She looked away for a second, then sighed. "Well, this is as good a time as any. Ms. Khatri, you are weeks behind on rent."
"Oh." There wasn't much else to say.
And the thing is, she really did look sorry. "As I see it, Ms. Khatri, you have two options. You either have a hundred and fifty riel in your pocket right now, or some stroke of good fortune will give you that money in the next three days."
"That doesn't seem likely," Ariel agreed. "I s'pose I'll be packing up, then."
"Ah-ah." A thin finger waved like a lure. "I have a proposition for you."
"Huh?"
"There's a pimp, Tavish. Not Sanarran. He's making trouble for my girls." The words jangled in Ariel's spirit-sodden mind. The connections were made, but slowly. "I would take it as a personal favor, and if he would find his legs broke and what-not."
"This is a whorehouse," Ariel finally said.
Ms. Agarwal looked surprised. "You didn't notice?"
[]- Find Batzorig. She's been his ertsaz muscle for his card hustles. She needs something back.
[]- Kill Tavish. Lady gives orders, lady gets results. Just one guy. Easy as breathing.
[]- Rob a night coach. How hard is it? No guards, dead of night. It's the selling that's the hard part.
Her pay was never consistent, except for the fact that it was low. Each captain, each company, had their own rates. If you didn't like them you could go and starve, and some days she did, curled up in a back alley counting rocks as her stomach turned in on herself. There are always more of you zigs, one spat at her when she declined. Ariel left that corner fantasizing about murder, and how hard it would be to get away with it.
It couldn't be that hard, she concluded after a brief meal of goat cheese on flatbread from a countryman selling real good food (cumin lamb, tripe noodles, not that saucey crap the Panauans favored) out of his front doorstep. The wardens were few and far between and they seemed more interested in thievery and thuggery. There were so many alleyways, so many buildings under construction. The sewers were plentiful. Ariel passed by a gun store every bleary morning and she had a niggling feeling that the back door wasn't locked.
When the clouds cleared she could see all the way up to the mountains. The vertebrae of the Spine, that single thin strip of jutting land that circled the world north to south, dominated the sky. There was a curious feeling of being trapped, hemmed in by the city that spilled from the apathetic mountains into the sea.
She got over the mountains quick after someone told her that the rich people lived there. The religious discomfort was replaced by a sense of vague irritation fostered by the feeling that the condescending coin khagans and their glass walled manors sneered down at her. Come to think of it, they never did come down to the canal. They were felt invisibly, by the nervous chatter of the overseers. Mr or Ms. such and such will be furious if you do not meet quotas! No lunch break! Get to work!
It was backbreaking. Little pay for so much work. The orders came fast and sharp and she could barely understand them. When she didn't her pay was docked. If she slacked even a little, to catch her breath moving the boxes and bags of… things? her pay was docked. Docked, docked docked. And then when the sun sank beneath the waves she crawled back to the sickly sweet scented tenement hall and sunk like the sun beneath the sheets. Again and again and again.
The job was so easy that trained monkeys could probably do it. The ships came in with crates and parcels. Cloth and iron and hardwood came in, were loaded on horse drawn coaches or stored in giant warehouses by the rapidly soring muscles of the longshoremen. What came out were finished things like machine sewn dresses, electric lights, and in one case, a giant iron engine as tall as she was. That one took ages to load up properly and nearly broke her back.
Her only solace was the blue dollars she got. Five Panau rial a week. One of those rial would go to Ms. Agarwal for rent. Two more just for food. And the remaining two rial were stored up for a meaningless tomorrow. Who was she kidding? What was she expecting, scrimping and saving like that? A manor up in the mountains? Ha. So one evening, she brought a sukkah pipe and a bottle of hard liquor and smoked and drank herself into a pleasant stupor. The next day she woke up groggy. But for a moment she forgot about the pain. And that was good. Even the fucking overseer, last in a long line of many, was somewhat more bearable.
The days were not good but they passed well enough, even if it was at the bottom of a bottle, and sometimes facedown in a back alley. Those days she spent in the company of Batzorig Monkhbat, a gambler and a fellow drunk. They played cards and drank to the homeland and sang songs to the great plains, whatever that meant. It was better here, in Batzorig's lists and lists of late night bars than the tenement building that smelled like rotting fruit.
She had a sneaking suspicion that Batzorig was never as drunk as he made himself out to be. When they bet money Batzorig always acted like he was keen on staggering over, and then when the pool was full up he revealed some winning hand or another. Sometimes the other gamblers took offense but Ariel was always the one to finish those fights.
One night, as she staggered back to the Agarwal tenament, Monkhbat drunkenly turned to her and said, "atan, my atan, ye ever tire of this shite, you come find Uncle Bats. I'll set ye up. Always need me a hardy lad."
"I'm a woman," Ariel said.
"Hardy lass," he corrected himself. He slapped her shoulder and faded into the misty night. Ariel shook her head and staggered back into the building. A headache built in her skull. That was some rough stuff. Ms Agarwal was blocking her way in the narrow hallway. She didn't look too happy.
"Ms. Khatri," she greeted her in a smoker's voice. "You look wiped."
"Yeah."
She looked away for a second, then sighed. "Well, this is as good a time as any. Ms. Khatri, you are weeks behind on rent."
"Oh." There wasn't much else to say.
And the thing is, she really did look sorry. "As I see it, Ms. Khatri, you have two options. You either have a hundred and fifty riel in your pocket right now, or some stroke of good fortune will give you that money in the next three days."
"That doesn't seem likely," Ariel agreed. "I s'pose I'll be packing up, then."
"Ah-ah." A thin finger waved like a lure. "I have a proposition for you."
"Huh?"
"There's a pimp, Tavish. Not Sanarran. He's making trouble for my girls." The words jangled in Ariel's spirit-sodden mind. The connections were made, but slowly. "I would take it as a personal favor, and if he would find his legs broke and what-not."
"This is a whorehouse," Ariel finally said.
Ms. Agarwal looked surprised. "You didn't notice?"
[]- Find Batzorig. She's been his ertsaz muscle for his card hustles. She needs something back.
[]- Kill Tavish. Lady gives orders, lady gets results. Just one guy. Easy as breathing.
[]- Rob a night coach. How hard is it? No guards, dead of night. It's the selling that's the hard part.
Bem-vindo ao Panau 3
- Location
- boundless optimism
"Tavish?"
The day after that, Ariel skipped work and found Batzorig in a parlor that almost seemed like it was plucked out and lifted from Azerady, full of plush rugs and shapeless cushions. They even had imported chal, which is a rarity in Panau. Batzorig raised an eyelid. "That pimp? Yeah, he's the one I pay my dues to." There was something metallic, like licking a cold metal tin. "That fat prick, he comes in every day and takes half and says it's for my own good."
"He have any muscle with him?" Ariel had to ask. There is no good reason to charge dick first into an unknown situation. "Thugs, where, who, what-"
"Is this an interrogation? What, you planning murder?"
She drank slowly. The chal tingled on the way down. "Because if you are," Batzorig continued, almost inaudible in the parlor's constant murmur, "I'm for it."
"Just tell me." Ariel's fingers itched. Azerady again. Kick down one door and shoot. Are they twitching? No? Move. Yes? Shoot them again. And then it repeats. But that was then and this is now, and one fat man with some two-penny thugs are in no way the Azerady Royal Guard. She had something planned out for the body already. One of the oldies in the Army of the Free, back when it was scattered cells throughout the thin strip of cities along the coasts and the roads, told her that the hardest part with murder wasn't the act itself, but the body it made. Then again, does anyone here actually care about that?
Batzorig eventually broke down. It didn't even take him a minute. Tavish walked the Horsehead Docks twice a day, along the titualar road. On occasion he would dip into a side street, where the gamblers and the boozers and a paltry assortment of shopkeepers would pay him off for the week. Yet, strangely, he never had anyone around him. Because of this, Batzorig swore up and down that he had a gang behind him.
It did make sense, somewhat. If there was a gang so cutthroat, so dangerous, that their name would be it's own shield, then there would be no need for Tavish to walk the Horsehead without guards. Of course, never once did Batzorig mention the name of the hypothetical gang, so Ariel had a sneaking feeling that it was a line of bullshit. He'd trumpet that out to the sky, and he's not.
Therefore it is with a light heart that Ariel Khatri found Tavish strolling the streets, following him in the flow of the crowd. There's a gun tucked in her pocket, a cheap .32 that costed twenty dollars. Eventually the chance comes. She has him in a back alley, his mark is long gone and the windows are shuttered.
"Tavish?"
"Yes?" He was amazingly fat, a corner of her mind noted as she drew the knife and slit him ear to ear. The blood sprayed all over her face as he dropped to the floor, twitching like a fish. The same corner knew that there was no way to properly hide the body. Too fat. She'd give out in the middle of the street, she thought as she wiped her face with his coat.
[Result: 2d6 (3, 6)]
The body, the body, the body. Simply too heavy to- "hey!"
Ariel whirled around to face the Sanarran at the mouth of the alley. "Is there an issue?" she asked politely, hand on the pocketed knife. He looked about the same age as her, aquiline nosed and what-not. What was more pressing was that he saw the body which was probably some form of criminal blunder.
"Well, yes. There's a dead body there." In the distance waves pounded against the shore. There was a refreshing smell of sea salt underneath the oil and the smoke. "Let's move it. Don't want the cops getting frisky."
That slightly reassured Ariel, who drew her hands out of her pockets. "You get his arms?" she offered the man, who shrugged and did so, grunting under the weight.
"Why didn't ya scream?" he panted. The street was deserted and the mist was thick and heavy, the ocean a short drop from the… what was the word? She wasn't sure.
The body went over with a splash and sunk down. "I was in the army," Ariel said. "General Temur."
"Shit, really? Same. I was in Azerady."
"Small world." She tightened her jacket against a sudden breeze. "Were you involved in the Grand Bazaar Assault?"
"Gunpowder and spices," he agreed. "I stuffed my pockets with saffron and sold them to a guy for cash."
"Damn. I should have done that. Is there anyone else? I missed the first ship."
"Hundreds. Hell, sister, I'm surprised you didn't know. Where you set up at? It's probably the craps. We pooled together money for a building all for ourselves and the landlord can't do shit."
"I've been renting from Ms. Agarwal," she admitted. Here it comes…
"The madame?" The tone was incredulous. Like he was looking at Queen Idiot of all the world's idiots. "How did you not notice? It was the most obvious thing, sister. They got the perfume and the screamin, where were you?"
"I was asleep. Can we not talk about this? What's your name? We've been talking for a long time and I've been calling you man all this time."
The man nodded. "That's fair. Uh, I'm Kuban Baqri. You?"
"Ariel Khatri."
"I knew a Khatri," Kuban mused. "Aimar Khatri. You related? It's a small world, if so."
Ariel rubbed her head. "No. I'm Aimar. I changed my name when I arrived."
"Even smaller world, then," he grunted. "C'mon. Night's still young, let's talk a bit more, comrade to comrade."
[]- Agree. Time to stew in nostalgia and failure. That's always fun.
[]- Return to the Agarwal Tenant and conclude your business.
The day after that, Ariel skipped work and found Batzorig in a parlor that almost seemed like it was plucked out and lifted from Azerady, full of plush rugs and shapeless cushions. They even had imported chal, which is a rarity in Panau. Batzorig raised an eyelid. "That pimp? Yeah, he's the one I pay my dues to." There was something metallic, like licking a cold metal tin. "That fat prick, he comes in every day and takes half and says it's for my own good."
"He have any muscle with him?" Ariel had to ask. There is no good reason to charge dick first into an unknown situation. "Thugs, where, who, what-"
"Is this an interrogation? What, you planning murder?"
She drank slowly. The chal tingled on the way down. "Because if you are," Batzorig continued, almost inaudible in the parlor's constant murmur, "I'm for it."
"Just tell me." Ariel's fingers itched. Azerady again. Kick down one door and shoot. Are they twitching? No? Move. Yes? Shoot them again. And then it repeats. But that was then and this is now, and one fat man with some two-penny thugs are in no way the Azerady Royal Guard. She had something planned out for the body already. One of the oldies in the Army of the Free, back when it was scattered cells throughout the thin strip of cities along the coasts and the roads, told her that the hardest part with murder wasn't the act itself, but the body it made. Then again, does anyone here actually care about that?
Batzorig eventually broke down. It didn't even take him a minute. Tavish walked the Horsehead Docks twice a day, along the titualar road. On occasion he would dip into a side street, where the gamblers and the boozers and a paltry assortment of shopkeepers would pay him off for the week. Yet, strangely, he never had anyone around him. Because of this, Batzorig swore up and down that he had a gang behind him.
It did make sense, somewhat. If there was a gang so cutthroat, so dangerous, that their name would be it's own shield, then there would be no need for Tavish to walk the Horsehead without guards. Of course, never once did Batzorig mention the name of the hypothetical gang, so Ariel had a sneaking feeling that it was a line of bullshit. He'd trumpet that out to the sky, and he's not.
Therefore it is with a light heart that Ariel Khatri found Tavish strolling the streets, following him in the flow of the crowd. There's a gun tucked in her pocket, a cheap .32 that costed twenty dollars. Eventually the chance comes. She has him in a back alley, his mark is long gone and the windows are shuttered.
"Tavish?"
"Yes?" He was amazingly fat, a corner of her mind noted as she drew the knife and slit him ear to ear. The blood sprayed all over her face as he dropped to the floor, twitching like a fish. The same corner knew that there was no way to properly hide the body. Too fat. She'd give out in the middle of the street, she thought as she wiped her face with his coat.
[Result: 2d6 (3, 6)]
The body, the body, the body. Simply too heavy to- "hey!"
Ariel whirled around to face the Sanarran at the mouth of the alley. "Is there an issue?" she asked politely, hand on the pocketed knife. He looked about the same age as her, aquiline nosed and what-not. What was more pressing was that he saw the body which was probably some form of criminal blunder.
"Well, yes. There's a dead body there." In the distance waves pounded against the shore. There was a refreshing smell of sea salt underneath the oil and the smoke. "Let's move it. Don't want the cops getting frisky."
That slightly reassured Ariel, who drew her hands out of her pockets. "You get his arms?" she offered the man, who shrugged and did so, grunting under the weight.
"Why didn't ya scream?" he panted. The street was deserted and the mist was thick and heavy, the ocean a short drop from the… what was the word? She wasn't sure.
The body went over with a splash and sunk down. "I was in the army," Ariel said. "General Temur."
"Shit, really? Same. I was in Azerady."
"Small world." She tightened her jacket against a sudden breeze. "Were you involved in the Grand Bazaar Assault?"
"Gunpowder and spices," he agreed. "I stuffed my pockets with saffron and sold them to a guy for cash."
"Damn. I should have done that. Is there anyone else? I missed the first ship."
"Hundreds. Hell, sister, I'm surprised you didn't know. Where you set up at? It's probably the craps. We pooled together money for a building all for ourselves and the landlord can't do shit."
"I've been renting from Ms. Agarwal," she admitted. Here it comes…
"The madame?" The tone was incredulous. Like he was looking at Queen Idiot of all the world's idiots. "How did you not notice? It was the most obvious thing, sister. They got the perfume and the screamin, where were you?"
"I was asleep. Can we not talk about this? What's your name? We've been talking for a long time and I've been calling you man all this time."
The man nodded. "That's fair. Uh, I'm Kuban Baqri. You?"
"Ariel Khatri."
"I knew a Khatri," Kuban mused. "Aimar Khatri. You related? It's a small world, if so."
Ariel rubbed her head. "No. I'm Aimar. I changed my name when I arrived."
"Even smaller world, then," he grunted. "C'mon. Night's still young, let's talk a bit more, comrade to comrade."
[]- Agree. Time to stew in nostalgia and failure. That's always fun.
[]- Return to the Agarwal Tenant and conclude your business.
Welcome to Panau
- Location
- boundless optimism
"It was pointless."
There were ten comrades from General Temur's Army of the Free sitting in the common room. Blue grey shiksha smoke rose into the air. They shared the pipe and a broken dream, stretching their legs out before the sun rose. "I mean," Kuban continued, "pointless. There was a lot of talk of freedom, but I never saw a drop of it. There was a lot of talk about prosperity, but that was always for the fat ones and not us." He was a born orator, this Kuban. "Now that I think about it, General Temur always did have us bumming around the Panauans instead of taking it to the khagans. In retrospect, comrades of the same sky, they fucked us, these spice merchants from Panau. Fucked us quite well."
"They paid us, didn't they?" Ariel accepted the pipe and let the hot smoke fill her mouth. Nothing was better than this. "Say what you want about General Temur. Say he's a patsy for Panau, or just a thug, but he pays us on time. That's all that's needed. What did you join for?"
"The Republic of Sanar!" rose from his throat. "Every man free! Rejuvenate the nation!"
"He studied in the University of Azerady," someone whispered to Ariel as Kuban began singing the republican anthem, which all made sense. The only things that came out of the University before Khagan Yide shelled it were doctors (good), strange tax laws (bad) and young twenty-somethings with nothing better to do than ferment revolution after studying abroad (debatable). They were the core of General Temur's army, the officers that once set fires after discussing philosophy as revolutionists, guiding the people to a brighter future with their sheer moral fortitude.
At least, that was the theory, Ariel mused as she watched Kuban hit three high notes in succession without pausing for breath. In her experience, the officer that lead her squad spent most of his time wailing about how the gunsmoke would ruin priceless calligraphy. "Was he your officer?" she asked the woman beside her, who shrugged.
"No," the other woman with cheap copper rings on her fingers said. "It was after… the mess." Where General Temur was shot by a sniper, the organization he built shivered to pieces, with soldiers deserting in droves to join warlords and pretending to be citizens all along, as the palace police pursued the army. People were shot in the street just because they sold rice to the army. "He managed to round up everyone and bribe his way onto a ship for us."
Her opinion of him rose.
The song ended to a smattering of applause. "Anyway," Kuban continued. "Panau, brothers and sisters of the same sky. How'd you find it? Are we all enjoying the free air? The electric prosperity? Eh?"
"I've been constantly drunk and my spine feels like I'm eighty."
"Eh, welcome to life."
"It's horseshit." Ariel smashed a fist against the floor. "How much do I earn? Peanuts. How much do the fat ones sitting in the shade earn? Bananas, and giant bunches of them. I can sit around in the shade as well as they do. This thing is going to be the end of us if we keep letting them bleed us dry"
"Ariel, friend," Kuban's face widened into a smirk as he squatted in front of Ariel's cushion. "Are you a unionist? I hadn't thought of it in you."
"No, I just want more money."
A chuckle rippled through the room. A scarred man stood up, his face marred and twisted by a burst of shrapnel ages ago. "She's right, Kuban. You said we would be richer than kings in Panau. If we are, we are the most embarrassing kings known to history."
Kuban turned. "So, then what? I have made my fair share of mistakes, I admit. But do you have any better plan? No? Then you have to live with it. Because we have nothing else but each other."
"You're all brain and no heart. We can do everything the pigs do here. It's a fucking shame and an embaressment that any punk feels free to come to the Horseheads to start shit."
They're right, Ariel realized. When you get down to it, the run of the mill muggers could not stand up to even the worst of the Army of the Free. They could walk the streets and make a couple of demonstrations. Collect some tribute like how the village sent the khagans taxes for keeping the bandits and the fuckers from the next banner over away. It would be better money than anything.
The night turned. The discussion drifted from current matters to an abstract litany of complaints about how cold and wet it was, to how idiotic the current Sanarran khaganate was, to the shin splintering quality of walking on Panau's cobblestones. Then they began singing and drinking, and then she couldn't remember anything past that when she woke up in the morning. It was a comfortable, nostalgic haze.
"Hello, you Sanarran horse-fucks," the man grinned. Light shone past his long, greasy hair, falling past his shoulders. At his waist was prominently displayed two revolvers. "Which one of you killed Tavish?"
Ariel blinked the sleep out of her eyes immediately. "No?"
"Poor answer." The man grinned wider. "If you hadn't,you would have asked who he was. So, I must conclude that you are indeed the one behind Tavish's untimely disappearance. Oh, I'm Vega, by the way. I won't ask your name."
Prick. She felt the ten or so ex-soldiers behind her stand up. It was a good feeling, a rock solid one. "What happens if I say yes?"
"Aha. Now we're haggling over price. Is that shishka? I love shiksha. They don't make it as good in Panau. What brand is it?"
Kuban moved you behind him. "I'd tell that to a friend. You a friend, Vega?"
"Depends, but I ain't askin' you." He looked over Kuban's shoulder. "Let's have all the cards on the table here, zig. Tavish is a stone cold dumbass motherfucker, and I'm not sad he's missing. Unfortunately, he's the only guy that bothers to walk the Horsehead and collect our tax. Following?"
"No. Fuck off," Ariel said.
"Rude. Here's the deal. Tavish is gone, and I think you zigs done him in to get his racket. Therefore!" Vega took a step back and raised his hands in a flourish. "You got it. You can do whatever the fuck you want in this slum. Steal, sell drugs, who cares? Not me, and not my boss. All ya gotta do is cut us in."
Kuban glanced at Ariel. Cold sweat ran down her back. This guy, Vega, was thinking Kuban's gang was under her. Kuban thought Ariel was some kind of criminal mastermind that took a shot at Tavish for his taxes. It was a giant mess. So the only way out was through. "Fine," she said. "Give me a drop and piss off."
"Oooh, feisty. I'll be around, kid."
Before Vega dissapeared down the street Kuban shut the door and marched her back towards the center. "Okay, sister." He said, looming above her with the others around him. "Explain."
"I'm a lost soul on a wayward path."
No one laughed.
"Fine," she shrugged. "I was short on rent and I didn't want to be thrown out. Agarwal said that it'd be forgiven if I killed Tavish. So I did."
"Kill? Ariel, why would she want him dead?" Kuban asked. "It seems awfully uh."
"Final," someone supplied.
"Final."
"She uh. Didn't use those words." Ariel scratched her head. "Fuck. It's done, though. Let's not talk about it. Please?"
"Yeah. We can talk about how this fuck Vega just gave us the go-ahead to run the Horseheads. We can change things, Kuban, and for the better." the same scar faced man stood up. "We can start with the thieves. And then-"
"Okay, okay." Kuban waved his hands. "So we're doing this? Who agrees?" Every hand went up. "Well, I don't vote against the will of the people. Ariel! Our local criminal element. Give us a starting place."
Descent
[]- Batzorig Monkhbat: Gambling is a victimless crime. There must be hundreds dropped in his games.
[]- Ms. Agarwal: Positution is the oldest job. Start with her, bring her onboard, back into the fold.
A/N: Okay, that's the narrative prologue over with. The next update will contain information about the Horsehead Docks, opportunities to seize, and enemies to contend with, shifting towards a strategic viewpoint.
There were ten comrades from General Temur's Army of the Free sitting in the common room. Blue grey shiksha smoke rose into the air. They shared the pipe and a broken dream, stretching their legs out before the sun rose. "I mean," Kuban continued, "pointless. There was a lot of talk of freedom, but I never saw a drop of it. There was a lot of talk about prosperity, but that was always for the fat ones and not us." He was a born orator, this Kuban. "Now that I think about it, General Temur always did have us bumming around the Panauans instead of taking it to the khagans. In retrospect, comrades of the same sky, they fucked us, these spice merchants from Panau. Fucked us quite well."
"They paid us, didn't they?" Ariel accepted the pipe and let the hot smoke fill her mouth. Nothing was better than this. "Say what you want about General Temur. Say he's a patsy for Panau, or just a thug, but he pays us on time. That's all that's needed. What did you join for?"
"The Republic of Sanar!" rose from his throat. "Every man free! Rejuvenate the nation!"
"He studied in the University of Azerady," someone whispered to Ariel as Kuban began singing the republican anthem, which all made sense. The only things that came out of the University before Khagan Yide shelled it were doctors (good), strange tax laws (bad) and young twenty-somethings with nothing better to do than ferment revolution after studying abroad (debatable). They were the core of General Temur's army, the officers that once set fires after discussing philosophy as revolutionists, guiding the people to a brighter future with their sheer moral fortitude.
At least, that was the theory, Ariel mused as she watched Kuban hit three high notes in succession without pausing for breath. In her experience, the officer that lead her squad spent most of his time wailing about how the gunsmoke would ruin priceless calligraphy. "Was he your officer?" she asked the woman beside her, who shrugged.
"No," the other woman with cheap copper rings on her fingers said. "It was after… the mess." Where General Temur was shot by a sniper, the organization he built shivered to pieces, with soldiers deserting in droves to join warlords and pretending to be citizens all along, as the palace police pursued the army. People were shot in the street just because they sold rice to the army. "He managed to round up everyone and bribe his way onto a ship for us."
Her opinion of him rose.
The song ended to a smattering of applause. "Anyway," Kuban continued. "Panau, brothers and sisters of the same sky. How'd you find it? Are we all enjoying the free air? The electric prosperity? Eh?"
"I've been constantly drunk and my spine feels like I'm eighty."
"Eh, welcome to life."
"It's horseshit." Ariel smashed a fist against the floor. "How much do I earn? Peanuts. How much do the fat ones sitting in the shade earn? Bananas, and giant bunches of them. I can sit around in the shade as well as they do. This thing is going to be the end of us if we keep letting them bleed us dry"
"Ariel, friend," Kuban's face widened into a smirk as he squatted in front of Ariel's cushion. "Are you a unionist? I hadn't thought of it in you."
"No, I just want more money."
A chuckle rippled through the room. A scarred man stood up, his face marred and twisted by a burst of shrapnel ages ago. "She's right, Kuban. You said we would be richer than kings in Panau. If we are, we are the most embarrassing kings known to history."
Kuban turned. "So, then what? I have made my fair share of mistakes, I admit. But do you have any better plan? No? Then you have to live with it. Because we have nothing else but each other."
"You're all brain and no heart. We can do everything the pigs do here. It's a fucking shame and an embaressment that any punk feels free to come to the Horseheads to start shit."
They're right, Ariel realized. When you get down to it, the run of the mill muggers could not stand up to even the worst of the Army of the Free. They could walk the streets and make a couple of demonstrations. Collect some tribute like how the village sent the khagans taxes for keeping the bandits and the fuckers from the next banner over away. It would be better money than anything.
The night turned. The discussion drifted from current matters to an abstract litany of complaints about how cold and wet it was, to how idiotic the current Sanarran khaganate was, to the shin splintering quality of walking on Panau's cobblestones. Then they began singing and drinking, and then she couldn't remember anything past that when she woke up in the morning. It was a comfortable, nostalgic haze.
"Hello, you Sanarran horse-fucks," the man grinned. Light shone past his long, greasy hair, falling past his shoulders. At his waist was prominently displayed two revolvers. "Which one of you killed Tavish?"
Ariel blinked the sleep out of her eyes immediately. "No?"
"Poor answer." The man grinned wider. "If you hadn't,you would have asked who he was. So, I must conclude that you are indeed the one behind Tavish's untimely disappearance. Oh, I'm Vega, by the way. I won't ask your name."
Prick. She felt the ten or so ex-soldiers behind her stand up. It was a good feeling, a rock solid one. "What happens if I say yes?"
"Aha. Now we're haggling over price. Is that shishka? I love shiksha. They don't make it as good in Panau. What brand is it?"
Kuban moved you behind him. "I'd tell that to a friend. You a friend, Vega?"
"Depends, but I ain't askin' you." He looked over Kuban's shoulder. "Let's have all the cards on the table here, zig. Tavish is a stone cold dumbass motherfucker, and I'm not sad he's missing. Unfortunately, he's the only guy that bothers to walk the Horsehead and collect our tax. Following?"
"No. Fuck off," Ariel said.
"Rude. Here's the deal. Tavish is gone, and I think you zigs done him in to get his racket. Therefore!" Vega took a step back and raised his hands in a flourish. "You got it. You can do whatever the fuck you want in this slum. Steal, sell drugs, who cares? Not me, and not my boss. All ya gotta do is cut us in."
Kuban glanced at Ariel. Cold sweat ran down her back. This guy, Vega, was thinking Kuban's gang was under her. Kuban thought Ariel was some kind of criminal mastermind that took a shot at Tavish for his taxes. It was a giant mess. So the only way out was through. "Fine," she said. "Give me a drop and piss off."
"Oooh, feisty. I'll be around, kid."
Before Vega dissapeared down the street Kuban shut the door and marched her back towards the center. "Okay, sister." He said, looming above her with the others around him. "Explain."
"I'm a lost soul on a wayward path."
No one laughed.
"Fine," she shrugged. "I was short on rent and I didn't want to be thrown out. Agarwal said that it'd be forgiven if I killed Tavish. So I did."
"Kill? Ariel, why would she want him dead?" Kuban asked. "It seems awfully uh."
"Final," someone supplied.
"Final."
"She uh. Didn't use those words." Ariel scratched her head. "Fuck. It's done, though. Let's not talk about it. Please?"
"Yeah. We can talk about how this fuck Vega just gave us the go-ahead to run the Horseheads. We can change things, Kuban, and for the better." the same scar faced man stood up. "We can start with the thieves. And then-"
"Okay, okay." Kuban waved his hands. "So we're doing this? Who agrees?" Every hand went up. "Well, I don't vote against the will of the people. Ariel! Our local criminal element. Give us a starting place."
Descent
[]- Batzorig Monkhbat: Gambling is a victimless crime. There must be hundreds dropped in his games.
[]- Ms. Agarwal: Positution is the oldest job. Start with her, bring her onboard, back into the fold.
A/N: Okay, that's the narrative prologue over with. The next update will contain information about the Horsehead Docks, opportunities to seize, and enemies to contend with, shifting towards a strategic viewpoint.
Y1034 M03 W1 (Turn 1)
- Location
- boundless optimism
The city of Panau has nine docks in total. Three of them are well maintained, the state of the art. Automated cranes dip their beaks over ships and collect cargo almost instantaneously. Four are remnants of older days, for the ships that hadn't kept up with Panau's breakneck developments. The last two are the oldest of the old, broken down, shoved politely into the recesses of the city's history. The Horseheads are one of them, where Sanarran refugees, runners from the last great horselord khaganate, fled to.
The district was never meant to handle so many. Within a year, the almost dead district, home to drunks and dissolutes, exploded in population. Ramshackle buildings were brought at usurious rates by speculators and then rented out at cutthroat prices to the migrants. It was a cauldron of human misery, generously seasoned with disease and crime by absentee landlords stirring up the pot with insane rents.
So you had to hustle or drown. Even if what you're doing is flagrantly illegal.
Okay, You Pay Me How Much?
"Is this a shakedown? Is that it? This is a shakedown, Ms. Khatri."
"I don't know how you got that impression," Ariel insisted, despite Kuban and his boys coming along for that express reason. The doorway was crowded with girls (is that the word? Girls? It feels off because Ariel saw a couple of finely featured men. Highly improper. Her mother would be having fits) trying their best to look inconspicuous. "We're just-"
Taking our money. What is this? Fifty percent? Be fucked." Ms. Agarwal spat, rapping her fingernails on the table. She was working up a good head of steam, smoke billowing from her jaws like a dragon. "Ungrateful brat. I should have known that this would happen. My grandmother was run broke running an inn for you soldiers and my mother was left by a soldier and now a soldier is fucking me."
"Look, can we just get this over with? What can I do to make this worth it for you?"
"You can take this," she picked up the paper with the terms on them and threw them at Ariel. "And fuck off. Fuck off. You should be ashamed! Thieves and robbers, all of you."
Kuban spoke up from his position by the door. Good. Ariel was contemplating violence, calmly rubbing her knuckles under the table. "Sister of the same s-"
"Are you an Azerady? You sound like an Azerady. A liar on top of a thug."
She doesn't seem like she'll stop. But can she be blamed? It sat poorly with Ariel, reclining in her chair as Kuban and Agarwal continued arguing. There was a mural behind Agarwal, on the wall. A skeleton in a dark shroud, holding a scythe and a globe. She saw it around a couple times on the street, in little shrines. Dark skinned Panauans would leave flowers and alcohol. Ariel always wondered why. What kind of god was she, to be worshipped in street corners and drunken back alleys?
They were still at it. It was getting nowhere and she had better things to do.
[]- Agarwal Decides: Agarwal might bluster, but in the end she is a seasoned madame in Panau. Give her the contract and let her decide how much she wants to pay you for security. This will net you a Racket immediately but with reduced profitability.
Ms. Agarwal's House (Funds 1 Heat 1 Manpower 2/2): There are thousands of such houses of pleasure in Panau.
Speciality: A Hero? (1): Word of your generous takeover of the House spreads. Some in the sex trade are eyeing their pimps and wondering if they can get a better deal from you.
[]- Let Kuban Work It Out: Kuban seems like a glib chap. Let him work his magnetic magic and come to a deal. (2d6- Tinker Dreamer + 1 Manpower)
[]- I Carry Swords: Threaten her, here and now. She don't like it? Tough shit. (3d6- Military Training + 1 Manpower)
Look At Me. I'm The Cop Now.
They had converted the attic of the tenant into an ersatz meeting room, the hundred or so ex-soldiers jawing off while Ariel and Kuban shuffled through the papers containing the itinerary. Some were hungover, others were drinking, but they were here, and honestly that was a feat in and of itself. "Okay," Ariel sighed. "First meeting of the Provisional Sanarran Milita of the Horsehead District in order."
"Can the first item on the list be changing the fuckin' name?" a joker yelled to wide acclaim. Kuban rubbed his cheeks, hiding a blush. He and Ariel were standing, which made her faintly nervous. "Provisional Sanarran Militia- nobody got time to say that shit!"
"Settle down, settle down. We have a couple of things to talk about. First," she squinted at the paper. It was hard to read in this shitty light. "Okay, this is the only thing. 'For too long have the Sanarran di-as-po-ra- '' was this even a word? "-been subject to poverty, destitution, and neglect. The industry of Panau is powered by our blood, sweat, and tears, and for this we receive a slice of the city so poor it is pornographic."
A hand was raised. "Did you write this?"
"Nah, it was Kuban. Should you want me to skip this?"
"Eh, keep going."
Kuban raised a thumbs up. Ariel shrugged. "Thus, politely ignored by the state, it falls on us to organize and police the Horseheads until it is as good as any other district, perhaps better."
"Five out of ten, the ending was weak!"
Goddamn joker. The script crumbled in her fists. "Right. Suggestions?" She ordered brusquely. "And good ones too. If someone jokes I'm throwing hands."
[]- Solder Boys: Get a uniform, march around, look official. Kiss some babies too, and hope no-one remembers how the Republican Army confiscated their cow or something.
[]- And if I See You Again: Crack down on some local petty thieves and return their stolen goods (with a cut for yourself, of course!)
[]- I'm a Concerned Citizen: Go up to Sanarran merchants and offer your services as security. If they don't, too bad, so sad, I don't have to care about your shit.
Like A Fish In The Ocean.
After that was over, the topic drifted until someone raised the question of money. "The great motivator," Kuban sighed. "Yes, we have some ah, fiduciary deficits. We don't know how much funds we can scrounge up just from the protection. And Ms. Agarwal is still mulling it over."
"You know," Ariel mused, "the warehouses hire us. The ships hire us. And it's not like we see a cent of it anyway, so who cares about the Panauans?"
A wide, knowing grin passed from face to face. It was electric how much they planned. They argued over which companies to hit, how much they should steal, and how to distribute it. In the end it came down to a small, one time hit. A probing heist, to get them used to all of this and to generate funds from one of these three companies.
[]- Goldthread Sewing Co.: One of the old mainstays of Panau, back when water and not coal powered factories. Shirts, dresses, tunics, rugs, and couches fly off at record rates, and everyone needs garments. Who cares if some are misplaced.
[]- Dulcador Tobacco Trust: Dulcador cigars are the best in the world, and it's true. They're in short demand, and people would pay an arm and a leg to smoke a Dulcador. It seems risky, but it's not. Black market Dulcadors are as common as grass, and even the cops don't care about them.
[]- JP & Sons Pharmaceuticals: Morphine, quinine, and other 'ines roll out of the laboratories of JP & Sons. All of them have their uses, medical or recreational, but the stolen goods would be a hot commodity, both from private detectives and on the black market.
The district was never meant to handle so many. Within a year, the almost dead district, home to drunks and dissolutes, exploded in population. Ramshackle buildings were brought at usurious rates by speculators and then rented out at cutthroat prices to the migrants. It was a cauldron of human misery, generously seasoned with disease and crime by absentee landlords stirring up the pot with insane rents.
So you had to hustle or drown. Even if what you're doing is flagrantly illegal.
ARIEL KHATRI
Description: You. A Sanarran soldier from General Temur's Army of the Free, which was crushed months before she washed up on Panau.
Traits
Military Training(2): Panau's finest military officers came to train Khagan Temur's men. You learned from the best, the tactics used to clean jungles and mountains of aborigines turned to clear the port cities room by room. You excelled, aggressive, bold, and nearly fearless. Good traits for a soldier. Not a civilian.
KUBAN BAQRI
Description: Him. An ex-soldier, possible intellectual and filthy boho. Runs a group of veterans in Panau.
Traits
Military Training (1): Panau's finest military officers came to train Khagan Temur's men. You learned from the best, the tactics used to clean jungles and mountains of aborigines turned to clear the port cities room by room. You excelled, aggressive, bold, and nearly fearless. Good traits for a soldier. Not a civilian.
Tinker Dreamer (1): A dream is best when you can feel it. The force of your belief, beyond hope, pulls people into your orbit. Even when the dream is dead.
The Gang: (As of Yet Unnamed)
Manpower: 10
Rackets: N/A
Description: You. A Sanarran soldier from General Temur's Army of the Free, which was crushed months before she washed up on Panau.
Traits
Military Training(2): Panau's finest military officers came to train Khagan Temur's men. You learned from the best, the tactics used to clean jungles and mountains of aborigines turned to clear the port cities room by room. You excelled, aggressive, bold, and nearly fearless. Good traits for a soldier. Not a civilian.
KUBAN BAQRI
Description: Him. An ex-soldier, possible intellectual and filthy boho. Runs a group of veterans in Panau.
Traits
Military Training (1): Panau's finest military officers came to train Khagan Temur's men. You learned from the best, the tactics used to clean jungles and mountains of aborigines turned to clear the port cities room by room. You excelled, aggressive, bold, and nearly fearless. Good traits for a soldier. Not a civilian.
Tinker Dreamer (1): A dream is best when you can feel it. The force of your belief, beyond hope, pulls people into your orbit. Even when the dream is dead.
The Gang: (As of Yet Unnamed)
Manpower: 10
Rackets: N/A
Okay, You Pay Me How Much?
"Is this a shakedown? Is that it? This is a shakedown, Ms. Khatri."
"I don't know how you got that impression," Ariel insisted, despite Kuban and his boys coming along for that express reason. The doorway was crowded with girls (is that the word? Girls? It feels off because Ariel saw a couple of finely featured men. Highly improper. Her mother would be having fits) trying their best to look inconspicuous. "We're just-"
Taking our money. What is this? Fifty percent? Be fucked." Ms. Agarwal spat, rapping her fingernails on the table. She was working up a good head of steam, smoke billowing from her jaws like a dragon. "Ungrateful brat. I should have known that this would happen. My grandmother was run broke running an inn for you soldiers and my mother was left by a soldier and now a soldier is fucking me."
"Look, can we just get this over with? What can I do to make this worth it for you?"
"You can take this," she picked up the paper with the terms on them and threw them at Ariel. "And fuck off. Fuck off. You should be ashamed! Thieves and robbers, all of you."
Kuban spoke up from his position by the door. Good. Ariel was contemplating violence, calmly rubbing her knuckles under the table. "Sister of the same s-"
"Are you an Azerady? You sound like an Azerady. A liar on top of a thug."
She doesn't seem like she'll stop. But can she be blamed? It sat poorly with Ariel, reclining in her chair as Kuban and Agarwal continued arguing. There was a mural behind Agarwal, on the wall. A skeleton in a dark shroud, holding a scythe and a globe. She saw it around a couple times on the street, in little shrines. Dark skinned Panauans would leave flowers and alcohol. Ariel always wondered why. What kind of god was she, to be worshipped in street corners and drunken back alleys?
They were still at it. It was getting nowhere and she had better things to do.
[]- Agarwal Decides: Agarwal might bluster, but in the end she is a seasoned madame in Panau. Give her the contract and let her decide how much she wants to pay you for security. This will net you a Racket immediately but with reduced profitability.
Ms. Agarwal's House (Funds 1 Heat 1 Manpower 2/2): There are thousands of such houses of pleasure in Panau.
Speciality: A Hero? (1): Word of your generous takeover of the House spreads. Some in the sex trade are eyeing their pimps and wondering if they can get a better deal from you.
[]- Let Kuban Work It Out: Kuban seems like a glib chap. Let him work his magnetic magic and come to a deal. (2d6- Tinker Dreamer + 1 Manpower)
[]- I Carry Swords: Threaten her, here and now. She don't like it? Tough shit. (3d6- Military Training + 1 Manpower)
Look At Me. I'm The Cop Now.
They had converted the attic of the tenant into an ersatz meeting room, the hundred or so ex-soldiers jawing off while Ariel and Kuban shuffled through the papers containing the itinerary. Some were hungover, others were drinking, but they were here, and honestly that was a feat in and of itself. "Okay," Ariel sighed. "First meeting of the Provisional Sanarran Milita of the Horsehead District in order."
"Can the first item on the list be changing the fuckin' name?" a joker yelled to wide acclaim. Kuban rubbed his cheeks, hiding a blush. He and Ariel were standing, which made her faintly nervous. "Provisional Sanarran Militia- nobody got time to say that shit!"
"Settle down, settle down. We have a couple of things to talk about. First," she squinted at the paper. It was hard to read in this shitty light. "Okay, this is the only thing. 'For too long have the Sanarran di-as-po-ra- '' was this even a word? "-been subject to poverty, destitution, and neglect. The industry of Panau is powered by our blood, sweat, and tears, and for this we receive a slice of the city so poor it is pornographic."
A hand was raised. "Did you write this?"
"Nah, it was Kuban. Should you want me to skip this?"
"Eh, keep going."
Kuban raised a thumbs up. Ariel shrugged. "Thus, politely ignored by the state, it falls on us to organize and police the Horseheads until it is as good as any other district, perhaps better."
"Five out of ten, the ending was weak!"
Goddamn joker. The script crumbled in her fists. "Right. Suggestions?" She ordered brusquely. "And good ones too. If someone jokes I'm throwing hands."
[]- Solder Boys: Get a uniform, march around, look official. Kiss some babies too, and hope no-one remembers how the Republican Army confiscated their cow or something.
[]- And if I See You Again: Crack down on some local petty thieves and return their stolen goods (with a cut for yourself, of course!)
[]- I'm a Concerned Citizen: Go up to Sanarran merchants and offer your services as security. If they don't, too bad, so sad, I don't have to care about your shit.
Like A Fish In The Ocean.
After that was over, the topic drifted until someone raised the question of money. "The great motivator," Kuban sighed. "Yes, we have some ah, fiduciary deficits. We don't know how much funds we can scrounge up just from the protection. And Ms. Agarwal is still mulling it over."
"You know," Ariel mused, "the warehouses hire us. The ships hire us. And it's not like we see a cent of it anyway, so who cares about the Panauans?"
A wide, knowing grin passed from face to face. It was electric how much they planned. They argued over which companies to hit, how much they should steal, and how to distribute it. In the end it came down to a small, one time hit. A probing heist, to get them used to all of this and to generate funds from one of these three companies.
[]- Goldthread Sewing Co.: One of the old mainstays of Panau, back when water and not coal powered factories. Shirts, dresses, tunics, rugs, and couches fly off at record rates, and everyone needs garments. Who cares if some are misplaced.
[]- Dulcador Tobacco Trust: Dulcador cigars are the best in the world, and it's true. They're in short demand, and people would pay an arm and a leg to smoke a Dulcador. It seems risky, but it's not. Black market Dulcadors are as common as grass, and even the cops don't care about them.
[]- JP & Sons Pharmaceuticals: Morphine, quinine, and other 'ines roll out of the laboratories of JP & Sons. All of them have their uses, medical or recreational, but the stolen goods would be a hot commodity, both from private detectives and on the black market.