Last episode, after an interlude looking in on Emma in her captivity, we followed Aldo and Rian as they made contact with Detective Laroze, their contact within the Inspectors who may be able to locate their lost sister where they so far have failed. In exchange for her help, the ambitious Laroze asked them to aid her in her investigation of a ring of corrupt Bluecoats by finding where they’ve stashed the proceeds of their extortion racket. This episode, we’ll continue in the Free Play portion of Blades’ core game loop as the Jesseks make their preparations, and then we’ll dive into the Score itself.
GM Prep: The Laroze Job
This job proved surprisingly tricky to plan from a GM standpoint! I’m going to go into a bit of detail, since I think my travails might be useful to other folks thinking about running Blades in the Dark or similar FitD games — per usual, feel free to skip over this part if you’d rather dive straight into the fiction.
While I was planning the session, I kept running into the problem that most of the approaches I could envision involved sending Aldo alone into wherever the Bluecoats might be stashing the cash to search the place and locate the money. Even if there was a lot of social engineering to get intel and access to the location, that would all take place in the prep portion of the story, and during the Score phase, the best move would probably still be to send Aldo in on his own with the other two brothers waiting outside for backup. That might be OK from a game standpoint, but it’s not very good from a story standpoint, After all, we want all our characters in the mix and using their skills.
Ultimately, I decided that Laroze didn’t need the gang to actually lay eyes on the stash themselves: If they were able to get that information from another party, that could be sufficient. So that turns this into a bit less of a breaking-and-entering job and more of a good old-fashioned grift. This allows all three brothers to apply their skills, with Rian in the lead, which is a nice change of pace.
The other element to consider as the GM is the reward — if the crew isn’t getting their hands on a bunch of cash or a valuable item, they need to be compensated in some other way. We can envision that there may receive a cut of the ill-gotten stash if they play their cards right, but it also occurred to me that these Bluecoats occupy a piece of turf in Crow’s Foot, which our heroes could potentially take over, so I made a note to potentially allow for that if the score goes well.
With that, we’ll dive back into the fiction.
Scene 2: Candle Street
The streetlights flicker a dim green on Candle Street, throwing dancing shadows across the chandlers’ storefronts. Carver’s eyes flick up to the lights, then down to a newsstand displaying a jumble of ink rags. He can’t read the screaming headline, but he can see the accompanying picture — an outlandishly drawn political cartoon showing a foppishly dressed Lord Strangford guzzling from a barrel of electroplasm, while the city’s lights go dark all around him, and cutthroats rob terrified yeomen in the shadows. From the corner of his eyes, Carver watches his quarry: a pair of Bluecoats making their rounds.
The officers parade down the street with an arrogant swagger, and the Candle Street traffic makes way for them — those few that don’t are pushed aside at truncheon point. Most merchants pay their dues without a whisper, though Carver notes carefully the lantern-seller with a bruised-up face and three shops down, the bookbinder whose eyes smolder with fury as the Bluecoat sergeant approaches him with an open palm and a grin. The senior man is an old veteran; his navy great coat is faded and patched, and both his leather boots and his painted truncheon are well-worn by use. The second man is younger, fresh-faced, and nervous-looking, and Carv guesses him to be their newest recruit: His boots are shiny with polish, and his tricorne is still crisp and pointed. The junior extortionist is carrying a beat-up leather valise that he holds uneasily at his side — he’s unaccustomed to villainy, Carver judges, though he seems eager to learn.
The Bluecoats weave through the labyrinth of Crow’s Foot with edgy caution. A few times, the big man catches their eye, but he’s dressed in warehouse wools, with a heavy canvas sack over his shoulder and a look of placid boredom on his face, and after a few glances, he fades into the evening traffic. Carver follows them down the lane, keeping to the far side of the street. He watches them enter one of the numerous chandleries that give the street its name — bright spots in the Duskwall gloom, their wares burning brightly in their windows. The scent of tallow wafts over from the chandlery, mingling with the grime and fume of the dirty streets. As Carver edges closer, the ominous thud of a slammed door reaches his ears, followed by the muffled protestations of their chosen victim - a middle-aged shopkeeper whose pride clearly outweighs his sense of self-preservation. A cold surge of anticipation prickles at Carver’s skin as he hears the commotion escalate, punctuated by the crash of a toppling display and a gruff laugh.
His free hand closes into a tight fist, and he feels himself pulled towards the violence within. Calm down, Carv. There’s nothing good in there for you. The voice in his head is Aldo’s — he knows his brother would be disappointed if he got himself into trouble, and if he got himself locked up in Ironhook, no one would be there to hold back Chael from doing his worst. He forces himself to lean back against a lamppost, dropping his canvas sack and trying his best to look like a workman taking a breather. Soon enough, the Bluecoats leave the shop behind, and Carver follows them from a cautious distance until they reach their destination.
The North Crow’s Foot watch station is a four-story tower that peeks above the tenements stacked on either side. Its facade is red brick, and above the door is a dingy brass shield spotted with green rust, emblazoned with the motto “VIGILANT AND JUST.” There’s a sentry outside, tapping his club against the red brick, and he tips his cap and glances at the valise as the sergeant nods knowingly at him. When the sergeant and his protege emerge again, less than an hour later, the valise with their spoils is nowhere to be seen. Before they spot him watching from across the way, Carv makes himself scarce, discarding his sandbag, shedding his grey wool workman’s jacket and cap in an alleyway, and heading south towards Rigney’s Tavern, where his brothers await him.
Scene Breakdown
Just one roll here — Carver’s performing taking a Gather Information action, but because there’s risk or danger, it’s adjudicated with a standard action roll. Since he’s trailing someone through the city, Hunt seemed like the appropriate action rating to use.
Carvers gets good detail — specifically information about the building where the cash is being hidden, but not the specific location (which Laroze needs). He also learns who their leader appears to be, and some information about the weak link. For the consequence, we’ll start a 4-tick clock called “Bluecoat Suspicion” and tick it once.
Bluecoat Suspicion: Watch your back when you don the blue.
Scene 3: The back room of Rigney’s Tavern
The dinner crowd in the common room can be heard as a murmur here in Rigney’s backroom. Carver and Aldo sit across from each other at a small, scarred table, sharing a mushloaf1 and a few chunks of bitter goat milk cheese between them by the weak light from a single tallow candle.
Carver quietly recounts the details of his evening surveillance, and Aldo’s face grows grave as his brother describes the watch station. “Well, it’s not old Molino House2, that’s for certain,” Aldo sighs. They’ll have well-kept locks, sentries, and the place will be thick with off-duty constables. If we go in there, we’ll have to play things just so—half a wrong move, and we’ll be bound for Ironhook or worse.”
“Aye. Might be we go back to Laroze empty-handed,” Carver says, his voice trailing off leadingly.
“Might be. But not yet.”
After a few minutes of tense silence between them, the back room door swings open with a creak, and a gust of warm air sweeps in from the tavern, carrying with it the smell of rotgut, boiled eel, and the tang of sweat and smoke. Rian enters, looking flushed and chuffed. His brown hair is a little disheveled, and he wears a grin that could charm a cutter. His eyes alight with mischief until he sees his brothers’ faces.
“Surely you didn’t miss me that much, brothers?” Rian prods. “Why such dour faces?”
“Carver followed our friends on Candle Street and found where they’re keeping their stash — in the North Foot watchstation, sewed up tight as an eelsack. What did you find out from Roric’s lads?”
While Carver was trailing the Bluecoats, Rian was tapping into his underworld sources to learn what he could about their score.
Rian rolls Consort to Gather Information Dice Pool: 2d = 2d (Action Rating) Result: 6,4
Rian gets excellent detail — specifically, he’s looking for information about how the Bluecoats fit into the gang politics of Crow’s Foot, and any information about weaknesses or angles of approach on the Bluecoats themselves.
“Lots,” Rian replies with a grin. “Where to begin? First, as we suspected, these gentlemen are not rendering unto, as is right and proper — Roric hasn’t seen a bent slug from them. And it’s starting to cause a bit of hurt feelings: Candle Street and Hulliver Lane are next door to Chael’s patch, but the boss won’t let him move against the Bluecoats.”
Carv chuckles. “Shame. I’d love to see Chael eat a bit of truncheon.”
“What right-thinking Footman3 wouldn’t? But be that as it may, Roric won’t budge — Loose Lucas told me ‘it’s being handled.’”
Aldo’s eyebrow rises. “Curious. Roric says it’s being handled, just as Laroze takes an interest. Is he tugging on her reins?”
“Can’t buy an Inspector, they say,” Rian says with a shrug. “Not for coin nor vice.”
Aldo chews on this. “It can’t be a coincidence. There’s got to be some angle we’re not seeing.”
“Whoever’s holding whose reins, we’ll be doing Roric a favor by helping Laroze get rid of this lot,” Rian assures them airily.
“Aye, and Chael, too,” Carver grouses. “With them gone, his crew will move in on that territory, no mistake.”
“If it’s us that’s taking the risk, it’s us who should stand to gain,” Rian says. “We could take it instead. Tell Roric we did for the dirty Bluecoats and get his blessing.”
Aldo narrows his eyes at Rian, glancing meaningfully at their adopted brother and then back to him. “That’s not our sort of villainy, Rye. You and I aren’t going to shake silver scales out of shopkeeps’ pockets any time soon, and I’m not asking Carv to do it. Are you?”
Carver stares back impassively at Rian, who holds up his hands placatingly. “It wouldn’t have to be a bloody business. We could do it proper-like, the way the racket is supposed to be run. We take the coin from them, and Carver makes the rounds occasionally to ensure no one’s been bothering them. What’s so bad about that?”
Aldo looks to Carver before speaking. “It’s up to you, Aldo. You can count on Carv either way,” the big man says. His face betrays a quiet eagerness.
“We’ve made our big score, Aldo, and we’re still not out from under Chael’s boot,” Rian presses. “We have to make moves. Gangs rise or fall in the Foot — they don’t stay put.”
“I’ll think on it,” Aldo says with finality. “Right now, let’s keep to the task at hand. What’s the word about our marks? Did you find any soft spots?”
“As it happens, I did — while you two were moping about in here, I learned a bit about our erstwhile friends. One of them is a young, fresh-faced lad—”
“I think I saw him,” Carver interrupts. “Still has a shine on his boots. The sergeant called him Reyf.”
“Aye, Jaimes Reyf, that’s the man,” Rian continues smoothly. “He’s a Crow’s Foot lad, born and bred, and a bit ashamed of it — on his nights off, he walks his old stomping grounds in plainclothes without any of his fellow constables.”
“So we can get him alone. Well done. D’you think you can win his confidence? It’d be better if we didn’t have to resort to unpleasantry,” Aldo asks with a sidelong glance at Carver.
Rat-baiting is a popular sport among the working classes of Duskwall, especially in Crow’s Foot. It involves a terrier or small hound set loose in an arena with a set number of rats. The terrier is scored based on how many rats it can kill in a specified time. // Source: Midjourney
That’s all the planning we need to do for this relatively simple score — Rian will take the lead, attempting to win young Reyf’s confidence and wheedle the location of their stash out of him. To set the initial position for Rian’s moves, we choose loadouts for all the characters (Light across the board — the mark can’t suspect that they’re up to no good, and Medium load specifically says you look like a scoundrel out for trouble) make an engagement roll5.
Engagement Roll: +1 for sheer luck +1 for a daring plan +1 for exposing a vulnerability (the fresh-faced new recruit) +1 for friends or contacts providing insight (Rian’s information gathering from Roric’s crew) -1 for a higher-tier opponent (Tier III Bluecoats vs. Tier 0 Jesseks).
Result: 4,5,1: Partial Success
The position for Rian’s first action will be set at Risky. We’ll dive back into the fiction and see how it goes:
Scene 4: The Red-In-Tooth Tavern
The Red-in-Tooth Tavern looms ominously at the end of a narrow cobblestone alley, lit only by the dim light from the tenement windows above. The unwashed brick of the building is stained with years of soot and grime, and above the door swings a carved wooden sign in the image of a snarling rat, its bared teeth painted a faded red.
The center of the tavern’s low-ceilinged common room is given over to a baiting pit — a circular, waist-high wooden arena filled with blood-spattered sand. Inside, the atmosphere is fervent, a chorus of raucous cheers, shouted bets, and frantic squeaking and barking as the current contender — a sleek, brindle-flanked mutt with wild eyes — streaks around the arena, seeking its prey. The rats are big and mean, with more than a bit of fight in them, and when the dog seizes them up, they nip and claw furiously until it gives them a bone-cracking shake and throws them to the ground.
Rian’s stomach churns when he watches the bloody show, but he leans over the arena’s rail all the same, cheering and shouting as the pit boss calls time and the dog’s owner scurries to collect him, cooing praise to the bloody-jawed beast as it strains against him to get back into the arena and continue its bloody harvest.
Across the arena is Rian’s baby-faced mark — young constable Jaimes Reyf, dressed in a grey pinstriped suit and a dockworker’s cap, trying his best not to look like a man of the law. Rian smoothes his vest, adjusts his grin to something more chummy, and makes his way through the crowd. On his way, he plucks up a discarded betting slip from the floor.
“Lost again,” Rian calls out as he approaches Reyf, ruefully showing his red-marked slip. “Didn’t think that little brindle bitch had so much murder in her heart.”
Reyf turns at the sound of Rian’s voice, eyes wide and uncertain under the brim of his cap. He’s holding a winning slip, and Rian nods down at it before he can answer. “Looks like you’ve had better luck than me — what’s your secret, cov6?”
Reyf looks down at his slip and laughs. “Been a ratting fellow for a long time. My pa used to bring me with him and put me up on his shoulders so I could see the blood. To toughen me up, he said.”
Rian smiles and looks him up and down, his brows raising in feigned respect. “Looks like it took! Well, don’t hoard your family wisdom, friend — what do I call you, anyway?”
“Jaimes Reyf. Most call me Reyf. And you, cov?”
“Tom Ridley’s my name. Footman, born and bred.” Rian holds out his hand, and Reyf shakes it. “Like I was saying: Share some of what Pa Reyf taught you! Where’s the smart money headed this match?”
The off-duty Bluecoat peers across the arena at the new contender — a small black-and-white hound. The beast is still and quiet as his handler holds him up to the crowd, its dark eyes fixed intently on the cage of squealing rats in the center of the arena.
“I like at least a score for that one — the quiet ones are deadly.”
“That sounds like wisdom to me,” Rian says, calling over one of the bet-takers with a shout. “Fifty slugs on the over, friend!”
Reyf nods eagerly. “And the same for me.” The bet-taker, a smiling, dark-haired Severosi girl with a curling tattoo on her cheek, winks at them each and quickly scrawls them a marker before moving on to other customers with the same wink and smile.
The black-and-white hound is released into the arena, moving with lithe grace as it circles the caged rats. Its handler retreats through the gate, pulling it shut with a resounding thud. A hush falls over the crowd as all eyes fix upon the sleek hunter tensing to spring.
The pit boss tugs on his cord, and with a rattle of the cage door, the rats are released in a squirming tide, scrabbling over each other in their desperation to flee their doom. The hound pounces in a blur of motion, seizing one after the other as they struggle and fight to escape. The rats scurry to the pit’s edge and try to climb the arena walls, only to slide down the greased wood and towards the hound’s waiting jaws.
The black-and-white hound is relentless in its hunt, swiftly and efficiently dispatching rat after rat. Rian watches the carnage with a knot in his stomach but forces himself to whoop and holler with the rest of the crowd. Beside him, Reyf is transfixed, leaning forward over the railing, his eyes bright.
“That’s twenty-three!” Reyf shouts over the din as another rat meets its bloody end between the hound’s jaws. The betting girl squeezes through the crowd to mark their slips as winners.
Rian claps him on the shoulder and cheers. “Twenty-three, you little black-and-white beauty!” Next to them, a massive slab of a man stirs as they jostle him. Rian puts on a startled expression as he sees Carver’s face turning to glower down at them, but Reyf’s fear is far from feigned.
“Care to watch where you’re stepping, cov? You’ve gone and spoiled the shine on my shoes.”
Reyf stammers a bit when confronted with Carver’s bulk. His hand quickly goes into his coat, but Rian steps between them. “Sorry, friend, our humble apologies,” he says smoothly, gesturing frantically at a passing barmaid. “Here, let me buy you a drink; help you take your mind off your sorrows.” Carver waits for a spell, letting Reyf sweat a bit before accepting a few coppers from Rian’s hand and shuffling back to the edge of the arena.
Once they’re clear of Carver’s menace, Rian turns back to his new friend. “I could use a drink myself, and it might be wise for us to decamp with our winnings. Let’s have none of this Red Tooth rotgut — I know a place nearby with a cask of the stuff Lord Strangford himself drinks when he’s not feeling picky. What say you?”
Here, we’ll make the first roll of the score — Rian is trying to get into Reyf’s confidence and move him to another location. To up his chances, Carver aided him with their little tet-a-tet, and he’ll take on a Devil’s Bargain, for which we’ll mark the Bluecoat Suspicion clock one more tick before rolling. If this roll fails, chances are that clock’s getting filled anyway, so might as well go for a big success.
Success with a consequence — for that, I’ll just tick the clock one more time, for a total of three out of four. Reyf has been coached to be suspicious of civilians, so he’s on his guard, but so far Rian hasn’t said anything to really put him on alert.
Rian seems like a nice fellow, but one wrong move could change that.
Back to the fiction:
“Why not?” Reyf says with a crooked smile. “Lead the way.”
A few short blocks later, they arrive at a nameless winesink with a green-painted door and an unsmiling doorman from the Dagger Isles. Rian gives him a knowing nod as they pass, and Reyf tips his cap respectfully.
Inside is dimly lit and crowded, and the two of them slide up to the bar. Rian calls the barman over and smiles. “Two glasses of the Denbow Reserve, landlord,” he says, stacking a handful of copper slugs on the scarred bar.
The barman raises a bushy eyebrow but pockets the coins without comment, bending to retrieve a dusty green bottle from beneath the counter. As he pours the amber liquid into two glasses, Rian catches Aldo’s eye where he lurks in the shadows of a booth across the taproom. His brother nods almost imperceptibly, and Rian turns back to Reyf with a grin.
“To our winnings, friend,” he says, raising his glass. Reyf smiles and lifts his own drink in salute. The liquor is smooth and smoky on Rian’s tongue, and with renewed boldness, he begins to regale Reyf with a tale of his gambling exploits at the dog tracks in Dunslough.
Now it’s Aldo’s turn. He’s here to drug the mark — one of the special items in the Slide’s playbooks is “Trance Powder,” whose effects are described thusly: “The victim of this powder is not fully unconscious, but rather retreats into a calm, suggestible mental state, similar to hypnotism.”
The Slide is Rian’s playbook, not Aldo’s, but that’s fine — we just mark off one Load on Aldo’s sheet (leaving him with 2) and assume that Rian procured it earlier and gave it to him.
As Rian holds forth, Aldo quickly crosses the crowded room, pausing only for a moment by the bar to throw down a few coppers and, in one smooth motion, upend a small glass vial of grey powder into the Bluecoat’s glass. Aldo is gone before Reyf turns back for another sip, returning to his perch in the corner of the common room, ready to run interference at any sign of trouble.
Rian watches Reyf closely. He sees his movements start to become a little slower and sloppier, his eyes lose focus, and his pupils grow until his eyes are almost circles of black.
He holds his winnings in his hand—a fistful of copper slugs shining in the tavern's dim lanternlight. “What a windfall,” he crows. “I’ve never seen this much scratch.”
Reyf snorts, “This is nothing. It’s just a little fun. I’ve got real silver coming to me.”
“Is that so? What trade’s keeping your pockets full? Maybe I can get a piece of it?”
“I’m a Bluecoat,” he says, a silly grin spreading as the drug works on him.
Rian raises his eyebrows in mock surprise. “You seem a decent sort for a copper. But I didn’t think the Emperor was so generous with his servants.”
“Generosity is where you find it, friend,” he says. He giggles and looks down at the glass. “This is damn fine stuff. Damn fine!”
“Let me guess: You’re on the take. Protection games. Am I right?”
Reyf taps his nose knowingly. “Right you are. Just a little taste here and there — the shopkeeps almost thank us for it,” he says, the secrets slurring from his lips.
Rian shrugs. “Someone’s got to keep them protected. And shouldn’t you benefit from your efforts? But no doubt the higher-ups don’t like that.”
“I should say not. But we’ve got a sergeant looking out for us, and he knows the tricks. Never fear.” He notes with surprise that his glass is empty, but Rian is there, filling it back to near the brim and putting a few more copper coins on the bar.
“So, how much have you taken?” Rian says, leaning in with casual interest as though he was asking about the weather.
“Lots! I don’t keep the count. But it’s piles of scales, even a few crowns. Plenty to keep us in good style once we divvy it up.”
“Hope it’s secret and safe in the meantime,” Rian says suggestively. “That sergeant of yours probably has the perfect spot to keep it hidden, doesn’t he?”
This one is for all the marbles. With his mark under the effects of his Trance Powder, Rian is trying to use his suggestible state to get him to share the location of their stash. I set the position as Desparate / Standard — in order to get what he needs, Rian is way out on a limb here. If Reyf fights through the trance or the drug starts to wear off, Rian’s questions sound extremely suspicious.
Reyf chortles gleefully. “It’s in Sarge’s watch station, where no one will look. Behind the portrait of the Immortal Emperor. Nobody’s touching that bloodless bastard’s picture.”
Rian grins and clinks his glass. “Cheers to that bloodless bastard, then. Long may he rule.” Reyf follows suit and downs the glass, looking more soused with each passing moment.
“Since you’ve got bottomless pockets, what’s say we go find some company? I know a place across the Strand Bridge with some very friendly lads and lasses — what’s your taste?” Rian rises and helps Reyf to his unsteady feet.
When they leave the winesink and turn up Rye Street, Carver is waiting for them in the shadows of an alleyway. Rian meets his eyes and nods — Reyf is leaning on him heavily, and he can barely stand upright.
Carver gets the grab, but there’s a complication, and he’ll have to roll again at a worse position.
As they pass, Carver darts out, wrapping a canvas bag over the Bluecoat’s head and wrapping one meaty arm around his body, pinning his arms to his side. The sudden assault sends a jolt through Reyf, and he begins to fight like a rat in a terrier’s jaws, struggling, twisting, and throwing elbows.
Carver tries to tighten his grip around the man, but he slips one hand into his coat, and out comes a pistol7, its brass gleaming in the moonlight. He points it wildly this way and that — Rian’s heart pounds as he sees the barrel pointing towards him, the world seeming to disappear around that narrow black dot. He backs away, tripping on a loose cobble and stumbling to the ground.
This time, for our consequence we’ll inflict Harm. Carver will resist this consequence using his special move Battleborn, which he can trigger once per score to reduce harm8 from an attack.
Reyf, his strength made great by his fear, struggles mightily with Carver, slamming him back against the alley’s wall and opening some distance between them. He whirls and unsteadily brings his pistol to bear at where he thinks Carver is standing, still blinded by the canvas hood.
Carver’s bulk is hard to miss, and he’s aiming dead center. Reyf’s finger tightens on the trigger, and Carver rushes forward, reaching for the gun. To the Bluecoat’s surprise, there is only silence as he pulls on the dead trigger again and again. Rian looks up, and he sees the meat of Carver’s hand lodged between the striker and the barrel, bleeding profusely. Carv swears under his breath and gives Reyf a sharp blow to the face, dropping the Bluecoat like a sack of potatoes.
The big man offers Rian a hand up, and he accepts it gratefully. “Nice work, Carv. As ever.” Carver nods wordlessly, breaks open the gun’s barrel, empties the four unspent cartridges onto the Bluecoat’s body, and extracts his bloody hand from beneath the striker.
Aldo materializes at the mouth of the alley, taking in the tableau. “Did you get what we need?”
“‘Course I did,” Rian says. “The stash is at the watch station, behind the official portrait of His Imperial Highness.”
“Good.” He nods to Carver. “Take our friend to the backroom and keep him hooded, bound, and gagged until Laroze can take him off our hands.”
“Right, Aldo.”
Rian looks his twin in the eye. “Decision time. What are we going to tell Roric?”
Decision time, indeed. The Laroze Job is complete, pending the crew’s payoff. We’ll close out the episode here, with Aldo making a decision for the crew on how big of a payoff they’re going to pursue. He can play Roric a number of ways here, depending on what he wants to tell him, and what claims he wants to press. Here are our options:
Tell Roric nothing. The Bluecoat ring will go down, Chael may expand his territory and become richer and more powerful. The payoff for the score will be minimal with little coin and no turf gained, but with minimal exposure. I’ll only mark 2 Heat for this job — Rian was seen, but only by someone who’s shortly bound for Ironhook prison.
Tell Roric that they’re responsible for bringing down the Bluecoats, but do not make a claim on their territory. This increases the amount of Heat for the job to 4, but it will come with a little more coin. This will also increase the crew’s standing with Chael (from -2 to -1). This doesn’t make them friends, but it will stop Chael from proactively attacking them, for now.
Tell Roric that they’re responsible, AND make a claim on their territory. This will also result in 4 Heat, and in addition to an increased payout in coin, we’ll also have a chance to mark a new Claim on our crew map9. This will also keep tensions between the crew and Chael high, needless to say, but Roric will likely prevent things from immediately escalating to war.
We’ll leave Aldo’s decision up to you fine folks. Hit the button below to make your choice.
Next week, the crew will get paid. We’ll also see what Laroze can do for the brothers in finding their lost sister, and what Roric has in store for them. See you in your inboxes next week!
Mushloaf is a chewy, earthy-tasting bread-like substance made of ground mushrooms. Bread made from grains is rare—wheat can’t grow naturally in this world’s perpetual darkness, and the supply that grows in electroplasm-lit fields tends to go to the more affluent folk in Duskwall.
This is an observation in the fiction, but it has mechanical weight as well — the Bluecoats are a Tier III organization, compared to the Jessek’s Tier 0. This means the GM has it within their prerogative to reduce effect levels by up to 3 (meaning even a critical result with Great effect can be zeroed out).
Rat-baiting is a real-world sport (which is, in some forms, still practiced even today), which rose to popularity after similar sports like bear baiting and bull baiting were banned. This moment is also a bit of an homage to an old favorite of mine — The Great Train Robbery, a 70s heist/period piece starring Sean Connery and Donald Sutherland.
‘Cove’ is a real-world piece of English thieves can’t, which just means “man.’ I plan to use the shortened ‘cov’ (like a Shakespearean “coz”) as an informal greeting or descriptor, particularly in the Foot.
A Harm on a Risky roll is Level 2, resisting with Battleborn means he takes Level 1 harm instead, and his Tough as Nails move means that he ignores penalties from Level 1 harm, so he’s in good shape.
Another great job from the Jessacks. I like how the brothers displays great teamwork in playing their parts.