Cahal, centurio without centuria, was walking the streets of ‘New Shairra’, as the colonists called their new city, for lack of a better name. People walked in a wide arc around him, for they could sense his mood was even fouler than usual. No wonder: first that crazy Hydra charge last night, killing all of his men before they even had a chance to react (the ‘Shame of Erymia’: what a bunch of losers!), and then being pulled out of his bed by the inquisition for ‘interrogation’! A painful experience, that. After tonight’s battle, they were looking for a traitor, someone who had given information to their undead enemies about their strengths and weaknesses. And, Cahal admitted, being the only survivor looked pretty suspicious.
Finally, Sandar Silvermaul told his men to release him: since most of the enemy leaders had also survived the slaughter of their units, it might as well co-incidence (or even something like the rules of a universe in which named NPC’s were much more likely to survive). Indeed, only 2 of the 5 liches had been slain: one killed by Tjikka and its own hybris, the other cut apart by Tarwyn’s soldiers, the ‘Sharp Swords’. The others were probably hiding in the tunnels below the city, with their last -and probably most powerful – minions. Not a comforting thought… The inquisition should deal with that problem first, Cahal muttered, instead of ‘questioning’ honest soldiers! Well, one thing was for sure, that inquisitor Cormac would never have to pay the Malsing Tax: he had max ranks in profession: torturer!
Cahal was too busy counting his remaining fingernails to notice the crowd gathering before him. He bumped straight into a bunch of craftsmen, all reading the sheets of coloured paper a young nobleman was handing out. He recognized the fellow as Obald the Fifth, a drunken fool who just always happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Just like himself, actually. Cahal’s interest was picked. “Hey, you there, undersized broadarse! Read it for me, and be quick about it.” The Dwarven fellow with a sad excuse for a beard looked familiar, somehow, but as he started reading aloud, Cahal’s thoughts soon went elsewhere.
“Dear Friends, who love a beer after work,
Many things they promised us:
We would get a new chance in Ademorra
We would earn lots of money, without a mad proconsul stealing from us
We would be free to live a good life
We would be able to fight for the things we believe in
We would be equals and able to drink together in the local pub…
Alas, it were all lies…
We work like dogs and even in the weekends, malsing is considered a crime!
Taxes all around, the big ones take all the silver and we get nuts! Easy money? My ass!
And even a good fight is out of the question most of the time, for there is just not enough healing!
Al of this could be endured, because the weather was fine here and after every day of hard labor for our superiors, we could at least enjoy a beer in the evening sun.
But now, some ‘decent’ people have decided, from their ivory tower, to rob us of our only pleasure. Should they have listened to their men, these new Diokleses would not walk in broad daylight amongst hordes of angry men out for their blood!
Not that I would advise as such, of course (though it would be perfectly understandable to do so!).
Be warned! Be prepared!
Ormund took another paper, this time written in Erymian.
“Moat’n an den toog,
Binnenkort staat een pintje drinken in dit heerlijke terrasjesweer gelijk aan een heuse GAS-boete, van wie anders dan die fu’ers van d’ inquisitie. Vanaf morgen kunnen we allemaal, man, vrouw, baby, kind, hond, neger, monk… zonder pardon aan een gruwelijke bloedproef onderworpen worden, om te zien of we een levensgenieter zijn en af en toe na een harde werkdag een pintje drinken! Kan dit verdomme zomaar?!
Deze spuiten zijn bovendien niet hygiënisch, stel dat een aap of -erger nog – neger hier een gevaarlijk virus in ’t bloed heeft, wat dan????
Daarom: laat dit niet ongemerkt voorbij gaan en verzamel allen daar waar de stemming plaatsvindt.
Kom allemaal af, voorzien van een pintje (wie weet je laatste ooit!!!!!!) en grote spandoeken, om je mening te tonen aan die pipo’s van de Hoge Raad (‘wie ontneemt me een pintje?’, ‘door wie kan ik mezelf niet meer healen?’, ‘wie ontneemt het volk zijn stem en zijn plezier?’, ‘Tempel=bodemloze put. Stop de geldtransfers!’ )
Eis een open stemming, zodat we zien welke van onze leiders ons laatste pleziertje wil afnemen! Eens zien of ze dan nog buiten durven te komen zonder een +5 hat of disguise!
Uw vriend aan de toog,
PS: Wel een ordelijke betoging: Ik wil geen anarchie hè :p"
As Ormund stopped reading, Cahal realized three things:
- All others had left
- He and Ormund were standing alone amongst the piles of pamphlets, that is, alone except for two patrols of inquisitors
- Once again, he was in deep shit…