[WFRP] The Bloody Crown

[Sodalite]

Wolfgang

Wolfgang stooped down and searched over the headless corpse for anything interesting, before grabbing it by the ankles and dragging it to the back of the wagon.

[LCP]

The two dead ambushers – and the one live one – seemed to be carrying little of value. The dead men each had a heavy hatchet, the kind of axe meant more as a tool than a weapon; the same could be said for the felling axe their captive had been wielding. Goat hides and other scraps of animal fur had been stitched together into ragged vests to create the illusion of a furry hide; each of them also had a horned mask, made from the same materials. Made with the mouth left clear like an executioner's hood, the horns of goats or rams had been stitched into stiff plates at the top of each mask. In the darkness they had been quite convincing.

If these men had really been robbing everyone who passed, they would appear to have been singularly bad at it. Beneath the savage-looking hides, Sieghard couldn't find even a single purse of coins. It was enough to make you weep.

---

1

Marktag, 2nd Nachexen

The eastern sky was turning a pale, crepuscular grey when the cart finally rattled into Elmridge. Squatting on a low rise in the ground on the border of the forest, the village was still. A few wisps of smoke rising into the calm air from the low chimneys of the peasants' hovels were the only signs of life at this early hour.

To Adelbert, the village looked primitive and poor. The houses crouched low to the ground, sporting only a few narrow windows in their muddy walls. The roofs were coarse thatch, many held down by old rope nets weighted with uncut stones. On the western side of the village, where the trees gave way to the high heaths of the Raven Hills, scrawny-looking sheep stood in silent huddles inside roughly-made paddocks, watching the newcomers with a hundred slot-pupilled eyes. The scribe had not yet calibrated his expectations to the lands of the Border Princes: to Sieghard and the others, the village looked prosperous and safe.

A deep ditch encircled the village. A man standing at the bottom could scarcely have reached the top with arms outstretched, and the bottom was lined with sharp wooden stakes. The road was the single break in the perimeter; in other places, the ditch was bridged by temporary arrangements of logs and planks, quickly removable in the event of an attack.

Nearest the road on the other side of the ditch, a large sawmill sat on their right. It was built from planks, unlike the earth-walled cottages of the villages: it had no need to keep its contents warm. Stacked in a great triangular pile were the stripped trunks of seven or eight trees, sheltered under a lean-to roof. An old donkey slumbered next to them. Neither the lumber nor the donkey looked as if they had been disturbed in some time.

“Right,” said Karl, as they came to a halt in the centre of the village. “Time to get off the cart.” He looked round at Jager in the silence that followed. “No harm meant, friend, but mine's a travellin' trade. It won't do me no good if the people here see me as one of your Duke's men.”

Jager scowled, but didn't contradict the carter. Jumping down, he surveyed his surroundings.

“Gather your things, then, lads,” he said. “And bring our little beastman and his friends.”

When they had all disembarked, Karl clucked his tongue and the mules walked on, leading the cart towards a building a little larger than its neighbours – most likely a tavern. A sign outside showed a crude picture of a great tree with spreading branches. Unlike the inns of the Empire, there was no name written beneath the symbol. Adelbert wondered if anyone in this village could even read.

“You see that house there?” asked Jager, pointing to the hovel in question. It stood on an earthen mound, no more than a few feet higher than the surrounding buildings. Smoke was rising from its chimney, and Adelbert noticed some intricate-looking wood carving around the doorframe. “That's Gant's place. Village elder.” Jager pronounced the words as someone else might say “dung collector”. “We're paying him a visit.”

He set off towards the building with a determined look on his face. “Bring the idiot in with us. Leave the dead men at the door.”

[TheSummoner]

Sieghard

Sieghard does as he is bid, guiding thesurviving "beastman" towards the building. He keeps one hand on the rope binding the man's arms and another on his dagger, ready incase the man tries anything foolish.

[C.J.Geringer]

Brand follows helping to carry the bodies and looking around trying to memorize the shortest escape routes in case of problem.

[RossN]

Adelbert Schreiber

Adelbert cast a longing glance at the tavern, which poor quality though it looked at least offered the hope of rest and healing. The scribe then gritted his teeth and set about carrying the dead men to door, relieved no one was around to witness this. Carrying dead bodies around was not going to be the best impression to make on the locals.

He had to run back to retrieve his belongings before Karl rode off with him, though even the sheltered scribe wondered if any of the locals would have much use for an illuminated book for anything other than firewood.

[LCP]

Waiting at the doorway until Karl and his cart were out of sight, Jager appeared to be listening intently for sounds of movement from inside. There were none. Seeing the others ready and waiting, he took a step back, then threw his shoulder hard against the door.

With a splintering crack, the door flew open. From somewhere inside there came an alarmed cry, but Jager was already striding over the threshold, one leather-gloved hand on the hilt of his sword.

The inside of the hovel was richer than the exterior had led Adelbert to expect. Furs and hides had been piled up in front of the stone hearth, where the cooling remains of a fire were still smouldering. The scraps of a sizeable meal had been left out on a handsomely-carved table.

There was another room to the right of this one, separated by a wooden partition wall. Appearing suddenly in the doorway between the two, an old man in a hairy nightshirt blinked in alarm at the intruders. He had an improvised cudgel in his hand, but he was not ready for six armed men on his doorstep.

“Sleeping in?” barked Jager, closing the distance between them and seizing the old man before he could react. “And here I thought you were expecting me.”

Gant tried to splutter a reply, but Jager pushed him away, throwing him down onto the floor. Advancing on his victim, he stopped as he heard soft footsteps come to a sudden halt behind him – looking round, he saw a young, mousy-haired woman standing in the doorway from which Gant had emerged. Wrapped in a blanket, she stared at Jager and the others in wide-eyed terror.

Staring back for an unapologetic few seconds, Jager finally looked back at Gant. “Dirty old eel,” he said, in tones of heavy contempt. “Get your clothes back on, girl. Look quick about it.”

Barely squeaking a reply, the girl vanished back behind the wall.

“Six men, waiting on the road,” said Jager, turning back to Gant. He had stopped shouting. “Dressed up like beasts. Did you really think that would work?”

Gant cleared his throat, composing his wrinkled face as he looked up at Jager. “I don't know what you're talking about,” he said, clearly.

“Really,” said Jager. “So this lad here, he's not one of yours, then?”

He stepped aside, motioning for the others to bring their captive forward. Gant looked at the man for a good few seconds, and the two of them seemed to exchange glances. Slowly picking himself up off the ground, the village elder dusted off his nightshirt and said, slowly, to Jager:

“I've never seen this man before in my life.”

Jager's lip curled.

“You're a bad liar, Gant. We'll see how stubborn the rest of your villagers are when they see the two we've got outside.” He paused, watching the old man's face. “The duke sent two men out before me. Is this what you did to them?”

“I don't know what you mean.”

“Course you bloody do. Einholtz and de la Poeur. The duke's overseers.”

Gant took a long breath to calm himself.

“Einholtz was taken by the forest. De la Poeur ran away. He saw something, in the woods.” The old man repeated the words in a solemn, rhythmic fashion, a mantra he had learned by heart.

“Your lads, was it? Dressed up in ram-horns and antlers?”

Still watching the old man's face, Jager pulled one of the chairs out from the elm-wood table, dragging its legs across the earth floor. Sitting down backwards, he folded his arms over its back, looking Gant straight in the eye.

“The game's done, old man. No sense playing dumb any more. You killed Einholtz. You scared de la Poeur out of his wits. Reckon you meant to kill me too, if the sight of a few beast-horns wasn't enough to frighten me off.” A pause. “The duke's men wanted to make you do an honest day's work, so you got rid of 'em.”

There was a long silence.

“They wanted us to cut down half the forest.”

“Aye. The duke wants timber.”

“The forest doesn't belong to the duke.”

Jager raised one eyebrow so far it seemed it might twist right off his face. “Well,” he said. “There's an interesting opinion. I reckon I know a couple of hundred men with swords who disagree with you there.” He glared at the old man. “You want to test them?”

“The duke is a merciful man.”

“Aye. That he is. He gives everyone one chance.” Pushing the chair back, Jager stood up again. “You've had two.”

The girl had reappeared in the doorway, hastily and haphazardly dressed. Jager threw a glance her way before continuing.

“One more time, Gant. Where'd you bury Einholtz?”

Gant remained stubbornly silent. There was a staring match of ten seconds or so, then Jager turned away with a snarl of frustration.

“You lot,” he barked, gesturing to Sieghard and the group. “Search the house. I want this place turned upside down.” He turned to the girl. “You, go rouse the rest of this sorry village. I want the lot of them, outside.” He raised his voice to a shout once again. “Go!”

With one more startled squeak, the peasant girl scurried out of the front door.

"One of you had best keep watch over those bodies outside," added Jager as an afterthought. "The rest of you, get to it."

OOC:

Spoiler

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Because this is an interaction between two NPCs, I post it in one big block. If there are points where you want to contribute or interrupt, however, don't feel constrained to waiting to the end. Quote boxes are very useful for responding to specific parts of the conversation; if you want to say or do something that will completely change the course of what is said and done, I will edit appropriately.

Search is a Basic skill, so anyone who doesn't have it trained may still test against half their Intelligence stat. Gant's home is not a big place and does not have many hiding places, so the test receives a +30 circumstance bonus.

[Sodalite]

Wolfgang

Wolfgang searched in mostly high places, rather like he was picking for valuables like he would if he was burgling rather than really trying to find everything, not that it mattered, since he was stilled jarred enough from all the recent experiences to notice anything important.

[C.J.Geringer]

I have perception. and int 36

(1d100)[4]

[C.J.Geringer]

Brand meticulously searches every nook and cranny he can, to make sure he won´t miss anything, and to give him time to think, it seems the re willo be some umpleasantness ahead and the thought makes him a little queasy, he is after all, just a charcoal burner.

"the question whom does the forest belongs to?" foremost at his mind, images of elfs, fairies and hostile forest monster springing into his mind from old childhood stories.

[TheSummoner]

Sieghard

“Really,” said Jager. “So this lad here, he's not one of yours, then?”

He stepped aside, motioning for the others to bring their captive forward.

At that, Sieghard shoves the bandit forward, nearly throwing the man into Gant.

"One of you had best keep watch over those bodies outside," added Jager as an afterthought. "The rest of you, get to it."

Sieghard nods and steps outside. Guarding two corpses in the early stages of rot wouldn't have been his first choice, but for a gold crown, it would be well worth dealing with the flies and the smell. He didn't expect any trouble, but he readied and loaded his crossbow all the same.

Spoiler

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Everyone else gets to search the home and do their search tests... Just to not be left out, I'll do a pereption test to see if there's anything out of the ordinary in the village or if any of the being roused look like they feel like doing something foolish.

Perception Test: (1d100)[18]
(Int is 36)

[RossN]

Adelbert Schreiber

The scribe looked pale, clearly realising exactly what sort of situation he was in. He took a deep breath and was about to annouce he'd step outside when Sieghard beat him to it. Biting his tongue Adelbert started searching the place.

OOC:

Spoiler

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Basic Search
(1d100)[35]

[LCP]

Gant sat down in one of the chairs, enduring the indignity of the search with a kind of aged stoicism as Jager's new henchmen turned his house upside-down. The old peasant had a very well-stocked larder, but if Jager was looking for some incriminating clue it seemed he would be disappointed.

Outside, Sieghard watched as other villagers began to poke their heads out of doors, like tortoises waking from hibernation. The girl Jager had made his messenger ran from hovel to hovel, and soon a small crowd had gathered at the foot of the mound on which Gant's house was built. The sight of Sieghard standing there with his crossbow stopped them from coming too close to get a look at the slumped shapes behind him.

After a while, Jager seemed to tire of the searching. Grabbing hold of their bound captive, he motioned to the others to seize Gant.

“Take him outside and line him up with this one,” he said. “Then I want the five of you standing behind me, with your weapons where they can see them. Try to look tough.” He paused, looking at Adelbert. “'Course, Mr Scribe here's got that worked out already!”

For a moment, Adelbert wondered if Jager was being sarcastic. Then he realised, of course, that his clothes and skin were still quite heavily stained with blood.

---

1

Elsabeth Holt opened her eyes, and tried to sit up. Her back felt like one big knot. In Elmridge, they made everything out of wood – even, apparently, the bedding.

She could hear some voices talking in the main hall of the tavern. It was difficult to make out what they were saying: the landlord of the Wych Elm had put her in the “guest room”, as he insisted on calling it. It was a room, and it had a bed, that much was true. Elsa had her suspicions, though, that most of the time it was put to other uses. There were subtle clues. The way it opened onto the back yard, the lingering mustiness and the farmyard smell. The empty feed-trough in the corner. The way the goats kept trying to get back in.

The voices receded, and she heard the front door open and close. She had gone to sleep in her clothes, the 'guest room' far too draughty for anything else. Pulling on her boots, she made her way over to the back door, letting herself out into the cool morning air. A black billy-goat was waiting for her, and made a determined effort to rush inside for brief the moment the door was open. Elsa slammed it quickly to stop the animal getting in.

The voices were gathering somewhere in the centre of the village. Following the sounds of people, she found her way to the back of the crowd. In front of a raised cottage, eight men were facing the assembled villagers. Six of them were armed, and two of them – one the old villager she had heard called “Gant” - looked less than happy to be in the others' company.

At their feet, what looked like two dead bodies lay sprawled...

---

1

Hooking his thumbs into his belt, Jager surveyed the crowd like a shepherd surveying his flock. He waited a long time before he said anything.

“Good morning!” he said, with a voice like a drawn sword. “My name's Eugen Jager. Some of you might have heard of me.”

The odd murmur from the crowd suggested that some of them might have well.

“You all know this man!” he continued, raising his voice. He gestured to Gant. “And I think you all know this man too.”

He motioned to Sieghard to shove the captured ambusher forwards. Eyes narrowing, Jager searched the faces of the crowd.

“I suppose the question I really need to ask,” he said, stooping down, “is do you know this man?”

Straightening back up, he raised the head of the man Wolfgang had decapitated so the crowd could see its face. The villagers recoiled – from somewhere at the back, a woman gave a shocked, strangled gasp.

Still holding up the head, Jager cast a triumphant glance at Gant. Gant looked down at the ground in front of his feet, refusing to meet the soldier's eyes.

“These three men,” he called out, setting the head down and pointing first to the bodies, then to their captive, “had three friends. And those six men thought they would attack me on the road to your village. Now your friend Gant, the venerable Gant here - “ - he gestured towards Gant - “ - wants me to believe that you people had nothing to do with that.” He swung his gaze left and right, lording over the crowd. “But one look at your lily-white faces tells me you are all guilty as a fat boy in a pie shop.”

“The duke sent you two good men! I know what you did to them.” He pushed Gant forward. “I know what this man convinced you to do to them.” His eyes swept the crowd once more. “Now the duke has sent me. I am not a good man.”

He raised his voice a little louder, carrying further.

“It's been a hard winter! For every man here, there's three men in Alvarran who'd kill for a roof over their heads and some decent grub. Men who'll work when they're told to. Men who'll follow orders.” He left a pause after the point. “The duke wants timber, and he wants it in Alvarran yesterday. If you can't deliver, he'll replace you with men who can. Men who'll follow their lord's commands.”

Just as the angry oratory was reaching a crescendo, a tall man in the crowd called out.

“They ain't bowyers!”

“WHO SAID THAT?” roared Jager. A sudden silence fell. After an awkward pause, the tall man stepped forwards.

“I did.”

“What's your name?”

“Flitch.”

Jager stared at Flitch, and Flitch stared at Jager.

“Mister Flitch is right,” said Jager, at last. “The men in Alvarran don't know how to make bows like you do.”
A swell of muttering ran through the crowd.
“They don't know how to make tables and chairs and little fancy carvings like you do.”
The muttering continued.
“In fact,” said Jager, raising his voice again, “they don't know how to make anything like you do! All they know is how to swing an axe.” He paced forwards, suddenly in Flitch's face. “Thing is, Mister Flitch, the duke's got enough bows. I know, 'cos I counted them. And if you people think you can defy him,” he continued, “some of those bows you made might come marching back home to Elmridge!”

“The duke wants timber. He doesn't want bows, or lutes, or little wooden dolls. He wants those trees cut down and taken to Alvarran.” Striding back up the slope, he stood in front of the bodies again. “You all know the duke's a merciful man. He gives everyone one chance.” Drawing breath, he calmed his expression. “I am your one chance. You will work for me, you will follow my orders, and you will keep your homes and your livelihoods. This man,” he said, pointing at Gant, “has had his chance. And he used it to lead you astray.”

The resentful muttering turned to murmurs of fear as Jager drew his sword.

“Disloyalty has to be punished."

Turning back towards Gant, he motioned for the others to push the old man to his knees. Looking at Wolfgang, he asked in a low voice:

“Want to be headsman?”

OOC:

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As before, interrupt where you like.

If Wolfgang chooses to execute Gant, treat Gant as Helpless (provided someone else has made him kneel): you hit automatically (so can select the location you hit via a Called Shot if you wish) and do a bonus d10 damage. A clean execution will convey more authority than a messy one. If Wolfgang doesn't want to and someone else wants to step up, Jager won't object, so don't feel you have to wait on a middle-man post from me.

For the non-Elsas, you can all roll Perception at +20 to notice Elsa in the crowd, since her appearance is very distinctive.

[RossN]

Adelbert Schreiber

Adelbert's hand lay on the hilt of his sword, though his palms felt so clamy he wondered if would slip straight out of his hand should he have to use it. He looked at the crowd, wondering how Averlanders would react to this sort of 'justice'.

As he limped over to Gant, Adelbert 'accidently' gives the ambuser a push in the small of the back. "That's for the ambush friend... and the leg!" He sneered then hooked a finger on the bandit's collar and dragged him back.

Spoiler

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As he yanks the bandit back Adelbert tries to whisper: "Run when the axe drops."

Reaching Gant the scribe pushes the older man to his knees, keeping his foot on the man's back. "On your mark Wolfgang."

[Sodalite]

"I...suppose..." Wolfgang said, perhaps a little more shaken than he was before. Wolfgang took a deep breath, lifted his axe in both hands over his head, and brought it down over Gant's neck, as near to wear he had chopped the bandit's as he could manage.

OOC:

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I gosh, even I feel tense! I guess this would count a called shot to the head? Anyway, here goes for the damage...

(1d10+2)[4] + (1d10)[2]

Also Perception: (1d100)[14] versus 40+20

[-Sentinel-]

Ughhhh. Too much noise, was Elsabeth Holt's first thought as she awoke. Each of her own heartbeats pounded on her temples like someone trying to hammer their way out of her skull. It was early; the sun poured in at a low angle, right into her eyes. She was not an early riser at the best of times, and even less so after downing half a dozen pints of ale. Her red hair was even more of a mess than usual, and her bloodshot eyes stung.

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LCP, feel free to inflict Elsa a hangover penalty on skill tests and/or casting rolls for the rest of the morning. It's her own damn fault for not learning from her mistakes.

She tried to go back to sleep, but now that she was awake, all the noise, the light and the smell of goats made her nauseous. No way to sleep when you feared you might throw up last night’s stringy, under-salted mutton stew any minute. The apprentice lurched to her feet and wondered why, again, she had accepted the worst room in the Wych Elm when her purse was full of gold. Next time, she would make arrangements for a room before getting to the drinking.

Elsa grabbed her staff and exited the building – throwing the goats a dark scowl as if each and every one of them was responsible for waking her up – and made her way to the center of the village, her eyes still half closed from the sunlight and headache. When she joined the back of the crowd, some gazes turned, most of them curious, suspicious or even hostile; her clothing and tattoos made her stand out, even in the land of renegades and expatriates of all kinds. Only when she was deep into the massed crowd did she bother to look at what the commotion was about.

Ah. Overbearing authority figure setting an example.

It was the same everywhere, but it was worse in the Border Princes, where some of the weaker settlements were known to pay protection money to three or four different self-styled lords. The Duke’s man, Jager, had a bunch of armed thugs with him. The show trial did little to improve Elsa’s mood; wizards like her were all too often on the receiving end of such “justice”. What made it worse was how everyone came to gawk, lending the proceedings an undeserved semblance of legitimacy. How pathetic would this sad little spectacle be if people stayed home and minded their business? But of course, she was gawking as well, and nothing would make her budge from here, so perhaps she was part of the problem.

Her face darkened when the sentence fell. She had half a mind to join this Flitch fellow in defiance, but held her tongue. As a stranger in Elmsridge, she would not be missed if the thugs chose to make an example of her as well. Plus, yelling would only make her head hurt more.

For a moment, though, she could swear the headsman's eyes paused on her, shortly before he brought down his axe on the village elder. She met his gaze squarely.

[Sodalite]

Wolfgang

Wolfgang saw how his first blow had failed to kill the man, and how could expect it to? Now was not the same as before, and this peculiar woman's visage had his eye the moment he began to swing. Either way, he brought the axe up again, a feeling too gruesome to put words passing through his stomach, before chopping down once more.

OOC:

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Another damage roll. I actually really hope this doesn't go on longer.

(1d10)[2] + (1d10)[7] + 2

[TheSummoner]

Sieghard

As Jager speaks, Sieghard keeps his eyes on the crowd. None of them look like they wanted to get close and that's fine with him. Even with them unarmed, Sieghard didn't think he would last long if they broke into riot. They'd take several of them with them, but the mass of bodies would soon overwhelm the small group.

He focuses on Flitch when he speaks up. There's one to keep an eye on. He briefly considers shooting the man. It would be a risky action... It would silence him before he could move the mob to violence... But it might also be just the provocation for violence they need. Luckily Jager spared him the need to make that choice.

His eyes drift further and he soon notices the tatooed woman with fiery hair. Another one to watch. He notes to himself, seeing the expression on her face.

The blood splashing on his legs draws his attention away from the crowd for a moment. He barely holds back a string of cursing when he sees the shoddy job Wolfgang managed of a simple execution and instead lets his scowl speak for him.

[Sodalite]

Wolfgang

Again, he brought the axe up, and brought down. He couldn't bare to think more about it than that.

OOC:

Spoiler

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Damage: (1d10)[1] + (1d10)[9] + 2

[-Sentinel-]

The spectacle was more and more horrific at every axe blow. Elsa clenched her teeth, sending surges of pain through her skull... No one could be that clumsy by accident.

"YOU'RE FµCKING UP ON PURPOSE!" she yelled before she knew what she was doing.

[TheSummoner]

Sieghard

Three swings. Three ****ing swings. Was this idiot trying to make them look like sadists? Was he trying to make the death as painful as he could?

"Damned butcher..." he mumbles just loud enough for Wolfgang to hear.

Elsa's outburst brings his attention immediately back to her. And now it goes from bad to worse...

His hands tense around his crossbow. He couldn't help but think he'd be needing to use it soon.

[LCP]

Gant didn't beg or plead as Adelbert pushed him to his knees. He looked up at Wolfgang with a quiet sort of dignity, then looked away.

The man's dignity didn't last long. The first blow cut deeper into his shoulder than his neck, causing him to cry out. The second just made a worse mess than the first, the voices of the crowd rising in sympathy. It was only on the third stroke, blood speckling his arms and face, that Wolfgang managed to take off the old man's head. Gant's body fell forwards, looking like a chicken butchered by a clumsy farm boy.

Elsa's shout only heightened the hubbub of the crowd, an angry swell of disgust running through the assembled ranks of the villagers. Jager's attention immediately fixed on her - which meant he had taken his sight off the second captive. Making a wild break for it, the man from the road turned and ran, his rope-bound wrists held clumsily in front of him.

Jager's head snapped round like a hunting dog. "STOP HIM!" he bellowed, pointing after the fleeing man. Already striding forwards with his sword in hand, he looked at Sieghard and his crossbow. "Bring him down!"

OOC:

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No time to make a combat map right now, but Initiative will matter for range.

Sieghard - (1d10+37)[39]
Brand - (1d10+33)[39]
Wolfgang - (1d10+36)[44]
Adelbert - (1d10+40)[50]
Elsa - (1d10+30)[31]

Escaping_Man - (1d10+31)[34]
Villagers - (1d10+31)[38] (should they choose to act)

Jager - (1d10+36)[44]

Looks like you guys act before the escapee (except for Elsa). He has one Surprise Round of running before you get to act, so he is 12 squares/24 yards from your current position.

-Sentinel-, if you want to see what the villagers do and so on, you'd best wait for everyone to post so I can throw the GM update up. Once the order gets round to you you'll be at the start of a fairly contiguous block of PCs, so things'll be easier.

[TheSummoner]

Sieghard

It takes Sieghard a moment to register what had happened. Wolfgang had singlehandedly turned an execution into a slaughter. In the confusion, the captive had slipped away.

He takes a deep breath. One shot. If I can take him down in one shot maybe we can prevent a riot.

He lines up his shot carefully. He wasn't sure there would be another chance.

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Crossbow is already out and loaded.

Actions
Aim - Half Action
Attack - Half action.

BS is 39. -20% penalty since he's running, but +20% bonus because of aim and Sharpshooter talent... So flat 39.

Roll to hit - (1d100)[69]
Roll for damage - (1d10+4)[11]

[Sodalite]

Wolfgang

Wolfgang, under considerable duress, takes preventative measure against being put under further duress or potentially snapping in the current situation, collapses, crumpling to ground and dropping his axe, ignorant of the pool of blood he lies in and of the mob of people around, silently trying his hardest to not think about anything. His eyes close quickly, and soon all he chooses to hear is his own breathe.

[RossN]

Adelbert Schreiber

Adelbert felt like he was about to vomit. Turning away from the horrific spectacle he took deep, quick breathes trying to keep his gorge down. As he gasped for air he looked over the crowd, including the wild looking maiden and suddenly wondered if they would charge the group after all. The bandit was getting away but Adelbert had no missile weapon and looked in no condition for a run anyway with the wound in his thigh. So he limped next to Jager.

"Herr Jager," he hissed to the Duke's man. "That crowd will sweep us any moment, we should get you to a fast horse."

[C.J.Geringer]

Reading his axes to protect himself, brand inches closer to adelbert and to the back of the stage, all the while muttering.
"Great, A sadistic headsman, a mercenary, a swordsman and a charcoal burner,[sarcasm] I am SO gonna be the one to survive this, I am not out of my depth at all[/sarcasm]. Gods I miss home"

[-Sentinel-]

Elsa grinned when the prisoner ran away. Oh, she would not bet much on his chances of escaping in the long run; even if he managed to flee the village, he would be hunted down by the Duke's men, or his family would be held hostage until he turned himself in. Still, seeing people defy authority always improved her mood.

Run, run, run, mister, she prayed, moving as fast as she could through the crowd to get a better look. Then, her attention going to the crossbowman: Miss, miss, miss... YES!

And the headsman had just fainted... Jager's thugs were sure not looking professional.

Spoiler

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I'm only moving closer. Elsa is reckless, but not so reckless as to publicly help an accused murderer escape.

[LCP]

Sieghard's bolt buried itself in the hard earth, a foot or two wide of the escaping prisoner. Spitting an oath, Jager made to dash after him. Adelbert's hand brought him up short - he made to push the scribe aside, only to see six of the villagers blocking his way. Over their heads, the escaped man was receding fast, dashing away past the tavern.

The peasants remained, a stubborn roadblock, as Jager approached with menace. The crowd was flowing slowly forwards, Adelbert saw, like the tide coming in on a calm summer day. Circling around to the left and right, they had Jager and the party surrounded.

[RossN]

Adelbert Schreiber

Adelbert slid his smallsword out of its sheet, but kept the blade lowered - a sign to the locals that he was armed but had no intention of using it wildly. Moving in front of the Duke's man he cleared his throat and spoke through lips suddenly dry: "Who amongst you will speak for the village?" He glanced at the unfriendly faces and tried not to lose all colour from his face.

"Who," he repeated loudly and clearly, "will speak for you when the Duke's soldiers come to investigate? And they will come if we do not return to Alvarran. Any more blood spilled today will be repaid." He paused, again searching the crowd for anyone who looked reasonable. The villagers were angry alright but there had to be a few who knew killing five of the Duke's retainers would bring them nothing but disaster.

Swallowing he continued. "I am Adelbert Schreiber of Averland. The Duke expects me." Adelbert lied. "Shall I speak with a dead tongue... or with a life one people of Elmridge? Shall I bring news of your deeds of of your words?"

[TheSummoner]

Sieghard

Sieghard looked at crowd. His anger was more directed at Wolfgang's botched execution and his own failed shot than at them. He tried to keep it hidden.

He had never been put into a position of authority. He had no experience speaking to people from a position of power. He did, however, have a fair share of experience doing impersonations of the men who had held authority over him in the past. He did his best to immitate the way those men had spoke... And to do it far less mockingly than he ever had in the past. As Adelbert finished, be started to speak.

"The man you're allowing to escape is guilty of crimes beyond count. In the eyes of the law and the gods themselves his life is forfeit. "

He pauses, trying to gague the crowd's reaction so far.

"His guilt and the guilt of his companions has been proven beyond question. Banditry. Murder. Treason against the Duke."

"'m not a bandit... 'm a beastman."

“Einholtz was taken by the forest. De la Poeur ran away. He saw something, in the woods.”

“The forest doesn't belong to the duke.”

An idea strikes him and he reaches down for one of the beastman masks laying in the pile of bodies. He raises the mask for the crowd to see.

"Conspiring with the beasts who dwell in the dark corners of the wood and darker things besides."

If the old man had managed to sell these people his lies, maybe it could be turned in their favor.

Spoiler

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Tell me their reaction so far and depending on how it goes, I'll go from there.

[LCP]

Adelbert's words had stopped the villagers before they advanced any closer. They seemed to be listening, at least. Time spent talking was more time for their man to run.

Jager gave Sieghard a scornful look as the mercenary appealed to their sense of duty. "You think they don't know what those men were up to?" he asked. "Their wives are probably standing in this crowd here. Probably sewed those masks together for them." He spat. "They know what they did."

"You hear that man?" he shouted, raising his voice and pointing at Adelbert. The pointing finger swept out to where the fleeing man had vanished between the cottages. "You'll bring him back, or you'll all be punished! Every man jack of you! Aye, every woman too!"

The villagers stared cold, unsympathetic stares. Not one of them moved.