S1: E17 "The Spring-Heeled Trap"

Earlier that Evening...

Thaddeus Turnball was blowing off more steam than a demon on a Sunday. The Orc was pacing back and forth in front of the soot-stained hearth in the back room of the Red Brick. His face was contorted into a dozen difference expressions as his thoughts flowed onto his face, a condition which did not much improve his loutish features. 

The gin house was a favorite of cabbies and servants of the middling and upper class which clung desperately to the title of Gentry by their fingernails. From maid to butler, each gossiped and shared the latest news. It was such news that had Thaddeus grinding his canines and huffing angrily to himself. His three friends, fellow orcs and laborers in the poorer districts of Newhaven, had informed him of the "clean-nailed snoopers" who had been asking about him. 

"It's no coincidence, maggots." Turnball said suddenly grinding peanut shells beneath his boots. He turned halfway, his hands behind his back like some important man of leisure. "Them copper-cards must be working with those extorters."

Lefty shrugged and stared into the drags of his gin mug. Ormus stifled a yawn and Bowyer examined his reflection in the polished surface of his butcher knife. Turnball had an infamous temper and was quick to rash action. This was not a surprise to his mates. There was nothing mild about Turnball. The only thing that set him apart in their little tribe was the fact he could handle himself. They had come up together through the bowery, worked the steel, cut coal and drank their share of gin together. They had also been in their fair share of scrapes, watching each other's backs when it counted. Somehow, even after Turnball had gotten "sophistication" and "moved up" they somehow found themselves rekindling old memories over a glass of gin back in Low Park.

"Endive's Face, T'ball." Lefty said, his gin-fused vowels crashing into each other. "They was just a couple of sniffs. They don't even know'er name."

Thaddeus cast a baleful gaze upon his compatriot. "Mark my words; they will know me soon enough."

"Now, Thad, don't do nothing crazy." Ormus said in his deep, even-keeled voice. Dust from the mines had reduced a once rich voice to a chalky, rasping reminder of the darkest years of their lives. "Lefty is right. No good comes from blowing air up a chimney. You need to keep yer head down and ride low."

"And let them copper-cards pick me out of a line-up." Thaddeus spat onto the ground and ground the moisture under his boot. "There is no way in Hells shall I be found without a knife in my hand. I shall strike first before they find me out."

The three orcs exchanged uncomfortable glances. Thaddeus cursed. "Cowards."

Bowyer stopped staring at his knife and stood, his chair scraping across the floorboards with a sudden squeak. "By Marron's Beard! No man or maggot has called me a coward and sucked air through his throat again!" Bowyer leapt forward, the cleaver flashing in the yellow light. There might have been any number of dead orcs if Lefty, gin mug in hand, had not smashed the potshard over Bowyer's head and sent him sprawling into a nearby table. A warning growl from Lefty caused Thaddeus to hesitate as he reached for the Colt Merlin which he kept on his hip. Ormus helped Bowyer into a chair as Lefty picked up the cleaver from the floor and weighed the blade in his hand. "Words been said. But bonds'o'blood are stronger than words."

Thaddeus' arms returned to his side, empty handed. He turned and extended out an open palm to Ormus, who, rubbing the side of his head, struck hands with his friend. "Brothers." They echoed before returning to nurse their individual grudges.

"If we be brothers, Lefty," Thaddeus said casually, "then you'll see that they mean me harm. Nay, the day a brother turns his back on his kin will be a cold day in the Hells."

Lefty nodded. "I just don't see us a'killin' them to be kip."

"Then how 'bout I sweeten the pot." He reached into his coat pocket and set a mottled handkerchief on the table. He released the knot and something golden spilled out.

Ormus let out a raspy whistle and stepped appreciatively towards the loot. "Blood money for a head."

"Two heads," Thaddeus corrected. "I want the two extorters dealt with. Cuts the throat and slit the wrists. Get a few boys if you need to make sure the job is done right. They will regret the day they crossed Thaddeus Turnball."

On Dolly Ln & Peckam St.

As the group of adventurers had returned to the sceneof the crime, and laid their ambush, the moon had pulled up high in the sky, stars shimmered behind patchy clouds and the shadows deepened on the cobbled streets.

In all, there was a good many people who had joined this expedition. Two aging butlers, a mute gardener and two soldiers. The plan was to have Lindion, sloppily disguised as an aristocrat who wanted to conceal herself, walk a circle of Dolly Ln and Peckam St in order to get spotted by the Spring-Heeled Jacks gang. The rest of the group had taken up positions on either road as spotters. Bloomberry, Sara's butler was on one alley exiting on Peckam St. Thomas and Joe, the mute gardener, were on the other end of the alley overlooking Dolly Ln. Philip, Lindion's butler, was in a larger alley across from Thomas. Yuko and her two soldiers were waiting on a street adjacent to Dolly Ln waiting to rush upon the gang if given a signal, such as a pistol shot or a cry for help. Sara was disguised as a poor street woman, occupied with such menial jobs and tasks as to make her indiscernible from the great masses of lower-class citizens of Newhaven. The only other people on the street was a laborer patching some cobble, a few tramps calling to passersby and a few loafers, presumably keeping an eye on corners and prospects that belonged to them.

If I was a gambling man, I might have thought this inexperienced group of interlopers stood a five-to-one chance of actually succeeding by some miracle of the Fates. But the principal word here is experience; a quality which they displayed admirably in the following events. If Ed was not beating his way towards Lindion's home in hopes of some assistance finding Turnball and Yuko was about to be a little distracted.

Sara moved up the street before the others, noting a light in the window of the butcher shop. Someone was staying late. Her plan was to get up on the roof for a look around. She attracted the attention of a cliche man with bulging arms, a respectable mustache and a receding hairline, which he kept very short. Sara used her innocent looks and quick talking to sway the butcher. She told of her woes -the son who lost his kite on the roof of the building and her husband who talked more with his fists then his lips. She needed a bit of meat for her husband before he returned from work and to retrieve the kite for her son who was beside himself. The Butcher was a family man himself and quite understood. He had children of his own. They each presented their own unique challenge. Especially his daughter with the golden-blue eyes. But perhaps more than that was the description of her husband. As he let her go up to the roof, a few thoughts about slipping a carving knife into her meat package, but he dismissed this. He might not understand what was going on. Maybe he misjudged the situation. But it made him quite angry thinking this poor woman would return to such poor specimen of humanity. Sara might have appreciated these thoughts, if she was not already on top of the roof, waiting for whatever was supposed to happen next.

Down in the street as Thomas was smoking his pipe and trying to look inconspicuous, a young dwarven dollymop approached him. Her name was Hettie Trask. She was a beautiful girl, with rounder features of the dwarves, shorter stature and a slightly shorter 3rd finger which had been cut off. Hettie worked in the factories during the day, prowled a corner at night and sent every spare shilling she didn't need for food back to her poor mum and younger brother. Her mother thought it was from Hettie's good uptown job. Hettie was too stubborn to admit to her family she plied the oldest trade in existence. Nor was she particularly proud of this fact either. But it kept food on the table since her father had offed himself with a pistol and decided he'd had enough of life in the Rookery.

Hettie had also fallen in with the Spring-Heeled Jacks. She spotted potential targets for them, signaled a runner who then brought the whole gang bearing down on its next victim. It felt like justice in a way. The rich had taken everything good from them. They had taken the house when the debts piled too high. They had taken her father. And certain members of the Gentry had taken her innocence as well. She had coin from them, but it felt like a mockery. Like throwing scraps down from their lofty table for the "pleasure" of her company, only to discard her like a dirty napkin when they had finished with her. 

But Thomas was different. As she talked with him, enjoying the first real tobacco she had had in over a month, she knew that he wasn't like the others. She would have wagered he worked for a living, given the condition of his fingernails and his shoes. Everything was worn slightly at the knees and elbows, like a man accustomed to labor. She might not have minded his company on a cold evening. He wasn't exactly hard on the eyes. Maybe even more because he seemed put off by what her perceived as advances. That's why the contract on his head was strange. Had misfortune befallen him as well? Had he made enemies? She pushed it down inside like she did with everything else and focused on the job. Her role was easy enough. Lure the blighter out into the street where one of the lads could nick him with his rifle. It worked too. She looked back when the shot rang through the street. She had noted the woman who lay in the street. She had noticed her trying to conceal her fine dress, probably on the way to another art of town to meet a forbidden lover. Maybe she was the mistress. It didn't matter now. She had been hit. Thomas was alarmed, running to the woman's aid. A gentleman then. She would remember him if their paths met again. Though he would probably ring her neck. As the lads ran into the street to finish the job, Hettie beat a quick retreat, hoping in her heart the poor man would die quickly and relatively painless death. There was mercy in that.

If Hettie had stayed around longer, she would have known that Thomas did not die. Since the others were not actual targets, Thomas and Roku were the only ones in any real danger. Even though Lindion had taken the bullet, her corset had saved her from the worst of it. She had seen the bullet strike Thomas just seconds before she warned him, taking the shot instead. As the chaos broke through, everyone scattered like rats from a sinking ship as the sharks descended upon fresh blood. Several Orcs found Roku where he had been rummaging through a trash bin. He threw a grenade at them, the explosion turning several crates into burning matchwood. The orcs managed to jump clear, but the renewed their attack, Roku only managed to scramble from the suit into the night as a gang of raccoons flee an angry squire protecting his domicile. The orc stared down at the empty suit in complete amazement.

Meanwhile, a large ogre and several humans had barreled up the alley where Thomas had been previously. Bloomberry fled when he saw the superior forces, attempting to find his mistress, Sara. Lindion and Thomas fled back towards Philip as the orcs bore down from the direction of the meat shop. It was then that the gang emerged, the ogre carrying the writhing form of Joe. With growing means of escape vanishing, Lindion locked eyes with Joe. She signed a quick message to him letting him know she would return for him. His only reply was the sign for "Sorry" and pleading eyes. Lindion panicked and fled up the alley with Philip, leaving poor Thomas to fend for himself. 

I've always thought that Fate had taken a particular interest in young Thomas. The odds were stacked against him, and he was about to be chopped up and thrown into the river. But Thomas thrived in difficult situations. Using a superior intellect (the bar was not high considering present company) he reasoned that he was a many of station and was worth more to his would-be assassins alive then dead. This caused the orcs especially to stop and think. They had, of course, already been paid. But perhaps they could squeeze a few more coins out of this chap before they murdered him. Turnball had not been specific on this point. He wanted them dead. But who said it couldn't be in a few days? Also, they would need to find the raccoons which had escaped. Realizing they had the upper hand, with Joe tightly in hand and superior numbers, they saw no harm in this change of course. 

Meanwhile, Sara had landed atop the building opposite where she had supposed the rifleman was stationed. She climbed down the stairway, only to be rejoined by Bloomberry. The rifleman was gone. But the other assassins had captured Thomas and the young boy. Nobody else was seen. Sara and Bloomberry concealed themselves and watched as the prisoner was marched up the street and down a narrow sideroad. Sara followed with her trusty butler and her wits backing her up.

They walked through several lanes of the Rookery, until they reached a large abandoned factory. They pushed through a broken picket fence and went inside where a lamp was lit. As Sara contemplated her next move, something else unexpected and inopportune had taken place just moments before the nearly fatal rifle shot...

Expedition! Issue 1: "Redsmith: Levees and Sunshades"

"Everyone who visits our humble hamlet says, 'Damn, look at those huge sunshades.' It's what we are known for; big dams and big umbrellas."

History

Amidst the rolling hills and luscious valleys of High Moor, the sprawling town of Redsmith emerges like a lighthouse on a foggy coast. I rode the Barrow Unlimited, marveling at the ghostly beauty of the Greenwood looming low across the horizon, the glistening Serberis River snaking its way into the rocky hills of Longsaddle and the Griffon's Nest. The last leg of the journey bears witness to the threads of civilization before you draw into the station at Redsmith. Large culverts trickle with a steady stream of water down into large reservoirs where it flows out to irrigate crops which are so precious. Barns, silos and hundreds of miles of farmland begin to encroach ever further across the prairie. It acruences into a dark bustling smudge against the blinding wall of ice, which is the Shaar, Redsmith is a story of impossible odds and man's ingenuity. 

The city of Redsmith is so named after Jeremiah Redsmith, a dwarf who invented a new plowing system which cut through the thick clay which dominated this part of the Moors. The rolling grasslands look deceptively fertile. However, the region is sandwiched in between two mountain ranges, far from natural water and constantly struggling with extreme seasons and hard, rocky soil. A farmhand once told me that if "the rain don't drown you, the sun will dry you out. And if they fail, the ground will surely break your back." 

Before the farming revolution, the town was nothing more than a small settlement for merchants and travelers on their way to Harland and Isham. The steam powered Redsmith plough was instrumental in tilling the hard, albeit rich soil and planting crops. Once the plants took root, Redsmith began constructing huge “rain-mills” which collected the brutal rain and kept the ground irrigated, especially during the hot summers. You will inevitably stumble upon these strange inventions in the middle of fields and throughout the region. Soil has been replaced with sharply angled metal, bricks and mortar and other even the baked clay which collect the rain, channel it down into reservoirs in the form of pools or aqua chambers. Pumps and gravity do the rest, watering crops and flowing through boilers for the public consumption. A modern marvel to be sure.

As you can imagine, other prospectors and inventors began filled the rapidly growing city and expanding the limits of what was thought possible. Guildmen and inventors began to build “levees” which protected the city from landslides, protected crops with “sunshades” and managed to rotate crops so they survived year after year. It was not before a full 5 years had passed that the newly formed city nominated Jeremiah as its first mayor, chartered the city under the protection of Newhaven and supplied the city with a great deal of its food and crops. Jeremiah died a rich and well-respected man among his own kin and many of the guilds. The technology was sold to nearby cities and used to forge new devices by many reclaimers who pushed back against the corruption of the Tortured Lands.

Despite its large population, the city remains humble at its roots. Buildings are simple, life flows with the seasons and both man and beast rise and fall with the sun. Generations raise their young to work the land and leave their mark in the stones and notched into the sides of their homes. 

Factions

The Newhaven Charter has given the city legitimacy among the other cities of High Moor, thus attracting many prominent names and organizations. Many guilds have houses there to represent their interests, but it is limited in presence given how far flung each community lies from most civilization. Obviously, labor, agriculture and engineering guilds are the most prominent. Much commerce takes place here as many merchants, soldiers and travelers pass through this area on their way to other cities.

Religion

The faith of the Aluminat is officially recognized in the city and among its denizens. But as most small rural towns go, many of the peoples carry totems, relics and scrips of the old gods. Its just for good luck.

Law and Crime

The Order of the Forever Empress has several detachments of soldiers stationed in Redsmith and aid the local Constabulary, known as Redsmith Agents, in keeping the peace. Murders are rare, angry brawls and land disputes frequent. There are a few feuding families and rivalries, but generally roaming monsters are a more frequent cause for trouble. 

Scuttlebutt

Raids: Once a rare sight, nightstalkers creep out amongst the shadows, plunder and kill, and then return to the sanctuary of the Scrimshaw Ridge. Though there are mixed reports as to the nature of these aberrations, local farmers, a handful of dogs and other beasts have been found dead the next morning, viciously mutilated. Stories of foul creatures of the dark are whispered across pints and over a shared campfire. Stories about Old-Boney...

Secret Invention: Rumors are circulating about a strange inventor who is on the brink of a major discovery.

Collapsed Deep: An ancient structure from the old world lies in ruins in northwest of Redsmith. Explorers have gone to delve the old structure. Some never returned. Others came back...changed.