Choice 3. Check the merchants and peddlers for supplies?

Back stiff as a pole, he strode away to see what they were selling, the gods alone knew he needed to clear his head, and besides that, he hadn't eaten anything in a long while. Nevermind that he wanted to turn back and scowl at them. He was Gregor! and he would not be mocked!

Mind churning with that thought, he barely noticed he was more than halfway there to the wagons, when a scuffle broke out in the middle of the crowd, and guards rushed in to break it apart. The fight that seemed to have been ignited by hired thugs carrying halberds, quieted for the moment as an old orc scrambled away with a bleeding forehead towards Gregor.

Lips peeled back into a snarl at the sight of armed trolls with those disgusting faces made from wood, and skin made of bark, Gregor half stepped forward to make some tinder, when the old man grabbed his arm. "Now, now, son. There's no need for fighting here, truly I am fine. Violence is never the way as I tell, my boy Garum."

Eyes still on the crowd that tried to avoid the trolls with equal parts success and failure, Gregor growled, "what happened?" The dozen or so guards that had come to deal with the problem, eventually forced to pull back, and deal with another situation.

Skin pinched dark around the eyes, the wrinkled old orc that had to be over a hundred summers with grey hair, and tuffets of white bristles from his ears and nose, smiled sadly. "I simply wished to know why their prices were so high. Most of the goods here were bought from these people not too long ago, and now they are being sold for three times the price."

Not exactly surprised given these times of war, but he doubted most people here could afford such prices, including himself.

(Requisition the supplies.)

Hand brushing aside the orc gently so as to not knock him over, Gregor charged forward, a part of him more than willing enough to chop up a few trolls who had plagued every country in the north with near constant raids. The pricks more than deserved to be kindling for a fire, but that's not exactly the reason why he chose to interfere. Since his time in the Battleguard, Gregor had seen what hunger could do to a people, and he never wished to see that again.

Hand already on the hilt of his longsword, he thrust his way through the mass of bodies, his nostrils filled with the stench of sweat, and smoke, until finally he broke free of the crowd, and into a wide-open space reserved for a single wagon. The barrels and bags of grain that overtopped it, packed to the brim, and guarded by four huge hulking trolls that wore nothing at all, not that they needed to wear anything, even if they were disgusting trolls.

Flame-colored eyes chiseled into hollows in their eye sockets, they glowered down at Gregor, while hidden behind them was a weasley young man with greasy hair, and dark inquisitive eyes.

"Welcome, my friend, welcome, please come a little closer, and take a look at my wares. I offer the best potions this side of the Great Divide. I also offer special prices for beer and grain, recently shipped in from the south."

Steel gaze meeting steel gaze, Gregor smiled up at the treeman, and wondered not for the first time if the thick-headed idiots felt pain? Perhaps if he set them alight he would hear them scream, just like the thousands of families that had been forced to flee their homes near Tarstone.

Faces cracked into wooden smirks at the sight of the sword at his hip, Gregor knew all too well how difficult it would be to hurt them seriously, especially with a blade. To be honest he wouldn't have minded having a bit of magic right now.

Without turning away from the troll guards, Gregor grunted, "I am here to requisition these supplies on behalf of the Legion."

Dark eyes widened in surprise, the thin-faced man yelped, "by whose order?!"

(Reply, me.)

"Me."

Expression darkened into a scowl at that, the man snapped, "kill him."

When the trolls came at Gregor with halberds, strange weapons, forged with wide steel cleavers melded into the top half of thick shafted spears.

Sword blocking thrusts meant to tear his belly open, Gregor spun about, and forward under their slow creaky swings, and began hacking away at their tree trunks. His strokes, hammering chips of bark into the air as the trolls growled and attacked furiously, flame-colored eyes flaring bright with rage.

Movements too quick for them, he came full circle to stop from being surrounded, ducked a swing for his head, and chopped off a toe with a clean stroke that left one of them unbalanced. But between dodging to avoid their strikes, and trying to put some power in his cuts, Gregor realized he was slowing down, and had to do something.

(Create a riot.)

Heart almost in his throat, he deflected more hacking thrusts, and threw himself into a roll towards the wagon, did his best to avoid a scything cut over his head, and saw the merchant's startled blue eyes widen open in disbelief, when he hammered his sword into the thick round wheel. The already heavily burdened wagon, needing no more as it cracked and splintered apart, spilling its contents on the brown brick road.

Eyes darting left and right, he could see the fear and hunger on the people's faces, and before the trolls could do anything, they were swarmed from all sides by farmers, shepherds, and miners. The panicked screams of the merchant, lost in the hubbub as people fought each other for bags of grains. It was quite the chaotic scene, and Gregor who was caught in the middle of it had to fight his way free of the chaos, before the guards came in force to break it apart, and Gregor was brought before the Commander.

Eyes red-rimmed with exhaustion, the dwarf looked up at Gregor from his desk, his expression a thundercloud of repressed fury as he threw back his chair, and tossed the sheet of parchment down before him. "That is a signed and sealed letter from the merchant's guild demanding your execution, and believe me, boy! I am sourly tempted to give it to them. I could have swept aside the use of violence, but the loss of those wagons will mean that many mouths will go hungry, which I assume is what you tried to stop. Well it looks like you have failed."

Eyes frostier than an avalanche, he paused and scowled up at Gregor, before releasing another heavy sigh, "unfortunately with war on the horizon, I cannot afford to lose anyone, even a gold-hungry pukedrinker like you. So for now, you will purge yourself in the crucible, and pay its price. Live, and I will consider that punishment enough."

Handed a steel circlet from a youthful elf he hadn't seen come in, Gregor looked down at the twisted piece of metal, when it transformed into liquid, and wrapped itself around his wrist.

No way to remove it, he grunted, swore, and opened his mouth to demand he be freed, when the pain came, and all he could think of was, do not die, not yet. (You've gained your first infraction, break the law again, and you will be forced to pay a fine of 100 Gold Pieces. If you're unable to afford such a fine, you will be summarily executed for failure to obey.)

-5 HP.

Move onto the next Scenario.

(Threaten the merchant.)

Heart almost in his throat, he deflected more hacking thrusts, and threw himself into a roll towards the wagon, did his best to avoid a scything cut over his head, and saw the merchant's startled blue eyes widen open in disbelief, when Gregor spun on his heels to hold the sword's edge to his throat. "Now, let us talk about prices, shall we?"

Head nodded enthusiastically, Gregor explained what would happen, and once he was satisfied the man had wet his pants enough, he took off one of his fingers as a reminder and keepsake. (In light of your recent aid to the Legion, this matter will be overlooked, so long as it does not happen again.)

+2 Morale.

Move onto the next Scenario.

(Kill the merchant.)

Heart almost in his throat, he deflected more hacking thrusts, and threw himself into a roll towards the wagon, did his best to avoid a scything cut over his head, saw the merchant's startled blue eyes, and slashed open his throat. But if Gregor thought the fight would end there, he was sadly surprised as the trolls came on, and voices lifted up to shout murderer.

Cold steel ripped through his forearm, he began to wonder if he had bitten off more than he could chew, when he was surrounded by hard-eyed guards that showed no mercy.

Steel rang on steel, he frantically tried to fight, but as shields locked up around him, he was cut again and again, battered from side to side, until an arrow hit him square in the chest.

Even then he kept fighting, swinging his sword, when more blades entered his flesh, and he fell.

Death

(Reply, by Commander Thoradar.)

"By Lord Captain Commander Thoradar."

Expression darkened into a scowl, the man snapped, "liar! I spoke to the Commander and he said nothing of this to me!"

The trolls who needed no orders to attack, came at Gregor with halberds, strange weapons, forged with wide steel cleavers melded into the top half of thick shafted spears.

Sword blocking thrusts meant to tear his belly open, Gregor spun about, and forward under their slow creaky swings, and began hacking away at their tree trunks. His strokes, hammering chips of bark into the air as the trolls growled and attacked furiously, flame-colored eyes flaring bright with rage.

Movements too quick for them, he came full circle to stop from being surrounded, ducked a swing for his head, and chopped off a toe with a clean stroke that left one of them unbalanced. But between dodging to avoid their strikes, and trying to put some power in his cuts, Gregor realized he was slowing down, and had to do something.

(Create a riot.)

Heart almost in his throat, he deflected more hacking thrusts, and threw himself into a roll towards the wagon, did his best to avoid a scything cut over his head, and saw the merchant's startled blue eyes widen open in disbelief, when he hammered his sword into the thick round wheel. The already heavily burdened wagon, needing no more as it cracked and splintered apart, spilling its contents on the brown brick road.

Eyes darting left and right, he could see the fear and hunger on the people's faces, and before the trolls could do anything, they were swarmed from all sides by farmers, shepherds, and miners. The panicked screams of the merchant, lost in the hubbub as people fought each other for bags of grains. It was quite the chaotic scene, and Gregor who was caught in the middle of it had to fight his way free of the chaos, before the guards came in force to break it apart, and Gregor was brought before the Commander.

Eyes red-rimmed with exhaustion, the dwarf looked up at Gregor from his desk, his expression a thundercloud of repressed fury as he threw back his chair, and tossed the sheet of parchment down before him. "That is a signed and sealed letter from the merchant's guild demanding your execution, and believe me, boy! I am sourly tempted to give it to them. I could have swept aside the use of violence, but the loss of those wagons will mean that many mouths will go hungry, which I assume is what you tried to stop. Well it looks like you have failed."

Eyes frostier than an avalanche, he paused and scowled up at Gregor, before releasing another heavy sigh, "unfortunately with war on the horizon, I cannot afford to lose anyone, even a gold-hungry pukedrinker like you. So for now, you will purge yourself in the crucible, and pay its price. Live, and I will consider that punishment enough."

Handed a steel circlet from a youthful elf he hadn't seen come in, Gregor looked down at the twisted piece of metal, when it transformed into liquid, and wrapped itself around his wrist.

No way to remove it, he grunted, swore, and opened his mouth to demand he be freed, when the pain came, and all he could think of was, do not die, not yet. (You've gained your first infraction, break the law again, and you will be forced to pay a fine of 100 Gold Pieces. If you're unable to afford such a fine, you will be summarily executed for failure to obey.)

-5 HP.

Move onto the next Scenario.

(Threaten the merchant.)

Heart almost in his throat, he deflected more hacking thrusts, and threw himself into a roll towards the wagon, did his best to avoid a scything cut over his head, and saw the merchant's startled blue eyes widen open in disbelief, when Gregor spun on his heels to hold the sword's edge to his throat. "Now, let us talk about prices, shall we?"

Head nodded enthusiastically, Gregor explained what would happen, and once he was satisfied the man had wet his pants enough, he took off one of his fingers as a reminder and keepsake. (In light of your recent aid to the Legion, this matter will be overlooked, so long as it does not happen again.)

+2 Morale.

Move onto the next Scenario.

(Kill the merchant.)

Heart almost in his throat, he deflected more hacking thrusts, and threw himself into a roll towards the wagon, did his best to avoid a scything cut over his head, saw the merchant's startled blue eyes, and slashed open his throat. But if Gregor thought the fight would end there, he was sadly surprised as the trolls came on, and voices lifted up to shout murderer.

Cold steel ripped through his forearm, he began to wonder if he had bitten off more than he could chew, when he was surrounded by hard-eyed guards that showed no mercy.

Steel rang on steel, he frantically tried to fight, but as shields locked up around him, he was cut again and again, battered from side to side, until an arrow hit him square in the chest.

Even then he kept fighting, swinging his sword, when more blades entered his flesh, and he fell.

Death

(Say nothing.)

Letting his gaze speak for itself, Gregor said nothing but simply stared into the man, his eyes boreing holes into him, imaging every possible way to kill him. The quiver of his chin, and twitch of his upper lip, making the young man very much aware that Gregor was close. Close enough that should Gregor wish it, he could reach out and touch him.

It was a trick, he had learned long ago, one that showed the man everything that could happen to him, while doing nothing to him at all. The mind, a wonderful tool that created fanciful distortions, until they convinced themselves that they should be afraid, even though the merchant had hired trolls all around him.

Sweat beaded on his brow, the man, finally gasped, "I must, I must speak to the Commander," and hurriedly walked away.

It wasn't exactly the result Gregor wanted, but it had to be enough, else this could get really bloody, and besides this was Thoradar's problem now.

+2 Morale.

Move onto the next Scenario.

(Let it be and purchase supplies.)

With no real interest in getting involved, he gently brushed the orc aside, and walked over towards the wagon, a part of him more than willing enough to chop up a few trolls, but he had more pressing business in mind.

Hand on the hilt of his longsword by habit if anything else, he thrust his way through the crowd of orcs, when finally he broke free into a wide-open space reserved for a single wagon. The barrels and bags of grain that overtopped the large wooden cart, packed to the brim, and guarded by four huge hulking trolls in nothing but their bare skins, the treemen as they were called, had flame-colored eyes chiseled into hollows of their eye sockets, the human peddler hidden behind them, a weasley young man with greasy black hair, and dark inquisitive eyes.

"Welcome, my friend, welcome, please come a little closer, and take a look at my wares. I offer the best potions on this side of the Great Divide. I also offer special prices for beer and grain, recently shipped in from the south."

Half smiling at the blatant lie, Gregor replied, "show me," and watched the man pull out jars full of powders, and vials that he set before him on the wagon bed.

At a quick inquiry, he learned each potion costs 5 gold pieces. (Each potion or powder restores 2 HP.)

Move onto the next Scenario.