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I. The Sabots-Gonne
"The city, man's work, God's playground."
A black-lunged poet.

A round, another of the strange kind, whose is a dart of brass sound narrow, the wad-cup a stiff niter paper, we load in fore. Nay, not a cannon. A narrow gun before the parapet, whose breech blows out into a horn and a plug. Meant for the the wall, yet for the willing, capable of shoulder.
"Vogt?" you say.
The vogt nods in turn, leveling the rod before the muzzle, packing it in. He tells me, chin at the gun, "Master. If you do this, the world will know. That you, a mere lordling, can fell goliath or dragon."
It is the 1462nd year of our Lord, many an age since the fall of Italy to the Goths. To us. Yea, I am a prince, a free-lord of the Empire, just a shy east of the Friesisk. I hold no more than a manor and to whom the villages I owe protection, and they in kind tithe and corvee labor. The servile know me less, only the mayors, though the village smith and miller know me more.
The vogt, sufficed with the ledgers of mayors and arriving to tell me new, was but a ride's too late. He tryed warning me of this so-called-bladders-dragon, yet stomachs prove faster than pony.
In front of me, hangs a cruel basket which floats in the air, whose balloon measures like a ox's bladder hundredfold over. From the carrier, a knave levels his six-barrels-gonne, pointing its hollows before us, the slow-match casting embers well into the overcast.
"Prithee!" the knave cries out. "Owe your kind regards, release the grain, and I may spare you of my wrathe!"

What must I do?
>roll 1d20 (averages of first 3, bell curve, intervals of three from check determine extremity, double-crits override, single-crits dont)
>let loose the dread sabots-gonne, whose justice sounds louder than a cloud's thunder; DC 12
>relent, release the grain, breeches soiled; DC 10
>or, other? specify well, lest the unsaid purchase your soul.

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#1552

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