Heretic: A Mork Borg Solo Campaign - Urvarg (but not Urvarg)
Welcome back to the Pox Scarred Squalor. We are finally ready to dive head first into the grimmy streats of Galgenbeck. Will we come up for air? Probably not.
Be sure to check out the campaign set up here!
We will be going through the point of view of Urvarg (but not Urvarg).
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My name is Urvarg, but I am not Urvarg. Do you understand?
Who was Urvarg? That doesn't matter. I am Urvarg now, you see. Why am I Urvarg? Now, that is the question. A question I am not yet ready to answer. I’ll make you a bet. If I survive this year, if we all survive this year, I'll tell you all I know and why I've done what I've done. Do you accept the wager? Good.
 |
| Urvarg but not Urvarg, do yo understand? |
But I am here in Galgenbeck, the greatest city that ever was or will be. Have you seen it? The great city? The spires? The warehouses? The slums? The gutters? If you had, you could not forget. My reasons for being in Galgenbeck are my own, you see.
I tap my pouch of silver coins, a good amount to be sure. But not enough, not nearly enough for what I need. What do I need? That is for me to know, you see.
The guards at the city gates were happy to let me enter for the standard fee of 1 silver but kept asking questions.
Check - Presence DR12 - 8-2=6, Fail.
Where my words failed, a bribe of 4 extra silver succeeded, and I was allowed entry into the greatest city that ever will be, minus 5 silver.
After entering the city, I headed straight to the Offal. That’s the district for cast-offs and those who aren't wanted. There they are abused, exploited, robbed, and scammed of any remaining value they have. These are Urvarg’s people, you understand? I go to the first tavern (a generous term for a dilapidated shithole that's a danger to everyone inside). The beer is watery and terrible but sold by the bucket (seriously). Rooms go for 1 silver. Throw food and beer into it, and it’s 2 silver. I pay the barkeep and grab a bucket.
The barkeep, a thoroughly unpleasant beast of a man named Gotven, engages me in conversation. I instantly spot him trying to scope me out as a mark. Had he thought me an easy mark, I’d have my throat slit by sundown, my blood sold to the alchemist, my flesh to the soup maker, my clothes to the general stores, my teeth to the… Well, you understand.
I am not an easy mark, as the flail on my belt attests to. Crime recognizes crime.
“Friend,” I say to Gotven, “I need to make coin. Not a few coins, but many. More than cutting a throat or robbing a store can bring. I don’t care how dangerous or how risky. I just need the coin.”
He raises an eyebrow and holds out his hand. Nothing is free in Galgenbeck. Not even information. I pass over a silver. But his hand stays open. Another and it stays open still. A third and it closes.
“Aye. Anyone willing to split heads can make coin in Galgenbeck. I can’t say you will live long, but you’ll die with a full coin purse. Go speak to the Inquisition.”
I laugh hard, letting beer spill down my face, “The Inquisition? I should stop drinking this beer. It clearly makes people mad.”
“This is no laughing matter. The Inquisition pays good silver, and they are always looking for new willing people.”
“What’s the job? Burning villages or villagers?”
“Something like that. Look, do I look like the bloody Inquisition? Go ask them. Now, do you need a fresh bucket or can you get stuffed?”
I take the bucket and find a game of knucklebones.
Urvarg, not Urvarg, must gamble every day. I’ll do a simple D6. 1-3 means he lost 1 to 3 silver. 4-6 means he won 1-3 silver. I roll a 5, he gains 2 silver.
The bones are with me tonight. I sleep well, albeit with my back leaned against the door to my dirty room.
One day has passed. Time to roll on the Calendar of Nechrubel. I’m not sure the timeline I want this campaign to unfold in, so I’ll use a D10. If roll a 1, a prophecy is fulfilled. A 4. Nothing this time.
I wake and leave my room just in time to watch Gotven cart away some poor sod. Gotven shrugs at me as we make eye contact, and I clear the hallway for them to do their business.
I make my way out of the Offal and walk to the Spire district. Named so for the sheer number of cathedrals and churches. In my walk, I see signs from the Inquisition, asking for the young, the strong, and the violent to make their way to the Spire for work and coin. What could these fanatics want done that pays so well?
A priest stands outside a cathedral. He points at me, “You, young man with violence in your eyes. Need silver? We’ve got it for those willing to take up arms against the great foes of Nechrubel the wise, Nechrubel the never wrong, Nechrubel the…”
“Yes, yes, I get it. What’s this job then?”
“Step inside, my child, and you will learn.”
This all sounds dodgy as hell. Likely, this will be the end for Urvarg (that’s me now, you know this?). I step into the Cathedral and stare in wonder. Gold, silver, precious gems. Just one candlestick is enough to buy a shire worth of farmland, but those outside the Spire district starve. That’s religion for you.
I also notice hard men staring at me. Heavily armored, crossbows, swords, axes, etc. I guess that candlestick will have to stay there. What a shame, I could have put that to good use.
The priest I spoke with leads me to the back of the Cathedral. Even though he is dressed simply in brown robes, I smell the sickly sweet perfume on him. Expensive stuff. And his shoes, doe leather, not cheap. Must be good to be a priest.
Past all the glittering, the gold, and the gems, we go to a back room. Dark, lit only by a single torch. There stand a couple of others and a map of Galgenbeck. The priest stands in the back, and a richly adorned bishop steps forward.
“My dear flock, troubled times are with us.” His many chains of gold and silver jingle as he speaks. “While most people rightfully believe in Nechrubel as the one true prophet, and the Basilisks, the two and four, as the true messengers, there are undercurrents of heresy in this city. Yes! Even in this holy city.”
I roll my eyes. When the gods appear, people stop thinking. Still, I need the coin.
The bishop continues, “You, the faithful, we entrust our future into your hands. Go into the dark corners of this great city, and cut this cancer out! These heretics are like rats, you see. They crawl into the deepest, darkest corners and procreate, spreading their vile message. If you don’t stop them early, they won’t be stopped.”
A brute of a man steps forward, his sharpened teeth sticking out of his mouth. I notice grey hair and wrinkles under the grime, an older man. “What do we get paid for this? We kill for coin, and coin only.” His teeth make him somewhat hard to understand, but that’s the gist, I think.
“Ahhh, yes, my child. We understand what you do is dangerous and you will be compensated for this. Each heretic head you bring, we will show our gratitude by paying you 30 silver. I trust that is sufficient?”
30 silver per head? That’s a month’s wages. Something tells me we will have the opportunity to nab quite a number of heads.
Another person steps forward, this one wearing dark leather armor and holding, I kid you not, a shepherd's crook. “How are these people heretics? What proof do you have of this?”
The Bishop quickly changes from a business-like demeanor to one of anger. “They are heretics because The Church of Nechrubel says they are! You are quite lucky, Berun, that we need your assistance badly, or you’d be the one being hunted down.”
I can see the one called Berun’s knuckles go white as he grips his shepherd’s crook with all his strength. Still, he says nothing.
The room is quiet for a bit after that. Until I say, “Right boss, where do we start?”
That’s the first chapter of "Heretic: A Pox-Scarred Squalor Story." Be sure to tune in next week for the following installment.
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