The Beer Seller & The Bierkellar

Written by Luke Gearing & Dan Boyle

Somewhere in your Smoke…

A Wall runs through the city. The Wall is older than the buildings around it. Many lean against it like drunks, breath foul, eager to explain. Dogs piss on it. People piss on it. Within the Wall, rooms have been built over unknown centuries.

On one side of the wall, a district of the poor. At the ground level, a sign reads “The Beer Seller”, swinging above the thick wooden door. Above it, facing out the opposite side, towards clean streets and cleaner people, is the “Bierkellar”, known for its well-heeled clientele.

Both serve as a front, run by the same gang of criminals. Adjoining these drinking-houses are the secure rooms used to store illicit goods. Each item has a name, and each name a place in the ledger. As the names change, so does money change hands - with a consideration for the rental of space, of course.

Below all this, an entrance to the Midden. 6s to pass through one way.

The Beer Seller.

Clients pay 5s on entry, and nothing for the weak brew sold within. The air is thick with smoke, tall chairless tables emerging in the gloom like some heretofore unknown species of mushroom that mimics wood.

Through the smoke moves an unlikely pair. The first, clean-shaven still, eyes small, recites silent prayers. Brother Hunckyl, he ferries instructions to the back rooms, where the hidden market operates. He delivers the money - carrying 1d100s at any time. With him, carrying a huge pitcher of ale, is his putterer. She has forgone her names and titles, insisting all call her Samantha. They still call her Lady Sam. Both carry Mint Shivs. Brother Hunckyl knows how to use his.

Both expertly step over Berthold the Beerhound, the slumbering behemoth of the breweries. The dog appears to sleep, pacified by the tobacco smoke and copious puddles of beer. There is little he misses.

One chair stands in the befogged aleroom, supporting the last survivor of a People’s Militia that would have brought justice in the name of country, not king. Noll, who has not left in over a year, sustained on the calories in his drinks alone. He sees much of what happens through his frown of disapproval, but would never reveal it to the Watch.

Dirty Stephen antagonises Big Mary. Both have been set to watch for trouble, but drink more than they watch. Both have swords, and wear ratty leather coats.

At the far end, behind the bar, works Ratman the Tapman. He knows of the criminal enterprise hidden within and cares nothing for it; as long as he can work the handles and bring golden streams of frothing, numbing stuff forth he is happy. His moniker is a diminution of his given name, Ratthew.

1d10 Patrons

1. Small Paul, Fisherman. Claims he can speak to fish.
2. Stephen, Initiate. Recently joined the Horseman’s Word, a secret society. Desperate to talk about it.
3. A mixed group of architects and labourers, bemoaning their shared working conditions. A pair of republican agents watch on, waiting to insert themselves.
4. Berry Fries, Pornography Baron. His dogsbody, Horsemichael, attempts to sell soiled stock.
5. Ratthew’s Mum, Gail. Aghast if anyone calls him anything but his real name.
6. A heated meeting of the Scaffolders Guild.
7. A penal legionnaire, blackly drunk. He has forgotten his name but not his number - #9512
8. Your shit cousin.
9. Pegleg Steve, selling the peglegs he makes. They vary from fine to Fine.
10. A band of Swyvers with a thousand fathom stares.

1d6 Events

1. Storm the Castle District Championship Games. “Count” Morton will play all comers.
2. Meat Raffle.
3. Morris Dancer Turf War.
4. Trivia Night. Tonight’s theme is “Diseases of the Sheep.”
5. Half of the establishment has been rented out for a 10th birthday party. There’s cake; enough for you too.
6. Berthold has an undercover Watchman cornered.

The Bierkellar.

Above, tall windows cut into the Wall permit what light penetrates the pervasive clouds of the Smoke. A proliferation of candles subsidise these poor returns. Illiberally spread tables host fine meals and delicate glasses of sparkling cider. No beer, ale nor stout flows in this airy room.

Overseeing all, armoured behind a moustache of prodigious size and complexity, is Gastro. Beneath his crisp white shirt crawl tattoos, copied from the chest of a dying soldier to better add legitimacy to a previous fraud. After each meal, the monied guests peruse the laundered jewels and recast precious metals held in glass cases behind Gastro. He knows several have bought back items stolen from their fingers not less than a month prior.

Podriag and Jackie watch the patrons carefully, clearly not members of the same social class. Neither disguise the sword at their hip. They are paid enough to be quiet and unobtrusive otherwise.

Thick, soundproofed doors - fit for a crypt - hide the kitchen. Linden terrorises her cooks, oppresses her waiters, threatens her suppliers and delights her customers. Perfection is the minimum. She is unaware of the criminal nature of the operation, but would not care beyond increased access to rare spices, smuggled against Crown orders.

1d10 Patrons

1. The Warden of an adjoining district. He is ratarsed. His bodyguards are not.
2. Edith Chanter-Yawlsley, Grand Architect of the Cathedral. Here avoiding the latest disaster.
3. Dean Untbrogue of Handbridge University. Touching nothing. Swyvers pg. 36.
4. Mark Odinsson, Abbot of St. Cower. Loud and obnoxious.
5. A pair of Dentists, off-duty. They are discovering they have nothing in common but their work.
6. Heghburt Trubgh, spending his monthly retainer in a single night. Daddy always has more.
7. Frederick Oxide, Cheesemonger. Immaculate in all regards. He has exsanguinated men before.
8. Rodney, on a date with Ericka Glennfoster. She is an heiress to the Glennfoster fortune, and the Bierkellar is more expensive than Rodney can afford. He makes small, desperate sounds when she is distracted.
9. Arthur Blunt, Officer in the Penal Legion. An avid volunteer, his eyes burning when he speaks of the war.
10. Your shit cousin, again.

1d6 Events

1. Grand Local Lodge of Beat the Poor, Final Match. The decks are shuffled, and the players are ready to begin.
2. Demiannual Cider Tasting Night. On the menu: Gaxholm Gooseberry Cider, Swanberry Pear Cider, Auld Rosy, Reeking Abbott, Doeslow Chancery Cider.
3. Benefit Luncheon of the Military Wives & Widows Society of [District].
4. The Montague-Dedrick Engagement Dinner. It is not going well for the Montagues or the Dedricks.
5. Sir Rodney Templebey, signing copies of his work My Time With Duckmouth. You’d be the first to buy a copy, let alone have it signed.
6. A historic meeting between two otherwise insignificant noble houses. They shared, over drinks, their love of legal tender no longer in common utterance. Both admitted their ever-growing collection of rusted discs, shined shillings, and continental coinage. They posited they were not the only ones. They were not wrong. And so they sought a guild charter - the rest is history.

The Hole

Beneath the airy ’Kellar and dingy Seller is a hole in the earth and masonry and timber. This Hole leads to the Midden, a yet un-extinguished river moving sluggishly below. Along the waters drift corpses, horrors and wealth. Above this, perched on the thin lip of stable stone, is a shop. Thomas Bludgeon, the centre of the entire operation, tends to the stockpile of arms and armour illegal on the surface. These he sells to the Swyvers who plumb the Midden. He also buys what they find, whether pilfered from houses and transported through the tunnels or originating in the forgotten deeps of the cities that came before, and the cities before them.

Acting as a fence, he buys all goods at 20% value. Jewellery is bought at 30% value, whilst weapons he buys at 40%, if they are of Decent quality or higher.

Thomas Bludgeon refuses to sell a weapon he could not use to kill a prospective customer. All of his goods are at least Decent; many are Mint. He begrudgingly sells armour too, although there are no guarantees of quality on these goods.

He is always accompanied by his boys, each by a different mother. They are Elbert and Imran. Both wear shining maille hauberks, polished nightly. Elbert carries a net, Imran a billhook.

The Warehouse

A long narrow space, curving with the slow warp of the Wall around it. The single door, always locked, controls access. Gastro, Brother Hunckyl and Thomas Bludgeon have the only keys. Locked in, amongst the goods, is Tania. Her aged frame and crooked limbs give her the countenance of an insect crawling across the immense ledger that has become her entire life. She works without light, pores so familiar with each page that even her gentle marks stand out as if written in fire across a night sky.

Currently, the warehouse holds the following goods:

• An ancient stuffed moose, the fur rich with dust. The interior is rich with the hidden wealth of the gang: 22L 18s 7d.
• 6 sets of Watchmen’s uniforms, complete with badges. Worth 1L each to criminals. Use the Bribe chances to see if the stolen badges pass inspection with other Watchmen.
• A herd of 34 prize sheep. They make a lot of noise, and shit constantly. Each sheep is worth 10s.
• A stack of rugs, first stolen from overseas and then stolen from their captors. There are 20 in total, and each is worth 1L.
• Three barrels of paprika, each barrel stamped with the royal seal. The contents are worth 5L 15s each, but sold with the royal seal will only fetch 1L.
• The Turnip Unperishable. An unrotting root vegetable, stolen from its shrine. It is the size and weight of a four-year-old. A pair of roots grow outwards, like arms, open for an embrace. Worth 3L 19s 7d to the strange.
• An elderly gentleman’s calligraphy set. Embossed and set in a rich ebony wood. Worth 15s to the average man, worth 3L if you can find the original owner.
• A 7’ tall egg of stone, carved all about with the ancient tongue of the druids. One able to translate the runes would learn how to call down the lightning.
  • Call Lightning. ♦♥
    The caster speaks to the sky, and invites a piece of it down to rake the earth with her talons. A warning to the Sea, or invaders from shores distant and unseen.
    17-20: Lightning strikes in an area the size of a street d6 times. This causes devastation to structures, although people and animals have only a 10% chance of being struck unless up high, wearing metal etc. Those struck have a 1% chance of survival.
    21: The caster guides each bolt lightning exactly. Like limbs, each can curl around corners, through doors or windows.
    ♦: The strikes are guaranteed to cause a conflagration, sure to burn down a district if not stopped.
    ♥: A storm erupts around the lightning. A flash-flood occurs as the lightning pummels the earth.