Blood Pig!

“Welcome to the Empire of Old Korvosa!”

As Erin reached the top of the rope bridge, she felt like she had stepped into some surreal nightmare. The rooftop of the warehouse building had been converted into an open-air balcony, shielded from the rain and sun by a large canvas roof, held up by a ramshackle wooden framework. From the outside, the canvas had been brightly striped, like a circus tent. But the inside of the canvas was painted with scenes of gruesome debauchery: battlefields, executions, torture chambers, and human-eating monsters all crammed together in a visual assault.

Beneath the canvas sat a high-backed throne, a poor-man’s version of the Crimson Throne of Korvosa: a thing of blood-red cushions, silks, and spikes. Behind it stood a tall guillotine of carved wood and bone, its  base depicting grasping demonic feet and the housing of its glittering blade a leering demonic face. Standing before it was an almost comic looking figure in a sleeveless leather vest and executioner’s hood. He was no larger than a child, but his bare arms bulged with muscles, and one eye hole of his hood was sewn shut, leaving him only one to peer out of. In his arms he held an enormous greataxe, larger than he was.

Seated on the throne was an equally odd figure. He was a tall thin man, his face scarred with childhood acne and more recent scars from Blood Veil pox. He was dressed in a mismatched and threadbare assortment of royal attire: a bent and dented brass crown, scarlet robe trimmed with mangy faux ermine, tights that had once been shiny but were now almost transparent from wear. The overall look was more that of a vagrant king than actual royalty. “Welcome to the Empire of Old Korvosa!” he called with a flourish.

As the rest of the group followed Erin into the Emperor’s “throne room”, he continued his oratory. “Welcome foreign visitors! Are you emissaries from Queen Illeosa, come to negotiate terms for peace between our two nations?”

Erin’s mouth dropped open; this was not what she’d been expecting. As the rest of the group fumbled in confusion, Shadow pushed his way to the front. “O Great Emperor!” he cried, delivering a deep courtly bow. “We have not come from the Queen. We come at the behest of Field Marshall Kroft, who sends her greetings.”

The building next door was lower than this balcony, with a flat roof. Several more thugs stood watching there, but the roof of the building next to that was sloped, and crude bleachers had been built there. A few dozen common folk sat there, watching the proceedings, and the Emperor now turned to them. “You see, my people - it is as I told you! Korvosa cannot stand against us. Already they are turning against each other, and the military has abandoned the Queen to sue for a separate peace!” Despite his unsavory appearance, the Emperor had a magnificent speaking voice, and a real talent for grandstanding. The crowd on the rooftops cheered and stamped their feet. He turned back to Shadow. “Have you come to take back our demands to the Field Marshall?”

“Umm … sure?” Shadow replied. Even he wasn’t quite sure where this was headed.

“Excellent! Here, then, are our demands. First, we demand an immediate end to the quarantine, and that Korvosa rebuild all the bridges to the mainland that they so wantonly destroyed. Second, we demand that Korvosa rebuild all the homes and businesses on Endrin Isle that have been damaged since King Eodred’s death. Third, Korvosa must assume responsibility for providing food and clothing to all the citizens of Old Korvosa. Fourth … uh, fourth … fourth we demand that the third Tuesday of each month be declared Old Korvosa Appreciation Day, and each family in Korvosa be required to give gifts to the families of Old Korvosa.” The Emperor seemed to be making these up as he went along, but each of his demands was met by enthusiastic cheers from his subjects. “Finally,” he continued, “I am willing to entertain an offer of marriage to Queen Illeosa, subject, of course, to an agreement on a suitable dowry.”

As the cheering died down, Wren spoke up tentatively. “Are you sure about that last one? Maybe you haven’t heard the latest about the Queen – it’s not clear that she’s really human.”

The Emperor shrugged. “We all have our little foibles. We all know that her last husband was, shall we say, screwed to death by the Queen, but that’s a risk I’m willing to take for my people.” The crowd erupted into laughter and cheers, and the buildings rocked with their foot-stamping.

Shadow spoke up again. “O great Emperor – would you please tell us your name?”

The Emperor looked surprised. “I had thought that the name of the Emperor of Old Korvosa was known throughout the realms. I am Pilts Swastel, former impresario, now ruler of the great people of Old Korvosa!” Most of the group recognized this name: Pilts Swastel ran one of Korvosa’s most notorious establishments, a playhouse known as Exemplary Execrables. In was known for its explicitly bloody, violent, and sexual productions. Almost everyone who spoke of it did so with disdain and contempt, yet its shows were sold out night after night.

Wren wanted to redirect the conversation to their mission at hand. “Who did all your artwork?” she asked, pointing to the ceiling.

A look of pride crossed the Emperor’s face. “Ah, these were all backdrops from many of my former productions,” he said, looking at the painted scenes of horror lovingly. “All were done by the greatest living artist in Varisia, Maestro Salvator Scream. I am delighted to say that he has taken a commission as our court artist. As I’m sure you’re well aware, all the great empires of history have spawned their own artistic movements and styles, and Maestro Scream will be remembered by history as the father of the Swastelian style.”

“Fascinating,” Wren managed to choke out. “Can we meet him?”

“Oh no! He’s hard at work on his next generation of masterpieces, and his concentration cannot be disturbed.”

Erin was rapidly losing patience with this charade, so she cut right to the chase. “We’re looking for Vencarlo Orsini or Neolandus Kalepopolis – have you seen them?”

Pilts frowned at her lack of courtly protocol. “I understood that Seneschal Kalepopolis was killed during the riots following the King’s death. And that scoundrel Orsini has not yet visited to pay his respects. When he does, I intend to introduce him to the Tall Knife.” He nodded over his shoulder at the looming guillotine.

Shadow tried again. “Please, your majesty. We would crave a short audience with the artist Scream, just to be able to tell our children that we met both you and him.”

Pilts puffed up at the flattery, but didn’t give in. “No, I’m afraid that’s out of the question.”

Like Erin, the group was rapidly growing impatient. They were badly outnumbered, but this wasn’t going anywhere. They were either going to have to resort to force, or come up with some alternate plan.

Pilts sensed their impatience, and he offered them an out. “But if you are so intent on meeting our court artist, perhaps you could earn the right to an audience. What say you to a friendly game of Blood Pig?” The crowd on the rooftop of the opposite building leaped to their feet. “Blood Pig! Blood Pig! Blood Pig!” they began to chant.

The group exchanged worried looks – what the hell had they gotten themselves into? Only Laori seemed excited. “That sounds like fun!” she chirped.

“What exactly is ‘Blood Pig?’” Shadow asked

“It’s a little game I just invented a week and a half ago, but it’s already become our national sport,” Pilts replied proudly. “It’s very simple – we put a pig into one of the cages on the playing field, and each team scores a point if they manage to throw, drop, kick, or otherwise deposit the pig into the pit on the opposite end of the field.” As he spoke, he motioned to the flat roof of the building just below them. For the first time, they saw that two crude rectangles had been painted on the roof, possibly in blood. A wicker basket sat at each end of the roof, near two small holes that had been chopped through the rooftop. Eight ruffians milled about the playing field, wearing leather armor but apparently unarmed. “Those are our national team, the Shinglesnipes,” Pilts said, then continued with his description of the ‘rules’. “There are no weapons allowed, and no casting of spells either before or during a match. Any violation of those rules results in the other team scoring a point. The first team to five points wins.”

Laori was bouncing on her toes, ready to go, but no one else was at all enthused about this idea. “There are eight of them,” Wren said, pointing down at the Shinglesnipes, “and only seven of us.” The Emperor just shrugged. “Then you’ll have more room to maneuver on your end of the field.”

As the group quietly debated whether to get sucked into Pilt’s madness, Erin decided to get a better sense of what they were up against, and cast Detect Evil. Only the miniature executioner showed up as evil, but the Emperor saw her casting the spell, and leaped to his feet. “A spell! Magic!” he cried as a chorus of boos erupted from the crowd. “That’s a point for the Shinglesnipes!”

“But I … it wasn’t even …” Erin sputtered in frustration and anger. “We haven’t even agreed to play yet! That shouldn’t count!”

“How do I know you weren’t giving yourself some unfair advantage?” Pilts countered. “You heard the rules!” Erin glowered at him. “Let’s just get out of here,” she grumbled. “This isn’t worth it!”

Pilts saw that his visitors were on the verge of walking out, and he relented. “Since you are our guests and this is your first time playing, I will forgive this infraction.” Tomas looked at Pilts and then at Erin. They needed to find Vencarlo, and Scream was their only lead. If this so-called Emperor didn’t let them talk to him, it wasn’t clear what their next step could be. “What the hell,” he said. “Let’s just do this.”

The others reluctantly agreed. After receiving assurances their gear would be safe, they stripped themselves of any weapons, and descended the stairs to the ‘playing field’. The Shinglesnipes clustered together in the eastern-most box on the roof, while the party took their starting positions in the western box. Erin had noticed bets being taking on the opposite rooftop, so she made a quick detour to place a 100 GP bet, getting 2-1 odds (against the visiting team).

Pilts held up a gold coin. “Heads the pig starts on the Shinglesnipe side; tails on the visiting side.” He flipped the coin, and it came up heads. A lackey came onto the field, carrying a frightened, squealing piglet, and dropped it into the appropriate basket. Once he’d cleared the field, Pilts rose to his feet. “Gentlemen (and ladies),” he called in a ringing voice. “Go … Get … Your … Pig!”

The field exploded into action. The pig was on the Shinglesnipes’ side, but Tomas dashed around and past them, trying to beat them to the pig. Several Shinglesnipes gave chase. One swung a callused fist at Tomas’ head, while another tried to tackle him, but he dodged both. The third went straight for the pig, snatching it out of the cage. The other Shinglesnipes tried to tie up the rest of the party; one hit Laori (she laughed as she spit blood back in his face), while another tackled Nat, wrapping him in a bear hug. Shadow decided to play defense, and dashed back to stand by the pit, hoping to block any opponent from reaching it with the pig.

Erin punched the nearest Shinglesnipe in the nose, while Jax ran to help Tomas. He caught one of his attackers from behind, surprising him with a punch in the kidney. That drew a howl of pain, but a moment later one of the other Shinglesnipes did the same thing to Jax. The Shinglesnipes seemed to be much more experienced with fist-fighting than any of the party, and their blows were more debilitating.

It was getting too crowded around Tomas for his taste, but he couldn’t let them keep that pig. He grabbed at the pig, and for a moment he and his opponent threatened to tear the poor creature in half. Then the pig popped out of the thug’s grasp, and Tomas had it by one leg. As he juggled for a better grip, he took off running, dodging blows left and right. The Shinglesnipes gave chase; one tried to steal the pig back, but by now Tomas had a firm hold on the squealing pig.

Nat tried to knee his opponent in the groin, but just couldn’t get enough leverage. Wren rushed to his aid, ramming her fist into the thug’s jaw, but he held tight. Erin, seeing Tomas running her direction, tried to tackle one of the Shinglesnipes, to clear a path, but he sidestepped at the last minute. Laori gave her opponent a blood-stained smile, then wrapped her arms around him. He smiled in anticipation for a moment – until she began grinding her spiked armor into him with lascivious thrusts. The crowd went wild as he screamed and blood flowed.

Jax and one of the Shinglesnipes were still exchanging punches near the pig’s starting point; they were engaged in their own private brawl, oblivious to the ‘game’ going on at the other end of the field. Finally Jax remembered that he was supposed to be helping his team, and disengaged, dashing for the other end of the field.

Everything had turned into a chase to catch Tomas and the pig. The Shinglesnipes were either chasing Tomas, or trying to get into position to block his path to the pit. Wren punched the thug holding Nat again, and it stunned him just enough to let Nat wriggle free, and he ran to try to block Shinglesnipes from blocking Tomas. Wren abandoned her fight, and ran and jumped on the back of one of the would-be blockers, clawing at his eyes. Shadow still guarded the goal. He wanted to extend his claws, to rake at anyone coming close, but he was worried that they’d be considered ‘weapons’, and didn’t want to lose the match on a technicality.

Tomas was on the home stretch, but there was a gauntlet of Shinglesnipes in his path. He ducked under one’s swing, then spun out of the grasp of another. Wren was still holding onto her man, and he couldn’t reach Tomas as he dashed past. Only one thug still stood between him and the goal. Tomas charged straight at him, then juked. The Shinglesnipe still caught him with a beefy fist, knocking the wind out of him, but Tomas held onto his pig. He fell forward, sliding across the rooftop to the edge of the pit, then dropped the piglet in. The crowd exploded with cheers. From inside the pit, Tomas heard snarling, then a horrible cacophony of squeals and shrieks that quickly faded. Looking down into the pit, he saw an angry wolverine devouring what was left of the piglet.

“One point for the visitors!” Emperor Swastel called enthusiastically. “Resume your positions!”

“You mean we have to do this again?” Wren moaned. Tomas and Jax were both pretty bloody, but there was no way to do healing without using magic and giving up one or more points. With a collection of collective groans, the party went back into their starting box. This time, the pig wrangler started the pig on the opposite side of the field – directly behind them. “Go … Get … Your … Pig!” the Emperor chanted again, and the game began.

This time, Nat was ready - he thought he’d figured this game out. He’d lined up at the back of their starting box, and he spun and dashed directly for the pig, snatching it out of the wicker cage. The pig squealed, and Nat squealed, and crowd roared in laughter. Tomas and Laori both grabbed the Shinglesnipes directly in front of them, taking them out of the action, and half the crowd was more intent on watching Laori than what was happening with the pig. Shadow bypassed everyone and dashed for the goal, intending to play goalkeeper again.

Shinglesnipes began to converge on Nat, while Erin, Wren, and Jax tried to fight them off. Nat, adrenaline pumping, took off at a dead run, pig held tight in the crook of his arm. The first Shinglesnipe he passed clipped him in the side of the head with a fist; Nat stumbled, but kept running. His head was spinning from the blow, and he was moving more on instinct than intention. Two more thugs tried to grab him as he passed, but somehow they both missed. Shadow was standing by the goal, arm windmilling as he waved Nat on. Nat almost overshot the pit in his headlong rush, but managed to drop the piglet to its bloody and victorious death.

“Two points for the visitors!” the Emperor called out. “Resume your positions!”

Everyone groaned. Nat was still bent over, hands on his knees gasping for breath; he couldn’t remember the last time he’d run that far, and he was sure he’d never run that fast. The Shinglesnipes were bruised and bloodied, but so was the party, and they had to do this again? But instead of coming onto the field, the pig wrangler approached the Emperor’s throne, his face pale. “Your Majesty,” he said in a quavering voice. “I’m afraid … we’re out of pigs.”

Pilts exploded. “What?!? This is unacceptable! How can we play Blood Pig without pigs?!? Jabbyr! Take him to the Tall Knife!” The tiny executioner grabbed the luckless pig wrangler and began to drag him towards the guillotine. “No!” the man screamed. “It’s not my fault! I only take care of the pigs. It’s the pig catchers’ fault! They didn’t catch enough pigs! Please!”

As quickly as he’d exploded, Pilts’ mood calmed. “You’re right – you’re not to blame for this embarrassment. I hereby pardon you. Guards! Bring me the pig catchers!” Several guards dashed off in search of the Emperor’s next victims. Emperor Swastel returned his attention to the party, down on the playing field. “I’m afraid that our entertainment has suffered a premature preemption. As you were prevailing in points at the time of our importunate porcine paucity, I declare you today’s Blood Pig victors!”

Erin collected her winnings as Wren at last was able to dole out some healing, and the party reclaimed their weapons and gear. Once they were ready, the Emperor stood. “As promised, you may now have an audience with Maestro Scream. Jabbyr – come with me and fetch the artist.”

Pilts led them into a narrow hallway in a building at the far end of his covered platform. He opened the door and led the party into a grisly trophy room of sorts. The air was sickly sweet, a combination of perfume and vinegar. The source of the unpleasant smell were fourteen poorly preserved  heads mounted on the walls of room. Most were human, although two were elves and one was a dwarf with a beard neatly sheared off to match the cut to the neck. To the north, a small, child-sized bed sat against the wall opposite a wooden table decorated with a magnificent set of silverware and a platinum and crystal decanter full of brandy.

As the party crowded into the room Jabbyr slipped through a door to the east. He returned a few minutes later with a plain-looking man dressed in paint-stained rags. Flea bites covered his skin, his eyes were sunken and his face and arms were badly bruised; on closer examination, many of the stains on his clothing appeared to be blood, not paint.

“And here you have the genius himself, Salvator Scream,” Pilts said with a flourish. “Your audience has commenced.”

Once again, the party fumbled for what to do next. “Um … how are you?” Nat asked to fill the silence.

“Oh, I’m wonderful,” Scream replied in a shaky voice. “I’ve never been better, and I’m delighted to be here as the guest of the Emperor. I live to serve him.” The only time his eyes left the floor were to glance nervously at Pilts, desperate to avoid saying anything that might offend him.

“So do you know Vencarlo Orsini?” Wren asked.

“No! Never met him! Don’t know anything!” Scream replied quickly. He flinched involuntarily as he spoke, casting sidelong looks at the Emperor as if anticipating a blow. It was obvious he wasn’t going to say anything useful in the presence of the Emperor.

“There, you’ve had your audience with my court artist,” the Emperor interjected. “You may now return to Field Marshall Kroft with our demands, and I will anxiously await her response.” Jabbyr opened the door to escort the party out.

Jax decided it was time to take things to the next level. He liked their odds in here: just a fancy-talking fop and some midget with an oversized axe. “I’d like to take a look at your studio,” he said cheerfully to Scream, opening the door that Jabbyr had brought him through. “You don’t mind, do you?”

The room inside was an extravagantly decorated bedroom. “Those are my private quarters!” the Emperor shouted. “You’re not allowed in there! Jabbyr – stop him!”

The tiny executioner took one step towards Jax and all hell broke loose. Shadow raked him with his claws as he stepped away from him, sending a spray of blood over everyone nearby. Tomas stepped back into the corner and fired off three quick arrows, but the small size of the target threw off his aim and all three arrows embedded themselves in the floor. Jax spun, drawing his rapier, and sank it deep into Jabbyr’s heavy muscle.

“Guards! Help! We’re under attack!” Pilts screamed, then began casting a spell. Erin and Wren tried to interrupt his casting, but he was too quick for them, and in an instant he vanished from sight. Erin stabbed at the spot where he’d stood, but hit nothing but air.

Shadow slammed the door to the hallway shut, hoping to slow down the next wave of foes. Then he pulled on the mask he’d taken from one of the Red Mantis assassins, and activated its ability to See Invisibility. “He’s not in here!” he called out to the others. Nat followed his lead, and pulled on his own mask as he moved towards the bedroom Jax had found. Jabbyr chopped him painfully with his greataxe as he passed, but Nat just gritted his teeth and kept moving. Reaching the doorway, he spotted Pilts by the north wall, near another door. “In here!” he called back.

Laori stepped up, swinging her spiked chain in a whistling circle above her head, then slammed it into Jabbyr from behind. As it struck, it crackled with unholy energy, delivering an Inflict Serious Wounds in addition to its cuts.

Jabbyr flew into a Rage, and charged at Tomas. Although his greataxe was larger than he was, he handled it as if it were an extension of his body. Once, twice, three times, the blade hacked into Tomas’ body, sending blood and chunks of flesh flying. With a groan, Tomas’ eyes rolled up into his head, and he slumped to the floor, unconscious.

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The PC’s earned 2,400 XP, putting them at 42,543, with 50,000 required for level 9.