The War in the Willows

Back at the Den

Maverick, now recovered, leaned back against the den’s wall, a relieved grin on his face as the group finished their chaotic tale. “Sounds like you lot had a blast without me. As long as you’re all okay, that’s all that matters.”

He nodded, thoughtful. “Alright, here’s the plan. I trust you all to do your thing. Why don’t we split up, see what each of us can dig up on our own? Local scouting missions, see if we can find any more threads to pull.”

Bramble raised an eyebrow. “Solo missions? You sure, Mav?”

Maverick shrugged. “Why not? You’ve all got your strengths. Morrigan, see if you can sniff out any more of those stones. Thomas, keep an eye out for cultists. Max and Neville, do your usual ‘stirring stuff up’ thing, but carefully. Phillipe, see if you can get any of the locals to talk. And I’ll… I’ll do some digging of my own.”

The group nodded, a plan forming. Time to get scouting.

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Morrigan’s Story

Morrigan sauntered into the dimly lit Gunsmiths in North Piddle, his leathers creaking as he moved. The gruff bulldog craftsman looked up, eyeing him with a no-nonsense gaze.

“Ah, ’bout time you showed up, courier. I’ve got a package for you.”

Morrigan played along, nodding curtly. The Gunsmith handed him a long, intricately carved metal tube with a wooden stock, a tag reading ‘W.H.G. Geldof’, hung from a small piece of string tied to it.

“Sign here,” the bulldog growled, thrusting a parchment at Morrigan.

Morrigan scribbled a hasty signature, grabbed the Caliver, and nodded. “Right, got it.”

The craftsman grunted, returning to his work. Morrigan took that as his cue, backing out of the Gunsmiths with a straight face. As soon as the door swung shut, he grinned, examining the strange object. “W.H.G. Geldof, eh?  What’s this thing do?”

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Phillipe’s Story

Phillipe pushed open the door to the Plough Tavern, greeted by the warm glow of fire and murmurs of locals. He ambled up to the bar, ordering a round of drinks as he struck up a conversation.

Before long, Phillipe was spinning tales of the Misfits’ exploits – a bit… embellished. He spoke of Maverick’s daring raids and Morrigan’s aerial stunts, of Thomas’s fearsome mace-wilds and Max’s fiery antics.

The tavern owner, a jovial Labrador, listened with a grin, nodding along. As Phillipe finished a particularly dramatic tale, he declared, “Bloody hell, mate! You’ve got a gift! You and your… Misfits, yeah? You bring ’em in, you lot eat and stay here for free. Just keep tellin’ stories to keep the punters happy.”

Phillipe beamed, bowing slightly. “Zee deal, she is made! Merci, monsieur!”

The locals cheered, clapping Phillipe on the back. He grinned, thinking, time to get the gang.

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Neville’s Story

Neville walked into the school, greeted by the familiar sight of his old teacher, Professor Pembly, the beaver. The beaver’s normally tidy fur was still patchy in spots, regrowing after ‘the incident’.

“Neville, thank goodness you’re back,” the Professor said, his voice strained. “We’ve had a break-in. Some of our books are gone, and I’m at a loss.”

Neville’s gut twisted with guilt – he knew exactly which books were missing. He pulled out the Learn Lightning Bolt book and handed it over.

The beaver’s eyes widened. “Neville! Where did you find this?”

Neville shifted uncomfortably. “The cultists up by the northern fields must’ve been the ones who broke in. We, uh, took care of them, though.”

The beaver sighed, taking the book back. “I see. Well, I can’t exactly give you a reward in pennies – I need to replace those books. But… I’ll send the woodworking class to the Den. They can do some repairs or make some stuff for you guys.”

Neville nodded, relieved. “Thanks, sir. That’d be awesome.”

The beaver nodded curtly, still looking stressed. “Alright. Now, go on. And Neville?  I do hope you are keeping out of trouble.” 

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Thomas’s Story

Thomas marched out of the Den, mace slung over his shoulder and headed to the local village market.

A burly blacksmith eyed him. “You looking for work mate? Got logs need splitting. Pay’s a few coppers.”

Thomas nodded crisply. “Log splitting, Protocol: safety checks, proper gear, methodical chopping. Do logs. Require paperwork.” He muttered to himself.

The blacksmith chuckled. “Paperwork? Just split ’em, mate.”

Thomas frowned. “Regulations must be followed, or society will descend into anarchy.”

The blacksmith sighed, handing Thomas a clipboard. “Fine. Split ’em. Tick the boxes.”

Thomas nodded, swinging into work. Logs split, he collected his pay, checked the amount thrice, and signed the docket.

As he walked off, the blacksmith shook his head, “Hard worker that one, but very strange.”

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Bramble’s Story

Bramble slipped out of the Den, determined to scuffle up some work. She hit the streets, sniffing out odd jobs and gigs to bring in some much-needed cash.

After a bit of scouting, she landed a few tasks – helping a local market stall owner with inventory, doing some pest control for a nearby bakery, and even scoring a small gig helping a pup with their homework.

As she worked, Bramble mentally tallied up the pennies she’d earn. Enough for some decent grub, maybe even some new gear for the gang.

Exhausted, she headed back to the Den.

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Maximilliano’s Story

Maximiliano climbed out the window, mirror in one hand and a fine ring mail shirt draped over his shoulder, thinking he’d pulled off the heist.

A curious female squirrel and her friends caught him in the act.

The squirrel raised an eyebrow, tail twitching. “Midnight shopping?”

Max flashed his most charming smile. “¡Hola, mi amor! Acquiring essentials. For some poor orphans.”

The squirrel giggled. “Essentials, huh? Like that mirror and armour, you ‘found’?”

Max laughed, low and smooth.

The squirrel smiled slyly. “Alright, we’ll let you go if you promise to find things at our houses too.”

Max’s grin turned wicked. “¡Eso es un trato!”

The squirrel nodded, friends giggling behind her. “I’ll leave the window unlocked, you… bring the charm.”

Max winked, vanishing into the night.

_

Max sauntered into the Den, a sly grin spreading across his face as he led a procession of female animals, each carrying a plant or gardening tool. Maverick’s eyes widened in shock as they began setting up an herb garden in the corner.

Maverick spluttered, “Max, what the… what’s going on?”

Max winked, chuckling low. “Don’t ask, Mav.”

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And what did all that mean?

I decided that rather than have a few groups go out scouting, I would send out lots of individual scouting parties.  I had lots of Fate points remaining and figured it was worth the risk.  As it turned out, I rolled well for all my Wanderings.

As a result, not only did I end up with a decent number of pennies, but I also got a fair chunk of labour points, free upkeep for my warband and a Caliver!

Still no funky magic items or artifacts but at least I now had the coin to buy some much-needed equipment.

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Finally, Money to Spend and the Story Continues

Max sat with Bramble, a sparkle in his eye.

“Ah, mi corazón,” he purred, handing her the mirror. “This, mi amor, is so you can see the beauty that I look upon. The fire in your soul, the spark in your ojos… you are a treasure, Bramble.”

Bramble’s cheeks flushed.

Next, Max presented the armour, his voice dropping low. “And this, mi vida… is to keep you safe, porque sin ti, no hay vida.”

Just as Max leaned in, the Den door burst open, and Morrigan strutted in, a Caliver slung over his shoulder, a smirk plastered on his face.

“As if you guys weren’t just discussing how brilliant I am,” he drawled. “I mean, it’s obvious I’d be the one to score the real prize here – a W.H.G. Geldof from Ollie’s own hands. He practically gifted it to me. I’m so persuasive.”

Max groaned, rolling his eyes. Bramble giggled, the moment lost.

_

Neville and Thomas walked into the Den, drawn by Morrigan’s ear-piercing squawks. Morrigan was holding court, the Caliver propped proudly against his shoulder.

“…and then, I just looked at Ollie, and I’m like, ‘You know what, mate? I’m worth it.’ And he gave me this,” Morrigan was saying, gesturing dramatically with the weapon.

Neville’s eyes landed on the gun. “What’s that?”

Morrigan puffed out his chest. “Ah, this? It’s a… a W.H.G. Geldof, obviously.”

Thomas raised an eyebrow. “A W.H.G. Geldof?”

Morrigan nodded, smirk firmly in place. “Yeah. Top-of-the-line.  I got it from Ollie.”

Neville looked unconvinced. “Uh, Morrigan… I think that’s a gun.”

Morrigan scoffed. “Pff, details. W.H.G. Geldof is the technical term, innit?”

Thomas chuckled, a sly glint in his eye. “Morrigan, W.H.G stands for Witch Hunter General. As in, the guy who hunts witches. Not a gun model, exactly.”

Morrigan’s smirk faltered for a split second before he recovered. “Ah, ah, yeah… I knew that. I was, uh, being… metaphorical. This is a… a… ceremonial Witch Hunter General gun. Yeah.”

Neville snorted. “Ceremonial, you don’t even know what it is!”

Thomas leaned in, a grin spreading. “That musket belongs to the Witch Hunter General Geldof, Morrigan. You might’ve, ah, ‘acquired’ it from him.”

Morrigan’s face went white, but he quickly masked it with a forced laugh. “Hah! Oh, yeah, I knew that. I was just… testing you guys. Yeah, totally meant to take it. It’s, uh, part of the plan.”

Thomas raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. “Morrigan, you’re shaking in your boots.”

Morrigan tried to play it cool, puffing out his chest. “I’m not scared of the Witch Hunter General. Don’t be ridiculous.”

Neville snorted. “You’re totally freaking out, Morrigan.”

Thomas shook his head. “This is exactly why we need rules and regulations. If you’d bothered to check before swiping stuff, you wouldn’t be in this mess. Now we have to deal with the Witch Hunter General coming after us.”

Morrigan tried to interrupt, but Thomas cut him off. “Save it, Morrigan. You need to return that gun and fast. Before things get messy.”

Morrigan swallowed hard, trying to maintain a shred of dignity.  “Over my dead body, it’s mine now.”

Thomas shook his head, “It could well be over your dead body.”