Rebel Encounter

**Rebel Encounter** is a random encounter in *Tales from the Tiers*.

## Transcript

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They don't make you wait to learn their intention, however: "This is for Apex, Fatebinder, whore of the Overlord. This is for the nation you despoiled and the heroes you murdered. For Vendrien's Well and its Guard." Arrows are nocked, their heads glistening with poisoned oil. "Prepare to meet the void!"

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"The Vellum Citadel remember what others forget. You, however, will meet the fate of every peon of the Overlord foolish enough to cross the Sages - an anonymous grave in foreign soil." Her fingers flicker before her, catching arcane energy up in ancient sigils. "Prepare to be forgotten."

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"The Vellum Citadel remembers what others forget. Mere death would be too merciful for you, Firestarter. Your actions demand complete erasure - to be burned away as so much lore has been by your hand." Her fingers flicker before her, catching arcane energy up in ancient sigils. "Prepare to be forgotten."

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They don't make you wait to learn their intention, however: "This is for Apex, Queenslayer, whore of the Overlord. This is for the nation you despoiled and the heroes you murdered. For Vendrien's Well and its Guard." Arrows are nocked, their heads glistening with poisoned oils. "Prepare to join the Queen!"

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The road winds through a narrow ravine; you're considering how it would make an excellent locale for an ambush even as the bronze-armored soldiers step onto the road before you. You glance back the way you came and confirm your suspicions: the way back is blocked by additional warriors.
The soldiers draw blades and bows, faces creased with stress and spotted with dirt. Bandages peek from gaps in ill-maintained armor, and the banner they plant in the soil is more tatters than heraldry.

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The air shimmers around you, the trees along the path shuddering, shrinking, and sprouting arms as trunks split into legs. An arcane illusion, you realize, and in its place men and women in soot-dusted clothes, quills tucked into hats and jars of acrid-scented potions hanging from their belts.
A young woman steps forth, her right eye a mass of burn scars, her left narrowed at you in abject loathing. "The School of Ink and Quill is not done with you, Binder." She spits.

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Attack them.

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Speak to them.

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You ready your arms and prepare for combat.

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Attack them.

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Speak to them.

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You ready your arms and prepare for combat.

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Your hands near your weapons, you consider your words carefully.

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Your hands near your weapons, you consider your words carefully.

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Defuse the situation.

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Threaten them.

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[10000 rings] Bribe them.

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Defuse the situation.

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Threaten them.

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[10000 rings] Bribe them.

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You begin to speak to them with the calming dispassion learned in court, when the oathbreaker hurls a javelin at you. It seems there shall be no parley here.

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You roar at your ambushers in fury, striking your hand against your chest, reminding them of the death and destruction you have wrought across the Tiers...

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The oathbreakers look to one another, resolve crumbling before your torrent of boasts and threats.
"Do you really want to throw your lives away for a dead realm?" you ask.
They back away from you as you stride through their ranks and continue on your journey.

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"Stowe it, Fatebinder!" one of them shouts as the others roar in agreement. "We know your list of deeds, and we're here to hold you accountable!"
They charge.

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You hurl insults at the bookish magicians, threatening to break their bodies as you have so many before them.
The woman scowls and spits again. "No one knows your history better than we do. Which is why we must end it!" They begin to chant, fingers moving in an arcane dance.

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The woman scoffs at your offer of an iron ring. "The knowledge lost at your hands had value beyond compare and you think to buy your freedom with iron?" Her fingers begin to trace sigils in the air. "You will make fine worm food..."

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Hands empty, you speak to the historians in the quiet, even tones of a scriptorium...

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The tension in their muscles visibly lessens as you explain to them the respect that you have for knowledge. You work to preserve what you can, but recognize the inevitability of the Overlord's conquest. As they start nodding, you tell them that if they seek a new place to belong, they should come to you at your Spire. They bow and back off, melting again into the foliage.

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"Enough!" the magician barks. "You will not convince us of your respect for our work. Only the void awaits you!" The magicians begin chanting.

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Flee the area.

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You escape unscathed and continue your journey.

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Continue...

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Continue...

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Continue...

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