Harriet Joan Claire, level 1 halfling Ranger and thirteen-year veteran of being a little shit to nearby adults, stood staring down a woman in chainmail three times her size as the gate that was going to let them out squealed and ground open.
“How much does an engineer make around here?”
“Two gold pieces a day.” The reply was immediate. “Standard rate for skilled work, same’s a Classed guard like me.”
Her parents shared a glance, stonefaced to all observers other than each other. With decades of shared history and practice at each other’s body language, they both knew the other might as well be cackling with wild glee and pride.
That’s our girl, each knew the other was thinking. That’s our girl.
Rolling 1D20-1 against Insight (Wisdom) DC ??
“So pay me two gold.” Harriet smirked. “Tell you what, if you don’t like the windlass, you don’t have to pay me.”
Rolling 1D20+4 against Persuasion (Charisma) DC ??
The guard’s eyes narrowed. Then, suddenly, she smiled. “Two gold,” she said, “and you do your guard duty, but you also work the day as an engineer on whatever needs doing. First day’s smooth riding, these parts—Vale’s a piece of shit city, but it runs patrols out farther than we’ll get by nightfall.”
“Two gold,” Harriet agreed blandly, “I work the engineering day, and you make sure I also get paid for guard duty today.”
That got her an eyeroll. “I wasn’t gonna fucking scam you, kid; Gard would cut my damn throat fast as he could, just to make sure I was dead before Mook head about it. Deal—may Hermes steal the luck of a liar. So what’s a windlass? And how the fuck do you know engineering, anyway?”
“I spend a decent chunk of the summers sailing,” she answered truthfully. “A windlass is one of the Big Five. Lever, windlass, screw, wedge, tackle block. Mechanical advantage engines. Turns out if you’re small and like to do big things, you need machines.”
“Call that an—”
“C’mon.” Harriet cut off the woman’s angry remark, not paying any attention to her. “We start with a cylinder or drum that’s got a hole through it, put the rope through the hole, tie off the rope, start spinning. Let’s find—”
“They’re almost done opening the fucking gate, dumbass.” The woman sighed, shaking her head. “I thought it was a magical item you were talking about, not a fucking capstan.”
“Oh, you know what a capstan is! Well, why aren’t you using one?”
“I’m a merc, do you think I sail fucking supercargo when I travel? Look, for starters—”
The halfling girl and the dragonborn woman walked off towards the gate, arguing about things like time investment opportunity costs and overspecialized equipment and cross-utilization, leaving two deeply, smugly proud parents in their wake.
“So,” Cassandra said as they strolled slowly towards the gate, arm in arm, “looks like our daughter’s made a friend.”
“Sure does look that way,” Jason agreed, matching her smile.
“We’ve done a few things right, haven’t we.”
“She hasn’t had the quietest time,” he murmured, smile fading a little into an odd sorrow, “and I wish she hadn’t had to see all the things she’s seen, do all the things she’s done. But she’s a good kid, the best kid.”
“Takes after you, you know. She’s a lot nicer than I am.”
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“Gets her smarts from you, though.”
The cessation of the noise that was obscuring their parental gushing from the likely-sharp ears of their child necessitated, alas, that they cease engaging in that pleasant exercise—though with the gate having now been opened enough to get the wagons through, they needed to at least appear to attend to their jobs regardless.
Contrary to the orders they’d received, there really wasn’t any road dust to speak of. The three ox-drawn wagons rolled along, pulled steady forwards by two oxen in side-by-side harness—Caravan Master Mook, riding back and forth on a pony, explained without prompting that the wagons could each be pulled by one ox, and all the important contents could be consolidated into two wagons, so that if something went wrong they could re-hitch and keep going.
PONY
Cost: 30 gp
Speed: 40 ft.
Carrying Capacity: 225 lb.
Interestingly, the six horses weren’t all being ridden. While all of them were saddled, bridled, and armored with plate barding, only two of them carried riders; the other four had only saddlebags.
Barding
Barding is armor designed to protect an animal’s head, neck, chest, and body. Any type of armor shown on the Armor table can be purchased as barding. The cost is four times the equivalent armor made for humanoids, and it weighs twice as much.
When the Claires asked, they were simply told that the other horses were remounts; there would be a mounted pair ready at all times as a quick reaction force, and they could serve as couriers at need.
Once they got out of sight of the city gates, still chattering, the vista swept out like—well, like a pretty mediocre vista of an island, half still dominated by a badly-managed city and half a dusty, scraggly island. You could sweep your gaze over the island from northwest to southeast and go from towering, vicious cliffs to low hills covered with struggling bushes, but you wouldn’t want to try to forge your way through their razor-edged leaves. You could look down to the sea, slamming against the upthrust stone, and up the slick rock faces, but between their crumbling edges and hidden, impossibly sharp serrations on what would seem like solid handholds, you wouldn’t want to try to climb them.
Still, a scrying spell might at that moment have swept from the northwest to the southeast, catching a shot of a few riders and a fair number of walkers surrounding a trio of wagons. That shot would have been highlighted in the late morning sun, picturesque despite the dourness of the landscape; their gear would have been in order, their complexions jovial for the remarkably good company and the fresher air, and their pace steady.
And a soft laugh might have issued forth from behind that scrying spell, not maniacal nor mad but no less comically evil—and one might have imagined the opening credits of an adventure, rolling, as that scrying spell swept over the hills and Prestidigitation’s music played.
Isekai'd Again With My Himbo Hubby, Our Mischief Gremlin Daughter, And My Cheat SRD: A FIFTH EDITION COMPATIBLE litRPG
Written by: Pastafarian
Cinematography (Opening Credits): Pastafarian
With Guest Appearances From: Whoever You Think Belongs Here
This work includes material taken from the System Reference Document 5.1 (“SRD 5.1”) by Wizards of the Coast LLC and available at https://dnd.wizards.com/resources/systems-reference-document. The SRD 5.1 is licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution 4.0 International License available at https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/legalcode.
“You know,” Cassandra observed, turning to her husband, “we’ve made more distance than I expected. It feels like we were talking by the word and traveling by the step until now.”
“Got into the flow, maybe?” Jason frowned. “I hadn’t even noticed what condition the road was in, and how slow we’re walking. Maybe three miles an hour? And when I was in the flow, this felt like a solid pace, but you and I made better time than this in Canyonlands.”
“Oxen?” Cassandra frowned. “Or some sort of system thing when we get into the flow, like this is just…”
Pace: Normal
Distance Per Minute: 300 feet
Distance Per Hour: 3 miles
Distance Per Day: 24 miles
“... just how the System thinks we travel. Three miles an hour, eight hours. Plus, oxen.”
“Oxen,” Jason agreed, nodding. “But I suppose I’m ready to get to the lunch spot.”
“Back into the fugue state, then. This countryside is dire.”
TIME
In a city or wilderness, a scale of hours is often more appropriate. Adventurers eager to reach the lonely tower at the heart of the forest hurry across those fifteen miles in just under four hours' time.