So, you've inadvertently caused a public spectacle. Perhaps involving property damage, startled livestock, agitated guards, or (heaven forbid) disgruntled nobility. Your immediate priority after escaping the scene is damage control and minimizing long-term repercussions. Such incidents, while often stemming from sheer incompetence or poor planning, are distressingly common among newcomers unfamiliar with local customs or basic spatial awareness.
Standard Protocols:
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Maintain Low Profile: Vanish. Avoid the area of the incident. Vary your routines significantly. Consider minor alterations to your appearance if possible (a different cloak, losing the ridiculous hat – anything to break immediate recognition). Avoid drawing any further attention.
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Information Gathering (Cautious): Discreetly monitor local gossip (tavern whispers, market chatter) and guard patrol patterns. Understand the official response – is there a warrant, a bounty, or just generalized annoyance? Knowing the severity of the fallout is crucial for assessing when, or if, it's safe to resume normal activities.
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Reputation Repair (Long Term): Once the immediate storm passes (and assume it will take longer than you hope), focus on rebuilding trust, likely from a point lower than where you started. Reliable work, quiet competence, and scrupulously avoiding further trouble are key. Apologies or restitution might be options, but only if approached with extreme caution and when the offended party is no longer actively seeking your head on a platter. (See Module 112: Making Amends - Groveling, Bribes, and Quest-Based Redemption).
Addendum for Low LUK Scenarios: Assume the worst. Assume the guard you inevitably annoyed will remember your face and hold a grudge. Assume the merchant whose prized vase you shattered has already circulated your description. Assume eyewitness accounts, already prone to exaggeration, will paint you in the least favorable light possible ("He didn't just trip; he executed a bizarre dance move that culminated in kicking the Alderman's prize poodle!"). When probability actively conspires against you, minor incidents escalate, memories linger, and the 'heat' remains intense far longer than logic would suggest. Lying low becomes not merely advisable, but an essential survival tactic. Prolonged periods of obscurity, possibly involving finding work in entirely different districts or even considering temporary relocation, may be necessary. (See Section 53: Skipping Town - Techniques and Considerations).
(Inkstained Prophet's Counsel: Sometimes, the only winning move after a LUK-induced catastrophe is not to play. Find a hole, pull it in after you, and wait for the universe's spiteful attention to wander elsewhere. Honestly, the paperwork generated by these public disturbances is atrocious.)
[Kevin's Story: Part 19 - Echoes of Failure]
Kevin spent the next three days adhering religiously to the Prophet's (and the Veteran's) advice: he laid low. Excruciatingly low. He confined himself almost entirely to the Drunken Sailor and its immediate vicinity. He helped Martha and Bors with extra diligence, scrubbing floors that were already clean, polishing tankards until they gleamed, volunteering for the nastiest kitchen tasks – anything to justify his presence and keep him out of sight.
He only ventured out under the cover of pre-dawn darkness to fetch water from a nearby well or dispose of tavern refuse, always scanning the shadows, heart pounding at every distant footstep. The [Public Disturbance Notice] status effect hadn't faded from his System screen, a constant, nagging reminder of the angry guard and the shattered spice box.
His anxiety was a cold knot in his stomach. What was happening outside? Had the guard put out a description? Was Fennel demanding compensation? He strained to catch snippets of conversation from the tavern patrons, filtering out the usual drunken boasts and complaints for any mention of the incident.
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He heard it on the third day. Two dockworkers, nursing cheap morning ale, were laughing.
"...and the guard, red as a boiled crab, swearing blind the lad had some kind of trained attack bird before vanishing with the fancy box!"
"Vanished with it? Nah, saw it meself later," the other slurred. "Cart went right over it. Looked like kindling and smelled like grandma's potpourri. Fennel was fit to be tied, asking everyone if they saw the clumsy oaf responsible."
Kevin felt a cold sweat break out. So, Fennel knew the box was destroyed, and he knew who to blame. Attack bird? That part of the rumor was ridiculous, but it didn't matter. His face, his description as 'Finn the Fixer', was now associated with incompetence and property destruction in the Merchant Quarter. That avenue for better work was slammed shut, possibly permanently. And the guard clearly remembered him and likely held a grudge.
The storeroom, once a sanctuary, now felt like a cage. He was safe here, but the moment he stepped back into his routine, he risked running into that guard or facing Fennel's wrath. And beyond that, there was the ever-present threat of his LUK 3 striking again, turning some other minor task into a fresh disaster. He couldn't just keep scrubbing pots forever.
He pulled up the Guide again, navigating past the Damage Control section to revisit Module 82 on Luck. He focused on the "Improving Your Statistical Fortune" subsection. Stat Allocation felt insufficient; even raising LUK to 8 seemed unlikely to counteract the sheer malice of recent events. Gear and Consumables were expensive and potentially unreliable. Fate Manipulation was out of reach. That left Blessings/Boons.
The Veteran's note echoed: Appeasing Dame Fortuna? Shrines rumored to influence fickle fate. The Old Temple on the cliffs...
He searched the Guide for references to 'shrines', 'luck blessings', 'forgotten gods', and 'Old Temple'. The results were scattered across different modules and appendices, reflecting the Guide's vast, non-linear structure.
[Excerpt from Appendix D: Minor Deities, Folk Beliefs, and Wayside Shrines]
...Beyond established pantheons, many worlds harbor localized deities or nature spirits credited with influence over specific domains like luck, weather, or finding lost items. Offerings at their neglected shrines (coins, food, trinkets, sometimes blood) are common folk practices. Efficacy is anecdotal and highly variable...
[Excerpt from Section 305: Dealing with Ruined Sacred Sites]
...Ancient temples, abandoned monasteries, and desecrated shrines often retain residual power or attract entities drawn to lingering faith (or despair). Exploration carries risks: structural collapse, lingering curses, unhappy spirits, cultists seeking to reactivate the site. However, forgotten altars might still respond to sincere petition or sacrifice, sometimes granting unexpected boons... or attracting unwanted divine attention...
[Cross-reference Warning from Module 666: Demonic Pacts and Other Bad Ideas]
...Be aware that entities dwelling in 'forgotten' or 'desecrated' places may not be benevolent deities. Offers made in desperation can easily be interpreted as pacts by less scrupulous powers offering 'luck' in exchange for... future considerations. Verify divine alignment before praying, if possible...
The warnings were clear, but the possibility, however slim, remained. The Old Temple. A gamble, as the Veteran said. But what other choice did he have? Wait for his luck to ruin him completely? Wait for Grok's thugs or the Sea Serpents to connect him to the late Finn O'Malley?
His thoughts were interrupted by raised voices from the tavern's common room filtering through the storeroom door. He pressed his ear against the wood. It wasn't the usual drunken shouting.
"...Sea Serpents think they own the damned Narrows now!" a rough voice snarled. Kevin recognized it – one of Grok's Wharf Rat enforcers he sometimes saw lurking near the docks. "Hit another of our shipments last night. Cleaned it out."
"Grok ain't happy," another voice replied. "Says someone's feeding 'em info. Like that little weasel Finn used to do..."
Kevin froze, blood running cold. They were still talking about Finn. Still suspicious about informants. And the Sea Serpent Guild was actively muscling in on Wharf Rat territory – the stolen goods in Warehouse Four hadn't been an isolated incident. The conflict Finn had been caught in was escalating. It was only a matter of time before someone started digging deeper into Finn's associates or last known activities. His own 'Finn the Fixer' identity wouldn't protect him if they started asking serious questions.
The decision crystallized. Laying low wasn't safe. The city itself, with its simmering gang war and Finn's lingering ghost, was becoming too dangerous. And his own abysmal luck was an accelerant poured on the flames.
He had to try the Temple. It was a desperate long shot based on rumor and a cryptic note, fraught with potential dangers according to the Guide itself. But it was action. It was a chance, however slim, to change the fundamental variable that kept tripping him up.
Tomorrow, he decided. Tomorrow he would gather supplies and head for the cliffs. Time to roll the dice.