Thessaly Ruin: A Bridge Too Tallied: The Auditor's Stand

Gorm, I paid for safe passage and you stamped it. If the bridge isn’t shut for the flood, what is it shut for?

Gorm arches a bushy brow, glancing briefly at the water but dismissing it with a grunt. "Flood’s not the thing shutting the bridge today. I’m behind on my quarter payments—county’s lost my paperwork. That’s the reason. Not your receipt, not the water. Business. Nothing personal." He folds his arms again, theatrically resigned. "Rules are rules, and the bridge stands shut."

Then issue me a fresh receipt and let us cross; the records will show you took due toll and kept all proper order, despite county confusion.

Gorm folds those words into a slow sigh, eyeing the worn receipt as if it offended his senses. "Fresh receipt? I keep no stock of these on the bridge—county’s server must be their local stream, lost downstream like my paperwork." He taps the chain with a gloved finger. "Paper won’t fix the quarter. Maybe if you vanish my debt, but I never signed up for that sort of magic." He smirks, clearly unimpressed with your accounting attempt.

Gorm, you know how many have crossed, but if nobody crosses back, the county will have a gap and you a question. Let us return, balance your record.

Gorm snorts, not bothering to hide his scorn. "Balance my record? Fine. But your side’s stuck here, and I’m no ferry to shuttle back and forth for free. None crossed back this afternoon, so county's ledger stays scrambled—your clever idea leaves me holding the chain. That water's high and rising; the bridge stands shut until this quarter’s settled. Or until you dream up better terms." He taps the chain again, unimpressed.

Gorm, you shut the bridge for your own accounting, but let’s record each crossing—names, times, all correct. I’ll tally and sign beside you.

Gorm snorts louder, watching you conjure ledgers out of thin air. "Names, times? Your tallying's a fine idea but I've no ledger here, nor pen, nor clerk. The bridge isn't a court and you aren't my deputy. Could try writing on that soggy receipt, but it'd turn to pulp faster than I’d trust county clerks. Until quarter's settled, the chain stays, ledger or no." He folds arms like closing a very boring book.

Gorm, if the chain stays for accounts, then every moment you deny passage grows your deficit—four witnesses now. Will you log that, or shall I?

Gorm glares as if your counting threatens to undo a well-woven tale. "Four witnesses," he repeats, voice flat as a damp log. "Fine. Log it all, on your honor—my tally's in arrears, not charity. Every denied soul adds to my county book, but this bridge ain’t a ledger sheet. If you want to keep count, keep count," he says, tapping the chain one last time. "But the chain stays until quarters clear, counting or no."

I write all our names and the hour on my soggy receipt for you to endorse—if the county calls, your records stay honest. Will you sign with me?

Gorm leans down, squinting at the limp receipt before him. "Your scribbles on damp paper won't fix the paperwork lost to the county, but suppose your honesty stage adds a touch of color to my day." He grips the receipt with a hesitant claw. "I’ll sign this...for today only. But one day alone keeps the chain locked for the rest." He coughs, clearly resentful of this amateur bookkeeping.

Gorm, your signature on this proves you denied us for cause. County sees reasons, not chains. Will you sign and open before sundown?

Gorm snorts with theatrical finality, dipping a grimy quill into a puddle. "There, signed and sealed—your soggy receipt holds the day's refused crossings in ink shriveled by spray and time." He steps back, folding arms before the stubborn chain. "But don't mistake my mark for passage granted. The barrier remains, the water climbs, and your companions watch the dark deepen. Records kept, bridge closed—that's all today's tale."