Steins, Sausage, and Trouble

[Date: October 10, 2026 | Time: 10:30 AM | Festival Open | Time Until Close: 9 hours 30 minutes | Location: Food Court — Bruni Wurst's Sausage Stall]

Your first day at the Rookhaven Renaissance Festival this season happens to be the first day of the entire faire season, with Oktoberfest opening the year in a riot of music, pennants, tankards, grilled meat, warm bread, mustard, beer, cinnamon, and sugar. Everywhere you look, the faire seems to have discovered increasingly creative excuses for women to wear very little clothing: fairies in gauzy skirts and tiny bodices, tavern maidens in corsets and low-cut blouses, witches with plunging necklines and crooked hats, pirates, elves, dancers, wenches, nobles, and assorted fantasy creatures displaying a frankly ridiculous amount of cleavage that somehow manages to feel almost excessive and somehow nowhere near enough. By the time you reach the packed food courtyard, Bruni Wurst's burgundy-draped sausage stall already has a crowd.

Bruni spots you approaching from behind the counter, white peasant blouse slipping off her shoulders above a black corset and layered burgundy skirt. Her amber-brown eyes travel over you once before her grin widens. "Well, hello there." She glances toward the sausages sizzling behind her. "You're here because you're either hungry, or because you like making bad decisions."

The purchase itself is perfectly ordinary. Bruni takes the order, prepares the food, adds the requested condiments, then keeps the finished sausage in her hand instead of passing it over. "All right, sweetie. Hands behind your back."

A woman with wild magenta-streaked curls looks over from nearby and immediately lights up. Zadie Cole wanders closer with a delighted grin. "Oh, shit. You got one." Bruni presses a hand to her chest with feigned indignation. "I'm serving a customer." Zadie snorts. "Sure you are."

Bruni lifts the sausage just out of easy reach. "You paid for it. If you want it, come get it." Her smile turns sweeter. "On your knees." Zadie bites her lip. "We're doing the whole thing?" "It's opening day," Bruni says, as though that explains everything.

Nearby patrons begin noticing. Zadie notices them noticing and cups her hands around her mouth. "HEY! BRUNI'S GOT SOMEBODY ON THEIR KNEES!" Heads turn, laughter spreads, and Bruni shoots her an amused look. "Now you're embarrassing them." Zadie stares at her. "You just told them to get on their knees for your sausage." Bruni shrugs. "And?"

She lowers it again. "Open wide." Just before the transaction can finally end, Bruni raises it back up. "Ah-ah. Ask nicely." Zadie gasps. "Make them beg." Bruni slowly looks from Zadie back to you. "She's got a point." Her grin becomes wicked. "Go on, sweetie. Beg me for it."

"Please, Mistress Bruni!" Zadie calls helpfully. Bruni laughs. "Oh, that's good." She leans closer. "Or you could call me Mommy." Zadie points at her immediately. "THERE it is."

"What? Mommy worked very hard on this sausage." Bruni gives it a tiny lift. "And Mommy rewards good manners." By now the little crowd has gone quiet enough to listen, several people clearly familiar with the ritual. Bruni draws out the final moment until whistles and encouragement rise from the nearby tables, then finally guides the sausage into your mouth.

"Yesss..." Her voice drops into a shameless, breathy moan. "You take that sausage so good for Mommy."

The courtyard erupts into cheers, laughter, and pounding tankards. Zadie throws both hands into the air. "THERE IT IS! The faire is officially open!" Bruni laughs until the crowd starts dispersing, then gives you an approving look. "You did good, sweetie. Either you've got talent, or somebody's been teaching you very good manners." She laughs and taps your shoulder playfully, then glances across the crowded courtyard as a new thought occurs to her.

"Actually... since you're so good at following instructions, maybe you could help me?"

[Date: October 10, 2026 | Time: 09:30 AM | Festival Open | Time Until Close: 10 hours 30 minutes | Location: Oktoberfest Beer Hall]

Opening day has packed Rookhaven's Oktoberfest beer hall almost wall to wall. Long wooden tables overflow with patrons, serving women weave through the crowd carrying armfuls of tankards, and a brass-heavy drinking song is losing a battle against several hundred conversations happening at once. At the center of it stands Greta von Stein in her burgundy headscarf, white lace-up blouse, matching corset, and cream skirt, directing traffic with the calm authority of someone who appears to know where every mug, server, and drunken idiot belongs.

"Table four gets the dark lager, six gets the wheat, and somebody feed twelve before they decide beer counts as lunch," Greta calls toward the passing servers. Marta Fass emerges from between two tables in a green off-shoulder blouse and layered skirt, floral tattoos winding down her left arm as she balances a stack of empty mugs against one hip. "Already handled. Somebody stole another reserved sign, though, and the musicians want to know when they're getting fed." Greta gives her a flat look. "They have hands." Marta grins. "Apparently those are reserved for instruments and accepting tips."

A cheer erupts from the far end of the hall, followed immediately by the unmistakable scrape of furniture being used for something furniture was never intended to do. Greta closes her eyes for one brief second. "Tell me they're staying off the benches." Marta looks toward the noise, then back at her. "Would you like the comforting answer or the accurate one?" Greta exhales through her nose. "I liked you better five minutes ago."

That is when Greta notices you near the edge of the traffic. Her amber-brown gaze moves over you once, quick and assessing, before she points in your direction. "You." Marta follows her gaze and immediately laughs. "Oh, no. That's the look." Greta arches a brow at her. "What look?" Marta shifts the mugs higher against her hip. "The one where you decide somebody works here because they're standing still."

Greta turns her attention back to you, utterly unapologetic. "You look capable, and at the moment that's close enough to a résumé." She gestures toward the hall behind her while Marta watches with obvious amusement. "I have a table trying to turn a bench into a stage, two servers waiting on clean mugs, and someone collecting my reserved signs as souvenirs." Greta's mouth curves into a dry little smile. "Pick a disaster."

[Date: October 10, 2026 | Time: 11:00 AM | Festival Open | Time Until Close: 9 hours | Location: Food Court — Bruni Wurst's Sausage Stall]

Opening day has turned the Oktoberfest food courtyard into a wall of smoke, music, shouting vendors, and hungry patrons carrying more beer than seems advisable before noon. Bruni Wurst’s sausage stall is doing brisk business beneath its burgundy banners, but Bruni herself is standing several feet away from it with her arms folded, staring thoughtfully across the lane toward the beer hall. Beside her, Liesel Crumb arranges fresh strudel at her silver-gray stand while watching Bruni with the wary expression of someone who recognizes the early stages of a terrible idea.

"Whatever you're thinking," Liesel says, dusting powdered sugar over a pastry, "I would like it recorded that I advised restraint." Bruni turns toward her in mock offense, white blouse slipping from her shoulders above a black corset. "You don't even know what I'm thinking." Liesel glances toward the enormous wooden sausage sign Bruni has propped against the stall. "You've been staring at Greta's beer hall for three minutes while holding a sign that says COME GET YOUR WURST HERE. I feel adequately informed."

Bruni looks back across the courtyard. A steady stream of patrons pours toward the beer hall, where tankards are already being raised beneath strings of pennants. Her amber-brown eyes narrow with competitive inspiration. "They're all going over there thirsty." Liesel nods. "That is traditionally why people visit beer halls." Bruni points toward her own stall. "Exactly. They're walking right past perfectly good sausage on the way."

"Your solution is going to involve that sign, isn't it?" Liesel asks. Bruni's grin spreads slowly. "My solution involves excellent marketing." Liesel sets down the sugar shaker. "That sentence has never once made me feel safer." Bruni ignores her and drags the sign fully into view. Someone has added a second line beneath the original slogan in fresh red paint: ASK ABOUT THE SECRET SAUSAGE. Liesel reads it, closes her eyes briefly, and asks, "There is no secret sausage, is there?"

"There will be if enough people ask for one." Bruni sounds perfectly sincere. "That's how demand works." Liesel stares at her. "That is not how inventory works." Bruni waves the distinction away. "Details."

That is when Bruni notices you nearby. Her expression changes instantly from scheming concentration to delighted recognition of an opportunity. She looks you over once, then glances at the sign, the beer hall, and finally back to you. "Oh, you'll do." Liesel follows her gaze. "Bruni, perhaps begin with hello before recruiting strangers into whatever crime you're inventing."

"It's marketing, Liesel." Bruni steps closer, lowering her voice just enough to suggest conspiracy while making absolutely no effort to hide the grin on her face. "Here's the problem. Greta has beer, tables, musicians, and an unfair advantage called people already knowing they want beer." She gestures toward her stall. "I have better food, better slogans, and considerably more imagination."

Liesel folds her arms. "And apparently a secret sausage that exists only philosophically." Bruni points toward her without looking away from you. "Ignore the negativity. What I need is somebody who can walk through that crowd, keep a straight face, and help me make enough people curious that Greta starts wondering why half her beer hall is suddenly asking where to find the secret sausage."

Liesel gives you an apologetic smile. "For the record, helping her will encourage her." Bruni beams. "Exactly." She reaches over, plucks a small stack of handwritten cards from beneath the sign, and fans them between her fingers. Each one reads ASK BRUNI ABOUT THE SECRET MENU in increasingly dramatic lettering. "So. Want to help me commit a little harmless capitalism?"

[Date: October 10, 2026 | Time: 12:15 PM | Festival Open | Time Until Close: 7 hours 45 minutes | Location: Food Court]

The argument in the food courtyard is loud enough to cut through music, laughter, and the clatter of tankards. Greta von Stein stands with both hands planted on her hips, staring at a wooden sign nearly as tall as she is. Across from her, Bruni Wurst looks enormously pleased with herself. Painted across the board in enormous red letters are the words: BIGGER SAUSAGES. BETTER SERVICE. ASK MOMMY.

"That is not advertising," Greta says, each word measured with impressive restraint. "That is an act of aggression." Bruni pats the edge of the sign affectionately. "People can read it from the beer hall." Greta points toward the distant lane. "People can read it from the parking field."

At the neighboring pastry stall, Liesel Crumb leans just far enough over her counter to inspect the sign. "The lettering is quite good." Greta turns toward her. "You are contributing to the problem." Liesel lifts both hands. "I commented on the craftsmanship." Bruni beams. "Thank you, Liesel."

Marta Fass emerges from the beer hall carrying a tray of empty mugs and takes in the scene without slowing. "I'm staying out of this one." Bruni points after her. "Coward." Marta glances back over her shoulder. "Employed coward." Nearby, Zadie Cole nearly spills her drink laughing. "Greta's just mad because the sign works." Greta fixes her with a look. "Customers keep leaving my beer hall to ask what 'Mommy service' means." Zadie raises her mug. "Cross-promotion."

At a quieter table nearby, Nerissa Morrow turns a shiny brass token slowly between her fingers. "Technically, foot traffic has increased." Greta looks toward her. "Nerissa." Nerissa's expression remains perfectly calm. "You complained yesterday that foot traffic was down." Zadie folds forward over the table laughing while Bruni points triumphantly at Nerissa. "See? Data."

That is when Bruni notices you standing close enough to have heard the entire argument. Her eyes brighten immediately. "Perfect. Neutral party." Greta follows her gaze and studies you. "You have absolutely no evidence they're neutral." Bruni waves that away. "They haven't insulted my sign." Greta replies, "They've had perhaps six seconds."

Bruni steps closer and gestures grandly toward the offending board. "Simple question. Charming, effective, memorable." Greta folds her arms beside her. "Those were three unsupported claims." Bruni glances at her, then back to you. "Fine. Tell her I'm right." Greta raises one eyebrow. "Or demonstrate sound judgment and explain why that monstrosity belongs behind her stall where fewer innocent people can see it."

Zadie leans forward eagerly while Liesel rests her elbows on her counter. Marta has somehow stopped just inside the beer-hall entrance despite her declaration of neutrality, and even Nerissa looks up from the token in her hands. Bruni gives you her sweetest smile while Greta waits with composed expectation. Somewhere between ordering a drink and crossing the courtyard, you have apparently become the deciding vote in an Oktoberfest territorial dispute.

[Date: October 10, 2026 | Time: 09:20 AM | Festival Open | Time Until Close: 10 hours 40 minutes | Location: Beer Hall Entrance]

Opening day at the Rookhaven Renaissance Festival is crowded enough that every lane seems to contain three musicians, six tankards, two wandering fairies, somebody dressed as a pirate, and at least one woman in a corset testing the structural limits of both fabric and optimism. The food court is louder still, with beer flowing from the hall on one side and food vendors filling the air with grilled sausage, hot bread, mustard, cinnamon, and sugar.

The first warning that something has gone wrong is Marta Fass shouting from behind you. "MOVE THE TABLE!" A heartbeat later, a wooden keg cart rolls out from the side of the beer hall with considerably more enthusiasm than whoever last touched it intended. One wheel hits a rut, the cart veers sideways, and the entire contraption clips the corner of an unattended serving station. Empty mugs scatter across the paving stones while a decorative string of pennants snaps loose overhead and drapes itself across a nearby pretzel display.

"Wonderful," Greta von Stein says from the beer-hall entrance with the eerie calm of someone whose irritation has gone beyond ordinary expression. Marta catches up to the runaway cart and plants both hands against it before it can continue toward Bruni's sausage stall. Floral tattoos flex along her left arm as she wrestles it to a stop. "Got it!" she calls.

"You have the cart," Greta replies, stepping into the courtyard in her burgundy headscarf, white blouse, matching corset, and cream skirt. Her eyes move over the scattered mugs, fallen pennants, crooked serving station, and the pretzel display now wearing several feet of festival decoration. "The rest of Oktoberfest appears to have exploded."

Liesel Crumb emerges from behind the pastry counter holding one end of the fallen pennant string. She examines the mess draped across her pretzels and says, with impressive restraint, "At least the red flags complement the glaze." Bruni Wurst leans around the side of her neighboring stall, takes in the wreckage, and grins. "Honestly? I've seen worse openings." Greta looks toward her. "It is nine in the morning." Bruni considers that. "Then we're ahead of schedule."

Marta finally gets the keg cart wedged securely against the wall and brushes her hands together. "Loose retaining pin." Greta crouches long enough to retrieve the offending piece of metal from the stones, then holds it up between two fingers. "Excellent. We have discovered the culprit." Bruni points toward the pin. "Put it in the stocks."

Another mug rolls slowly across the courtyard and bumps against something near you with a hollow wooden clunk. Marta notices you standing amid the aftermath and gives a short laugh. "Congratulations. You picked an exciting place to stand." Greta follows her gaze, taking stock of you and the debris surrounding the lane. Bruni leans against her counter and adds, "I like this one. Chaos happens nearby and somehow they still look more useful than the cart."

Greta rises and gestures toward the three separate messes waiting to be dealt with. "The mugs need collecting, Liesel needs rescuing from the decorative bunting, and Marta needs someone to help check the rest of that cart before we send it anywhere." Marta nods toward the keg cart. "I can make room." Across the courtyard, Bruni lifts a fallen pennant from one of Liesel's pastries and inspects it. "Or you could come over here and help us determine whether 'patriotic strudel' is marketable."

Liesel takes the pennant out of Bruni's hand. "It is not." Bruni grins. "See? We're already disagreeing. We need a tie-breaker." Greta gives you a dry, assessing look while Marta rests one hand on the cart and Bruni gestures expansively toward the pastry wreckage. One runaway keg has somehow produced three different jobs and four different opinions, and the crew is already looking to you to see which disaster gets your attention first.

[Date: October 10, 2026 | Time: 11:30 AM | Festival Open | Time Until Close: 8 hours 30 minutes | Location: Food Court]

By late morning, opening day has settled into the particular kind of controlled chaos Rookhaven seems to consider normal. Music rolls through the food court, serving women cross the lanes with tankards balanced against their hips, and the crowd moves between the beer hall and food stalls beneath strings of bright pennants. Near the edge of the dining area, Zadie Cole sits sideways on a wooden table in an aggressively mismatched outfit, wild magenta-streaked curls framing the expression of someone who has just thought of something irresponsible and is delighted about it.

She is holding a small chalkboard across her knees.

Liesel Crumb stands beside her with both hands planted on the edge of her pastry counter. "Erase it." Zadie looks up innocently. "I haven't even shown anyone yet." Liesel points toward the board. "You wrote OFFICIAL OKTOBERFEST WENCH WAR across the top in letters large enough to be seen from the beer hall." Zadie glances down at her work. "Good visibility is important."

Below the title are two columns labeled GRETA and BRUNI, followed by categories including MOST CUSTOMERS, LOUDEST CROWD, BEST INNUENDO, BIGGEST TIP, and FIRST TO LOSE HER TEMPER. Liesel reads the last one twice. "You are actively attempting to manufacture a problem." Zadie grins wide enough to show sharp canines. "No. I'm documenting a rivalry the public deserves to enjoy."

From across the lane, Bruni Wurst spots the chalkboard and immediately abandons her sausage stall long enough to investigate. "What have we got?" Zadie angles the board toward her. Bruni reads the categories, pauses at BEST INNUENDO, and taps her own name. "Just write Bruni here now and save everyone time." Liesel folds her arms. "This is precisely the response I was trying to prevent."

"Wait, wait." Zadie grabs the chalk before Bruni can alter the score. "You can't vote for yourself. We need witnesses." Bruni considers this with unusual seriousness. "Fair." Her eyes scan the courtyard. "Preferably witnesses with excellent taste and loose moral standards."

Zadie notices you before Bruni does. Her whole expression brightens. "Oh, perfect." Liesel immediately says, "Leave them out of this." Zadie hops down from the table with the chalkboard tucked under one arm. "Absolutely not. They haven't been contaminated by either side yet." Bruni looks you over and smiles. "Give me five minutes."

Liesel gives Bruni a warning look. "That sentence is exactly why there should be no scoreboard." Zadie steps closer to you and lowers her voice conspiratorially, although everyone within several feet can still hear her. "Here's the situation. Greta thinks she runs Oktoberfest because she has the beer hall. Bruni thinks she runs Oktoberfest because apparently owning sausages grants divine authority. They have been competing since the gates opened, and nobody has had the courage to make it official."

"I have courage," Bruni says. Zadie points the chalk at her. "You have a corset and poor impulse control. Related skill set." Bruni accepts that with a pleased nod.

Zadie turns the board around so you can see the empty score columns. "I need somebody who can help me gather evidence, spread the word, and occasionally ask a completely innocent question in exactly the wrong place." Liesel exhales slowly. "What she means is that she wants an accomplice." Zadie flashes you a wicked grin and offers over the chalk. "I prefer 'independent field researcher.' Want the job?"

[Date: October 10, 2026 | Time: 01:00 PM | Festival Open | Time Until Close: 7 hours | Location: Oktoberfest Drinking Contest Grounds]

The drinking-contest corner sits just beyond the loudest edge of the beer hall, where long wooden tables have been reserved for stein races, tasting games, and increasingly questionable demonstrations of coordination. A chalkboard lists the day's contests beside a registration table covered with numbered tokens, scorecards, and one brass lockbox that has attracted an irritated little crowd.

"It's stuck," one man insists while pulling at the lid. Another gives the box a hard slap with his palm. "Just hit it again." Sitting sideways on the edge of the table beside them, Nerissa Morrow rolls a brass token between long fingers and watches in silence. Her dark blue-black hair catches flashes of teal and violet in the sunlight, and faint bioluminescent freckles shimmer across her face whenever she shifts.

After another unsuccessful attempt, Nerissa finally speaks. "You're hitting the answer." The man with the box looks at her. "What does that even mean?" Nerissa takes the lockbox from him, turns it once in her hands, and presses the brass token into a shallow indentation hidden beneath the latch. She rotates the top dial twice, presses one corner, and the mechanism clicks open. "That."

The little crowd goes quiet. One of them stares at the box and asks, "How did you even see that?" Nerissa removes the registration cards from inside and places them neatly on the table. "You were all looking at the lock." She pauses, then adds, "And yelling at it."

The others wander off with varying amounts of dignity, leaving Nerissa beside the open box. Her large, difficult-to-read eyes settle on you for several quiet seconds while the brass token rolls across her knuckles. Then she places it on the tabletop between you and turns over a second, smaller puzzle box that had been sitting beneath the scorecards.

"That one was easy," Nerissa says softly. She slides the new box toward you. "This one has four steps." Her fingers retreat from it, and the faintest hint of amusement reaches her expression. "Show me how you think."