"Oh. Rat-catcher, huh?" He squints at the half-elf. "You look mighty clean to be a rat-catcher. New recruit, huh?"
Braddon nods. "New recruit. With the speed these things breed I thought you'd have new recruits every day."
He takes a step forward and offers his non-kittened hand.
"Braddon," he announces. "What do you do round here?"
The girl glances over her shoulder toward the kitchen and stammers aloud, "I... Mr. Crispin sees the lobster supplier on Fireday afternoons. You might find him there." Stepping closer, she gives him a fierce look and drops her voice to a whisper. "Her Nibs don't approve of gambling on the fights. You want to get Alex in trouble?"
"At the lobsterman's?", Gristav repeats plaintively, a silent wink answering the whisper. "No hope then. I'll just have to remember my notes. I have such a poor memory...", the half-elf says, turning to rush away. "Thank you!", he says, as he goes through the door...
To return an instant later. "Can I have another stew? For ten? I'll be back for it, and I promise, not to clean the crock this time!" Then he's gone again.
And back again. "And anything of blueberry?", he calls, taut as a bowstring between his attention on the girl and immanent flight, waiting only for acknowledgement.
---------------------------
He takes a step forward and offers his non-kittened hand.
"Braddon," he announces. "What do you do round here?"
The half-orc visibly hesitates at the proffered hand. He takes Braddon's fingers a little gingerly and gives them a brief shake. "Luca," he introduces himself. "Security. Gates are about to open at the arena; someone's got to keep an eye on the district." Luca wipes the hand he shook on his tunic while he is speaking.
---------------------------
"Can I have another stew? For ten? I'll be back for it, and I promise, not to clean the crock this time!" Then he's gone again.
And back again. "And anything of blueberry?", he calls, taut as a bowstring between his attention on the girl and immanent flight, waiting only for acknowledgement.
"For ten?" the girl responds, wide-eyed. "This late in the afternoon? You'll have to be back before sunset!" she calls after Gristav, as he emerges into the afternoon sunlight to head ...
----------------------------
Snake rises as he sees the three brought in. "Yes I can. That one's Micah," he points to the man, "the woman is Finnie and the little girl is Cassie." He glances at them, hoping they haven't been scarred even worse than they already are and waiting to see what comes next in this process.
The face of the leader of the Gendarmes bringing in the prisoners sours. "What's this all about, Cooke?" he asks.
"This man's standing surety for these three," Cooke responds. "Approved by the general." He glances across the submissive woman, the little girl, and the whimpering man, and the corner of his mouth turns up sardonically. "Gave you a bit of trouble, did they, Graves? They certainly look dangerous."
Graves scowls. "They were in a known criminal establishment," he retorts hotly. "I had orders to bring in anyone found there."
"And you've done your duty," Cooke replies mildly. "Now let me do mine." He displays the affidavit he's prepared before crossing to the desk to complete the form. "Names and descriptions," he murmurs half to himself, as he fills in the blanks he left earlier, "and then I'll need your signature here." He revolves the parchment on the desk and draws an explanatory X where Snake is to sign before offering him the quill.
----------------------------
"Good afternoon, gentlemen. I overheard a discussion concerning arena bouts. I'm new to Riddleport. I am of the mind to learn as much as I can about the arena. Best days to bet. Who I might bet on. Any chance I could join your discussion?"
"Well...." The pair of men exchange dubious glances, but Piccolo can't help but notice that the second man's hand drops away from his weapon. Taking that as an invitation, he enters the box, which is virtually identical to Will's, albeit with a slightly different view onto the sand, with an ingratiating smile.
"If you're new to Riddleport, how'd you get into this level of the arena?" one man asks, as much curious as skeptical. "Never known Zincher to rent them out to strangers."
"Luca," he introduces himself. "Security. Gates are about to open at the arena; someone's got to keep an eye on the district." Luca wipes the hand he shook on his tunic while he is speaking.
"Security?" Braddon looks to the rat traps.
"Who are you keeping secure from what? Is there a secret way into the arena here? Or does the crowd get a bit restless and add to the mess that's already here?"
"For ten?" the girl responds, wide-eyed. "This late in the afternoon? You'll have to be back before sunset!" she calls after Gristav, as he emerges into the afternoon sunlight to head ... where?
Turning and showing his back without fear to Crysanthemum, Phillip allows all the feelings that roil within him to steep and fester. His legs guide him from Rotgut towards the House of Silken Veils... where he seeks a private bath, and time to allow his thoughts to marinate.
"It helps if you are an acquaintance of a spectacular artist. Will Swevenforey has been gracious and provided a means of entry into this lofty area of the arena. We gnomes tend to stick together given our sparse numbers. We tend to pass unnoticed given we don't take up much space."
"Your box is quite nice." He strolls about the box. "So it seems Fireday is not the best day at the arena. At least that is what I hear. Is today merely a prelude to the real money bouts on Starday?"
"Well...." The pair of men exchange dubious glances, but Piccolo can't help but notice that the second man's hand drops away from his weapon. Taking that as an invitation, he enters the box, which is virtually identical to Will's, albeit with a slightly different view onto the sand, with an ingratiating smile.
"If you're new to Riddleport, how'd you get into this level of the arena?" one man asks, as much curious as skeptical. "Never known Zincher to rent them out to strangers."
The face of the leader of the Gendarmes bringing in the prisoners sours. "What's this all about, Cooke?" he asks.
"This man's standing surety for these three," Cooke responds. "Approved by the general." He glances across the submissive woman, the little girl, and the whimpering man, and the corner of his mouth turns up sardonically. "Gave you a bit of trouble, did they, Graves? They certainly look dangerous."
Graves scowls. "They were in a known criminal establishment," he retorts hotly. "I had orders to bring in anyone found there."
"And you've done your duty," Cooke replies mildly. "Now let me do mine." He displays the affidavit he's prepared before crossing to the desk to complete the form. "Names and descriptions," he murmurs half to himself, as he fills in the blanks he left earlier, "and then I'll need your signature here." He revolves the parchment on the desk and draws an explanatory X where Snake is to sign before offering him the quill.
Snake takes the quill with reluctance - not use to signing his name to anything - and signs next to the "X" the name "Kane" before returning the quill. "So what's next?"
----------------------------
"Security?" Braddon looks to the rat traps.
"Who are you keeping secure from what? Is there a secret way into the arena here? Or does the crowd get a bit restless and add to the mess that's already here?"
"Security for the homes and businesses of Leeward," Luca responds promptly. "While everyone's away watching the fights, it's a prime time for thieves to poke around ... looking for back ways in, rat catcher." The half-orc's speech slows as he completes his final sentence, giving Braddon and his back-alley surroundings a suspicious glare.
----------------------------
Gristav departs the Three-Billed Duck and joins the flow of pedestrian traffic heading toward Zincher's Arena. It begins with just a few people here and there, but by the time he nears the massive stone walls, a veritable flood of fight-goers is pressing around the gates on three sides of the bowl, almost all of them male. Most look to be common working men; but sailors and stevedores are also present, and Gristav spies a few men in finely tailored suits hanging back from the crowds fastidiously. Most are consulting handbills like Alex Crispin's, and Gristav sees large and capable-looking men by the closed gates distributing more. Garishly-colored posters depict the sorts of bloody eviscerations that will hopefully be on display this afternoon.
----------------------------
Cooke retrieves the affidavit Snake has just signed, adding his own signature and the date at the bottom of the parchment. "Now," he replies, turning an admonitory gaze on the three prisoners, "I inform these three that they're being released on your recognizance and any further trouble they get into will redound on both them and you." He looks sternly on Finnie and Micah, neither of whom meet his eyes, and on Cassie who stares back defiantly above her gag. "Let this be a warning to all of you to better mind the company you keep and the properties you frequent. You do not want to come to the attention of the Gendarmes again. Keep your heads down and your noses clean, eh? All right, Graves, let's take them outside and get these bonds off of them."
"But," Graves sputters impotently, "they need to be interrogated...."
"Take it up with the general if you want to countermand his orders," Cooke retorts. "We've this gentleman's name, residence, and place of employment; if any of these three are wanted for further questioning, it's his responsibility to produce them."
----------------------------
"It helps if you are an acquaintance of a spectacular artist. Will Swevenforey has been gracious and provided a means of entry into this lofty area of the arena. We gnomes tend to stick together given our sparse numbers. We tend to pass unnoticed given we don't take up much space."
"Your box is quite nice." He strolls about the box. "So it seems Fireday is not the best day at the arena. At least that is what I hear. Is today merely a prelude to the real money bouts on Starday?"
Piccolo's name-dropping doesn't elicit a reaction from the men in the box; apparently, Will's fame isn't widespread enough for him to be known outside of the commercial market for billboards.
"Aye, not enough bettors on Fireday," one of the men replies. "Zincher and Croat save the best bouts for the bigger crowds on Starday. Still, Fireday afternoons are good for handicapping ... if you know what you're looking for." His supercilious tone indicates that he considers himself an expert. "You can see who's on his form, who's a little under the weather, that sort of thing."
"You almost never get a death on Fireday," the other man complains. "That's why they don't loose the beasts; they can't be instructed to pull their punches."
The elderly man notices Piccolo's presence in the box for the first time. "What's that?" he demands in the overloud voice of the slightly deaf, squinting at the gnome. "A doxy?"
"" one of the men answers, raising his own voice. ""
"He means 'pixie,'" the other man assures Piccolo, embarrassed.
Unconsciously he rubbed at his shoulder where the meaty hand of Wall-Eye had gripped him... held him helpless as a babe in a vice. A shudder worked through his skin that was quelled by the hard memory of steel meeting flesh. Whatever was arousing the Calistrite house would need wait to be illumed later... it should seem that Daynadrian would be pursuing it at the least.
Instead Phillip put the House behind him and smoothing out a still drying moustache by hand, he put his legs to purpose taking him t'wards the Goblin and surrounds - so as to more keenly scout the few blocks that lay near to it.
Piccolo chuckles, "We gnomes do appear odd to humans. We are often mistaken for...what was that?...a pixie doxy?...The fights on Fireday are for handicapping. That is a useful bit of information. I think I shall do some handicapping. Thank you very much. Farewell."
Piccolo exits the room. He casually and surreptitiously strolls about this level of the arena studying the walls, noting doors, and learning the layout.
Piccolo's name-dropping doesn't elicit a reaction from the men in the box; apparently, Will's fame isn't widespread enough for him to be known outside of the commercial market for billboards.
"Aye, not enough bettors on Fireday," one of the men replies. "Zincher and Croat save the best bouts for the bigger crowds on Starday. Still, Fireday afternoons are good for handicapping ... if you know what you're looking for." His supercilious tone indicates that he considers himself an expert. "You can see who's on his form, who's a little under the weather, that sort of thing."
"You almost never get a death on Fireday," the other man complains. "That's why they don't loose the beasts; they can't be instructed to pull their punches."
The elderly man notices Piccolo's presence in the box for the first time. "What's that?" he demands in the overloud voice of the slightly deaf, squinting at the gnome. "A doxy?"
"It's a gnome, father," one of the men answers, raising his own voice. "From one of the other boxes."
"He means 'pixie,'" the other man assures Piccolo, embarrassed.
Gristav spies a few men in finely tailored suits hanging back from the crowds fastidiously.
"Difficult, isn't it?", The half-elf huffs, in pattern of patrician patois. "Such... crowds. One rushes ahead, and brushes, against them...", he said, his face and tone shading to distaste, "Or, one... waits." He faintly, frustratedly, shudders. "I hate waiting."
"There ought to be a place, just for gentlemen. Even if one is slumming..."
----------------------------
"Difficult, isn't it?", The half-elf huffs, in pattern of patrician patois. "Such... crowds. One rushes ahead, and brushes, against them...", he said, his face and tone shading to distaste, "Or, one... waits." He faintly, frustratedly, shudders. "I hate waiting."
"There ought to be a place, just for gentlemen. Even if one is slumming..."
A couple of burly men accompanying the wealthy arena-goers put their hands to cudgels at their belts at Gristav's approach but look to their employers for a sign as to whether the half-elf is welcome or needs to be warned away. The well-to-do men themselves exchange uncertain glances, eyeing him suspiciously. "Indeed," one answers skeptically. "I would suspect you of having private knowledge of such a place, if one exists, as I don't believe we've seen you here before. What is your business, Mister...?" he trails off, looking to Gristav to supply a name.
----------------------------
Piccolo continues to retrace his steps toward the concession area, passing two more boxes before arriving back where he purchased the nuts and ale; both are unoccupied, lending credence to the reports he's heard that Fireday matches are less attended. In addition to the five boxes on the left, he passes three staircases on the right leading up to the sunnier sections of the arena.
When he enters the concession area, however, there are a few customers at both the food counter and the betting windows that are now open. Across the large open room, the other corridor leads on to what are assuredly more private boxes opening onto the sand.
A couple of burly men accompanying the wealthy arena-goers put their hands to cudgels at their belts at Gristav's approach but look to their employers for a sign as to whether the half-elf is welcome or needs to be warned away. The well-to-do men themselves exchange uncertain glances, eyeing him suspiciously. "Indeed," one answers skeptically. "I would suspect you of having private knowledge of such a place, if one exists, as I don't believe we've seen you here before. What is your business, Mister...?" he trails off, looking to Gristav to supply a name."Difficult, isn't it?", The half-elf huffs, in pattern of patrician patois. "Such... crowds. One rushes ahead, and brushes, against them...", he said, his face and tone shading to distaste, "Or, one... waits." He faintly, frustratedly, shudders. "I hate waiting."
"There ought to be a place, just for gentlemen. Even if one is slumming..."
"Oh, I know of no such place. But I had heard the rumour... I was hoping, you knew?" As if pleased, the half-elf seemed to deduce, "You thought I was some sort of, solicitor for it? That's delightful. It's the shirt, isn't it?" Gristav tugs happily at his own collar lapel. "You couldn't have seen me before; I've only just been here, a day? Or two?", he says, the last while wearing a mask of mental maths. "Two", he says with certainty. "I have no business, or rather, too many, that no one is the business. Just now, I'd thought to attend the arena, and that I might do that hated waiting, in educated company. But, you may have asked my business, to make the point, that I had none with you. True, and I would never wish to intrude. My name, I think you asked, is Gristav."
The area roughly northeast of the Goblin lies in Leeward District and seems not to suffer from the slight fall-off in cleanliness and respectability generally notable at the edge of a less savory area, undoubtedly due to the proximity of the Cypherlodge's inn and the main road to Velashu Ferry. Unlike the somewhat shabby edge of Leeward where Betta's shop is situated, the paint on the buildings is fresh, the windowboxes full of flowers, and the businesses well-frequented. Everyone you spy here seems to have a purpose and legitimate reason to be here: no beggars or loiterers in sight.
To the southeast of the casino, Wharf District begins. At this distance from the harbor, the buildings are all warehouses. It's difficult to tell which might be in use and which abandoned with most of the doors shut tight against theft and/or intrusion. Being utilitarian in nature, the paint is peeling or nonexistent and the high small windows dusty, cracked or boarded up. The roads are less traveled than Leeward's and heavily rutted by years of handcarts moving cargo to and from the docks. In the shaded alleys, you catch sight of several groups of men, sitting on upturned crates or merely leaning against a wall, passing around a bottle with their lunch; most are clearly sailors or stevedores. You don't see any lone men lingering; apparently even those who work here respect the district's dangerous reputation as the hunting ground of press gangs and pickpockets.
West of the Gold Goblin are the boarded-up and abandoned buildings of River District. On this side of the river, only one structure between Cas Caznynsik's shipyard and Velashu Ferry seems to house a going concern, and that's a tannery reeking of urine, dung, and decaying flesh; while your nose and your consciousness of your recent bath dissuade you from venturing too near the source of the stench, you can see the workers moving within with cloth masks tied over the lower parts of their faces.
Here there is a veritable plethora of possible lurking places for squatters; the disused buildings are boarded up, but, as in Rotgut, there are myriad signs of illicit entry: broken windows, pried-away boards, holes kicked through rotting wooden walls. Many humane rat traps are situated among the weeds and stones, but only a few contain a squeaking inmate; many sport neither rat nor bait, and you surmise that the trapped rodents were poached for meat before the trappers could return to check the traps. You spy a few bedraggled fishermen in the fetid mud along the riverbank with hopeful strings trailing in the river and hazard a guess that some of the rat bait is now being used to tempt fish as well.
----------------------------
Now quite certain that Gristav is not someone ranking among their social circle, the wealthy men sidle away with a reproachful look at the half-elf for his effrontery. The bodyguards step pugnaciously into the space they just vacated, staring a warning not to try to follow, but before the gaffe has a chance to escalate into something more physical, the murmur of the crowd becomes an excited hum as the metal portcullis of the nearest arena gate is cranked open and the throng surges inward like water through a sluice gate ... or animals through a chute at a slaughterhouse.
----------------------------
Cooke directs the prisoners and Snake back out the front door, and after the interior of Shoreleave, even the packed dirt of the front yard seems comforting. The manacles are removed from Finnie and Micah, neither of whom look up either at their former captors or at their benefactor.
"Here," the Gendarme holding Cassie says, holding the child out at arm's length to Snake. "She's kicked me black and blue all the way from Rotgut and tried to bite me. You can take off the gag yourself, if you want her; I'd rather keep my fingers."
Piccolo will take one of the flights of stairs to the upper arena. He will proceed to move about noting the layout, while taking a seat at times to enjoy the games.
Piccolo continues to retrace his steps toward the concession area, passing two more boxes before arriving back where he purchased the nuts and ale; both are unoccupied, lending credence to the reports he's heard that Fireday matches are less attended. In addition to the five boxes on the left, he passes three staircases on the right leading up to the sunnier sections of the arena.
When he enters the concession area, however, there are a few customers at both the food counter and the betting windows that are now open. Across the large open room, the other corridor leads on to what are assuredly more private boxes opening onto the sand.
"Security for the homes and businesses of Leeward," Luca responds promptly. "While everyone's away watching the fights, it's a prime time for thieves to poke around ... looking for back ways in, rat catcher." The half-orc's speech slows as he completes his final sentence, giving Braddon and his back-alley surroundings a suspicious glare.
"That doesn't sound too bad a job. So you work for one of the bosses then? Who pays you? Are there any openings?"
Braddon scratches the kitten behind its ears.
Now quite certain that Gristav is not someone ranking among their social circle, the wealthy men sidle away with a reproachful look at the half-elf for his effrontery. The bodyguards step pugnaciously into the space they just vacated, staring a warning not to try to follow...
"Would either of you, know, then?"
Cooke directs the prisoners and Snake back out the front door, and after the interior of Shoreleave, even the packed dirt of the front yard seems comforting. The manacles are removed from Finnie and Micah, neither of whom look up either at their former captors or at their benefactor.
"Here," the Gendarme holding Cassie says, holding the child out at arm's length to Snake. "She's kicked me black and blue all the way from Rotgut and tried to bite me. You can take off the gag yourself, if you want her; I'd rather keep my fingers."
Looking to the guard with disdain, he ignores him and bends down to remove the gag from the child. "Are you okay, darling? Where's your doll? They didn't take her from you, did they?"
"That doesn't sound too bad a job. So you work for one of the bosses then? Who pays you? Are there any openings?"
Braddon scratches the kitten behind its ears.
The kitten purrs while Luca scowls suspiciously. "Boss Croat, of course. Half-orcs provide security to the whole district. Where do you come from, rat-catcher, that you don't know that?"
"Magnimar," Braddon responds automatically. "After all, if I came from here I wouldn't be stuck rat catching. So if you guys are security for the district, what do the gendarmes do? Do they look after the other districts or just get in the way?"
Braddon lowers his voice conspiratorially. "Or are they just spies for the overlord?"
"'Magni-,'" Luca repeats, still frowning; then suddenly, his heavy brow clears. "Magnimar? Hey, you know Magnimar Deverin, huh?"
----------------------------
"Would either of you, know, then?"
Gristav's inquiry is not dignified with a response, as the bodyguards withdraw to protect their employers as the crowd presses into the arena. On the verge of the current himself, he will be drawn through the gates himself if he attempts to pursue the conversation.
----------------------------
"Are you okay, darling? Where's your doll? They didn't take her from you, did they?"
When Snake removes the child's gag, she looks like she might go back and bite the Gendarme; but asking about Neenah distracts her. "She's still at my big house. Finnie pulled me out of there so fast I dropped her." She gives the grown woman a contemptuous glare.
----------------------------
It would be wasteful to a Sarenite extreme, however, to provide such extravagant surroundings for whatever strays the others might bring home. Those who have already proven themselves unable to fend for themselves would be fresh meat for the sharks of Wharf District; if they can't be returned to Rotgut, it might be worth the trouble to clear one of the abandoned buildings along the Velashu to house them. Any squatters or vermin already resident would almost certainly be easier to defeat than Beltias's gang whom you've already bested.
Arriving at a reasonably accurate count of squatters in the abandoned buildings of River District is akin to determining the number of rats in a cluttered basement. One has to assume that for every one you see, there are more you can't, but the exact ratio is a mystery. You come away with a general feeling that the population density is far less than in Rotgut, where virtually every structure shelters multiple vagrants. Neither the visible traffic nor the somewhat abandoned feel to the district adds up, in your mind, to more than twenty present inhabitants ... though the glimpses of shadowy interior you get through the holes in the walls remind you eerily that you could be wrong about the number of eyes that may be watching your passage.
As you begin to approach the tannery, the feculent stench invades your airways, threatening to turn your stomach....
----------------------------
Piccolo takes the stairs up to the main level of the arena and steps out into the blinding afternoon sun. Standing blinking for a moment to regain his senses, he is nearly trampled by impatient patrons shoving past him. As his eyes adjust to the bright light, he can see that the lower benches of the bowl are filling quickly but the upper tiers are all but deserted as the fight-goers seek seats with better views of the potential gore; only around the canopied boxes on the rim of the arena is there any appreciable activity.
Keeping to the less crowded aisles on the upper part of the bowl, Piccolo begins to stroll around the arena, serene in the knowledge that if anyone asks what he is doing he can quite truthfully respond that it's his first visit and he's just checking out the facility. While the smooth, circular sides of the grandstand would normally make navigation difficult, the top of the Cyphergate -- and the dark blot in the sky beyond it -- are visible above the highest tiers of seating, providing an unmistakable landmark by which to ascertain the position of the multiple identical stairwells. He can pick out the canopied box where Will spoke with Zincher and his men, the one on the southwestern rim; while it's difficult to make out the boxes inhabitants beyond the billowing curtains, the fact that several men are perched protectively in the otherwise empty seats around it leads Piccolo to surmise that Zincher is still there.
The crowd in the arena is heavily male and heavily human, save for a grayish-greenish-tinged patch near another canopied box to the northeast. It is circled by what are unmistakeably, even at this distance, half-orcs; Piccolo can make an educated guess that this must be the box of Cleg Zincher's gladiatorial rival, the half-orc Boss Croat.
"'Magni-,'" Luca repeats, still frowning; then suddenly, his heavy brow clears. "Magnimar? Hey, you know Magnimar Deverin, huh?"
"Of course. Magnimar's a small tight knit community. We stick together, you know."
Braddon nods, then frowns."So, I gotta go. Work." Braddon holds up the kitten by way of explanation.
"It's been good meeting you."
Braddon goes to step past the half-orc towards a boarding house in the distance.
When Snake removes the child's gag, she looks like she might go back and bite the Gendarme; but asking about Neenah distracts her. "She's still at my big house. Finnie pulled me out of there so fast I dropped her." She gives the grown woman a contemptuous glare.
Snake gives a slight grin at the child's determination. "Okay, well, let's go get her, huh?" He rises back up, looking to the gendarme. "Was there anything else that was taken from the house? It might be important to one of them and I'd appreciate it if I could get it back if that's the case."
Despairing of gregariously catching Alex 'returning' 'his' broadsheet, among the dense draw of the crowd, Gristav turns, cautious of the crowd's proximities and his stave's extremities, and makes his way first clear, and then south... west? He wondered if he had that correct, and slashingly sketched an invisible map of the town, in the air before him, while he followed the forming map, back to the Goblin.
"So, I gotta go. Work." Braddon holds up the kitten by way of explanation.
"It's been good meeting you."
"" Luca calls after Braddon when he's made it halfway across the street. "" He points at the kitten in the half-elf's hand. "" He guffaws and disappears down the alley, continuing his patrol.
Braddon proceeds toward his original destination, a tidy and respectable boardinghouse just south of and on the other side of the street from the Three-Billed Duck. He takes the stairs inside all the way up to the small landing outside the door to the attic room and knocks. After a moment, a woman's voice demands warily, "Who is it?"
----------------------------
Gristav escapes the crush of people pouring into the arena and makes his way back to the Goblin -- west-southwest, he decides, as the crow flies, perusing his invisible map, but gifted with neither feathers nor wings himself, he is forced to take the road directly west and then turn southward. Going around the building to the back door, he lets himself in with his key.
----------------------------
"Was there anything else that was taken from the house? It might be important to one of them and I'd appreciate it if I could get it back if that's the case."
"He took my keys," Cassey accuses the gendarme Graves, "the ones you gave me when you put me in charge."
Graves's eyes slide thoughtfully to Snake in a manner calculated to make the other man uncomfortable. "Your keys, are they?" he asks quietly. "Don't suppose you have a deed to prove you've a right to the property?"
"In lieu of a deed, possession's satisfactory," Cooke reminds Graves idly, distracted by checking his paperwork. "Give him the keys."
"Of course," Graves replies, turning the corners of his mouth upward as if someone had once given him a thirdhand description of a smile. He takes Cassey's keys from his pocket and hands them to Snake, holding onto the ring just a half-moment longer than necessary.
----------------------------
Gills still choked with the scent of the tannery, Phillip wagers that he likely needs a similar strength of scent to banish the tanning effluvia from his olfactory senses. His legs take him towards and along the waters of the Wharfs, treading the boards and keeping his eyes busy looking for malcontents as he does.
Recollection strikes him then, and his wandering eyes gather a sense of purpose - seeking a telltale daggered scar crossing over an eye and marking a cheek... or at least the face of his dimwitted sidekick.
Tien past Two
Locking the Goblin's kitchen on his way in, Gris turned and pondered duties. Hoping for greater thoughts to come, he busied himself with more ice-making, which, it turned out, brought the greater thoughts.
It was the tuneless shreik of the muffin-tin mold, bursting the frozen block free, that recalled to him the first notes. Not proper notes, not as anyone nearby might agree, but this part of Golarion, Gris reflected as he swaddled the wee bairns of ice, wanted eight notes, while the Tien made due with five.
Thus is was that Gristav sang (not badly, nor well, but in five tones, who could tell?) as he crossed the casino floor, toward his room, the brevetted plunder treasury. The melancholy music matched the mein of the task he'd chosen, an undesirably duty. Which he found, he still looked forward to.
"棕色水位上涨
把我的爱给我
树的木灵的礼物
绿色的海水飞
一扫免费
在你身边，快乐对我来说
Passing Desna on her dais, Gristav said, "Thank you, for this, too.", and began the final verse (though he knew there were more)...
湛蓝的海水宽
无尽海空
两只手永恒
Which brought him to his door. He was shortly inside, granting himself a preview of the plundered map, of which he planned, shortly, to have an expert's opinion.
Bring, my love to me
Wood spirit's gift of tree
Green, waters fly
Swept, away and free
Beside you, joy for me
Blue, waters wide
Endless. empty sea
Two hands, eternity
Piccolo notes Croat's and Zincher's boxes. He will count the visible guards and look for any signs of incognito guards. He does this while observing the games enough to be able to discuss details of the bout if questioned.
Piccolo takes the stairs up to the main level of the arena and steps out into the blinding afternoon sun. Standing blinking for a moment to regain his senses, he is nearly trampled by impatient patrons shoving past him. As his eyes adjust to the bright light, he can see that the lower benches of the bowl are filling quickly but the upper tiers are all but deserted as the fight-goers seek seats with better views of the potential gore; only around the canopied boxes on the rim of the arena is there any appreciable activity.
Keeping to the less crowded aisles on the upper part of the bowl, Piccolo begins to stroll around the arena, serene in the knowledge that if anyone asks what he is doing he can quite truthfully respond that it's his first visit and he's just checking out the facility. While the smooth, circular sides of the grandstand would normally make navigation difficult, the top of the Cyphergate -- and the dark blot in the sky beyond it -- are visible above the highest tiers of seating, providing an unmistakable landmark by which to ascertain the position of the multiple identical stairwells. He can pick out the canopied box where Will spoke with Zincher and his men, the one on the southwestern rim; while it's difficult to make out the boxes inhabitants beyond the billowing curtains, the fact that several men are perched protectively in the otherwise empty seats around it leads Piccolo to surmise that Zincher is still there.
The crowd in the arena is heavily male and heavily human, save for a grayish-greenish-tinged patch near another canopied box to the northeast. It is circled by what are unmistakeably, even at this distance, half-orcs; Piccolo can make an educated guess that this must be the box of Cleg Zincher's gladiatorial rival, the half-orc Boss Croat.
"" He points at the kitten in the half-elf's hand. "" He guffaws and disappears down the alley, continuing his patrol.
"Yeah, a mistake..." Braddon mutters quietly with half a smirk.
Braddon proceeds toward his original destination, a tidy and respectable boardinghouse just south of and on the other side of the street from the Three-Billed Duck. He takes the stairs inside all the way up to the small landing outside the door to the attic room and knocks. After a moment, a woman's voice demands warily, "Who is it?"
"Greetings, fair lady. Braddon, the exotic half-elf, has returned."
"Who?" the voice demands. Braddon hears the sound of a latch being lifted on the other side, and the door opens a cautious few inches, Anya squinting blearily out at him. "Are you drunk? What time is it?" Before he can answer, belated recognition dawns in her eyes. "Oh, it's you ... from the casino job. Listen, you can't just show up at my door. Go to the temple, when I'm working." She yawns, preparing to close the door.
----------------------------
Phillip dares to brave Wharf District, in search of fresh salt air and two familiar faces. While he still has to step lively to avoid being jostled, the boardwalk seems less bustling than he has previously seen it. He surmises that those who had the opportunity to slip away have done so, to attend the Fireday bouts at Zincher's Arena. Perhaps that's where Billy Dagger and Bellamy are; at any rate, Phil doesn't lay eyes on them.
----------------------------
Piccolo climbs a few tiers of benches higher up the bowl and begins a new circuit of the arena, closer to the boxes so that he can take a surreptitious glance inside as he passes. He does his best to look like he's peering down into the crowd for a lost seat or companion. There are eight evenly-spaced stairwells honeycombing the arena, each with three entrances ranging from the rim of the bowl down to street level. He notices that the private sand-level boxes like the one Will is occupying are virtually unnoticeable from the public seats: Behind the bright sunlight reflecting off the sand, the dim light in the boxes is impenetrable; the barred windows might lead to cells or service tunnels as far as the average fight-goer knows. They certainly afford more privacy than the canopied boxes perched prominently on the rim of the arena, their colorful curtains rippling in the light breeze off the harbor.
As Piccolo approaches the half-orcs' box, he pauses, as if perusing the seating below, while performing a quick count out of the corner of his eye. There seem to be at least forty half-orcs on the benches on the three sides of the box; apparently, Riddleport's half-orcs prize solidarity above prime vantagepoints. While all are armed, only the dozen or so nearest the box seem to be on guard duty; the rest are talking, laughing, drinking, throwing dice, and otherwise killing time until the bouts begin.
The box itself is hung with yellow curtains with scarlet embroidery. Inside is a massively fat half-orc in yellow robes, sitting on what is less a chair and more a platform that doesn't impinge on his impressive girth. Through small, squinting eyes, he stares impassively out over the grandstand. At his shoulder, ramrod straight, stands another half-orc in similar robes, younger and far more fit. His interest is not in the sand oval below but the benches directly around him; his gaze scans the crowd. As Piccolo is looking into the box, the standing half-orc's eyes suddenly lock onto his.
----------------------------
Safely in his room, Gristav slides the charts out of the leather tube and unrolls them on his bed. Although he lacks the specialized knowledge that would allow him to appreciate all their secrets, he can tell that they depict coastlines and islands, hidden reefs, currents, and other geographical features that would be of use to a sailor. They are peppered with numbers, which he surmises indicate the depth of the water at various points. There is no indication of how or whether the various charts fit together, but he finds one which describes Riddleport Harbor and another containing Roderic's Cove.
As he flips through the charts, he hears Jaelle's words in his memory: I can't swear we'll be back before Moonday.... It's been only two days; there's no guarantee the Cloud will be in port.
"He took my keys," Cassey accuses the gendarme Graves, "the ones you gave me when you put me in charge."
Graves's eyes slide thoughtfully to Snake in a manner calculated to make the other man uncomfortable. "Your keys, are they?" he asks quietly. "Don't suppose you have a deed to prove you've a right to the property?"
"In lieu of a deed, possession's satisfactory," Cooke reminds Graves idly, distracted by checking his paperwork. "Give him the keys."
"Of course," Graves replies, turning the corners of his mouth upward as if someone had once given him a thirdhand description of a smile. He takes Cassey's keys from his pocket and hands them to Snake, holding onto the ring just a half-moment longer than necessary.
Snake takes the keys from the smirky gendarme, refusing to play his game by paying him no mind. Turning to the others, "Alright, let's get you all out of here. Cassie, I'm gonna need you to help me with Finnie and I'll get Micah." He moves over to the odd man, placing a kind hand upon his shoulder, gently urging him onward. "C'mon, Micah, your needed at a place that's not here."
Shrugging away the lack of success on a whim, as it was a whim that had him even gaze for them, Phillip bends his forward trajectory t'wards the Arena.
Piccolo meets the half-orc's gaze with a smile meant as a warm greeting. After a few moments, he turns his gaze back to the games. He spends some time engrossed in the action, between matches he rises and moves to another section of the arena. It is his intent to stay until the games are mostly complete, then leave with the crowd.
Piccolo climbs a few tiers of benches higher up the bowl and begins a new circuit of the arena, closer to the boxes so that he can take a surreptitious glance inside as he passes. He does his best to look like he's peering down into the crowd for a lost seat or companion. There are eight evenly-spaced stairwells honeycombing the arena, each with three entrances ranging from the rim of the bowl down to street level. He notices that the private sand-level boxes like the one Will is occupying are virtually unnoticeable from the public seats: Behind the bright sunlight reflecting off the sand, the dim light in the boxes is impenetrable; the barred windows might lead to cells or service tunnels as far as the average fight-goer knows. They certainly afford more privacy than the canopied boxes perched prominently on the rim of the arena, their colorful curtains rippling in the light breeze off the harbor.
As Piccolo approaches the half-orcs' box, he pauses, as if perusing the seating below, while performing a quick count out of the corner of his eye. There seem to be at least forty half-orcs on the benches on the three sides of the box; apparently, Riddleport's half-orcs prize solidarity above prime vantagepoints. While all are armed, only the dozen or so nearest the box seem to be on guard duty; the rest are talking, laughing, drinking, throwing dice, and otherwise killing time until the bouts begin.
The box itself is hung with yellow curtains with scarlet embroidery. Inside is a massively fat half-orc in yellow robes, sitting on what is less a chair and more a platform that doesn't impinge on his impressive girth. Through small, squinting eyes, he stares impassively out over the grandstand. At his shoulder, ramrod straight, stands another half-orc in similar robes, younger and far more fit. His interest is not in the sand oval below but the benches directly around him; his gaze scans the crowd. As Piccolo is looking into the box, the standing half-orc's eyes suddenly lock onto his.
"Oh, it's you ... from the casino job. Listen, you can't just show up at my door. Go to the temple, when I'm working." She yawns, preparing to close the door.
"Of course. When are you working? Is that where Lexy is?" Braddon asks pleasantly.
"Oh, and do you want a kitten?"
"Yes, Lexy's working now; I just got off a double shift and am trying to get some sleep. Do I want a what?" She blinks at the small animal in Braddon's hand. "Gods, no. And don't show it to Lexy, either. She'll probably want it, and then it'll claw up all my good clothes."
----------------------------
Phillip turns north from the wharves toward the massive stone arena he can already see above the rooftops.
----------------------------
Piccolo meets the half-orc's gaze with a smile meant as a warm greeting.
The half-orc does not return Piccolo's smile; he continues to stare a challenge until the gnome looks away. As he continues his circuit toward Cleg Zincher's box, there is a roar from the crowd. Looking down at the sand, Piccolo can see two figures, appearing small from this height, entering from opposite gates. According to the list of bouts he received at the gate, this should be Varg of the North taking on "Crusher" Leland. One of the figures, clearly a half-orc, is carrying a heavy maul; the other is a man with an abundance of pale blond hair and a braided beard studded with steel beads that flash in the sun.
Piccolo can tell at a glance that there are far fewer people around Zincher's box than Croat's: perhaps a half-dozen brawny human men stand guard. Upon reflection, this makes sense: Zincher, after all, is on his own turf and is surrounded by his own employees; Croat is in enemy territory. Peering inside the box, Piccolo sees Cleg Zincher in his throne-like chair, the man in Korvosan uniform still standing warily at his shoulder. In another of the carved wooden chairs on his left, a pretty but uncomfortable-looking young woman is sitting nervously.
----------------------------
Snake manages to prehend the whimpering Micah, who is still obsessively rubbing his wrists where the manacles encircled them and muttering about fiery wrath. As for Finnie, she is eager enough to leave Devil's Fork behind, still keeping her head down and cringing when she feels a Gendarme's eye on her, half-expecting to be called back and committed to Shoreleave.
"Yes, Lexy's working now; I just got off a double shift and am trying to get some sleep. Do I want a what?" She blinks at the small animal in Braddon's hand. "Gods, no. And don't show it to Lexy, either. She'll probably want it, and then it'll claw up all my good clothes."
"Sure. Good night." Braddon and his kitten make their way down the steps.
"Don't show it to Lexy?" Braddon mutters. "Where else am I gonna find a cute red head to give... ooh."Thinking of pretty ladies with red hair, Braddon makes his way towards the Temple of Calistria.
Mind still oscillating between a morbid focus on the topics to be discussed at the Gold Goblin and preserving the sanctity of his person and wallet Phillip walked onwards. The thought of an early return to the Goblin to privately speak to Saul was being savored like a fine wine on the frontal segment of his cerebrum when outside stimuli provoked a different line of inquiry.
A sussurant roar and the press of people nearby the arena reminded the shortened pariah of a pair of recent encounters... the scent of his own blood and the sharp tang of foul liquor. A smirk forming on his face and promises remembered put a slight spring to his steps as he hastened his gait and made for the sands where sweat and blood marked victor from defeated... after all, Ranef would be disappointed if Fillif did not show to cheer him on.
Piccolo will note the woman's features and dress. He will turn his eyes to the game, while attempting to observe the interactions between Cleg and the woman.
The half-orc does not return Piccolo's smile; he continues to stare a challenge until the gnome looks away. As he continues his circuit toward Cleg Zincher's box, there is a roar from the crowd. Looking down at the sand, Piccolo can see two figures, appearing small from this height, entering from opposite gates. According to the list of bouts he received at the gate, this should be Varg of the North taking on "Crusher" Leland. One of the figures, clearly a half-orc, is carrying a heavy maul; the other is a man with an abundance of pale blond hair and a braided beard studded with steel beads that flash in the sun.
Piccolo can tell at a glance that there are far fewer people around Zincher's box than Croat's: perhaps a half-dozen brawny human men stand guard. Upon reflection, this makes sense: Zincher, after all, is on his own turf and is surrounded by his own employees; Croat is in enemy territory. Peering inside the box, Piccolo sees Cleg Zincher in his throne-like chair, the man in Korvosan uniform still standing warily at his shoulder. In another of the carved wooden chairs on his left, a pretty but uncomfortable-looking young woman is sitting nervously.
The malicious echo screeched through Gristav's mind, {You know nothing of these! Do you think, possession of charts, makes you a sailor?!}
Wincing his eyes shut, and rubbing at the bridge of his nose, Gristav knew, he'd grown fatigued, studying the charts overly long, overly dutifully. It was in his weaker moments, her voice would try to weaken him more.
{Well?! DO YOU?! Do you think it makes you a sailor? Navigator? COMMODORE?!}
"No more than possession of me, made you a mother.", The half-elf hissed, rising from the charts, stacking and rolling them back to their tubelike totality. They'd had enough time, and examination. Rolled out flat, braced with stave and tome, mote-light held to them, lantern held above, the sheet held up, to window, to lantern... everything he could think of, in his un-sailorness, to do. He'd even caught himself smelling the first one, then decided it wasn't entirely ridiculous, and then done it to the rest.
{Like a hound!}
"Noble creature. Better than a crow", Gristav retorted in the empty room, then made it emptier, leaving it and locking the door. The tube remained inside.
Gristav began a canvas of the quarters, to take or make whatever report, while he pondered, where next to go. He had maps of Riddleport and Roderic's Cove, but of his own mind, only a blank.
Braddon and his cat cut back through the few blocks between Anya and Lexy's flat and their workplace. The kitten playfully embeds its tiny needle-sharp claws into his knuckles as he arrives at the temple's plaza and is looking around for red hair. He has just spotted her across the flagstones when a nearby blonde notices his searching glance and sidles up to him. "Looking for a date, sailor?"
----------------------------
Phillip arrives at the southern gate of the arena and pays the five copper entry-fee to a bored-looking thug, who presses a bout listing into his hand in return. As the halfling walks up the tunnel toward the stands, he glances down to see that the first match listed is Varg of the North versus "Crusher" Leland; that must be the Ulfen Varg he drank with Toilday evening. He steps out into the sunlit grandstand to see ... the backs of a dozens of men, on their feet and packed into the first several rows above the sand. A halfling hasn't a chance of seeing the gladiators from this level. Glancing up the sides of the bowl, the upper two-thirds of the arena are largely vacant; if he climbs up to a high enough tier, he should be able to see over the heads of the rest of the audience onto the sand.
----------------------------
The woman Piccolo sees is dressed appropriately for an afternoon out, but her clothes are neither provocative enough to indicate she is a call girl nor expensive enough to mark her as a wealthy socialite: in short, she appears to be neither Zincher's whore nor his mistress. She looks like a respectable middle-class working girl of approximately twenty years ... who looks very uncomfortable sitting next to one of the most powerful bosses in the city.
Back inside the Gold Goblin, Gristav returns the sailing charts to the leather tube and sets out to see who may be in the building, beginning nearest at hand in the residential wing. He starts, hopefully, at Samaritha's room, but there is no more response to his knock at present than he received earlier in the afternoon. Daynadrian's door goes similarly unanswered; he doesn't really expect Braddon to be there; next is Tendal's room. This knock is rewarded by the quiet scuffle of movement on the other side of the door; after a few moments, Tendal opens it with an impatient sight. "Yes? What is it?"
Phillip begins to turn and seek elevated vantage when two things strike him. The first involves the opportunity that might be offered by such a press of persons and focus towards the arena during bouts... and while keeping hands very much to himself for now Phillip scans with his eyes, not expecting much but hoping that there might at least be some low hanging fruit to tempt his furtive phalanges.
The second involves scanning down the fight list to pick out those names that he knows... Harry, Ranef, Drezi and Stellan... and both when they are expected on the sand and what their opponents may be. Also pertinent is whether there are names or fights on the card that may not involve those of the primary two stables of fighters in town. Armed with the knowledge of the bouts - Phillip first goes seeking to see if there are odds and tables already in place for the Fireday bouts.
Back inside the Gold Goblin, Gristav returns the sailing charts to the leather tube and sets out to see who may be in the building, beginning nearest at hand in the residential wing. He starts, hopefully, at Samaritha's room, but there is no more response to his knock at present than he received earlier in the afternoon. Daynadrian's door goes similarly unanswered; he doesn't really expect Braddon to be there; next is Tendal's room. This knock is rewarded by the quiet scuffle of movement on the other side of the door; after a few moments, Tendal opens it with an impatient sight. "Yes? What is it?"
"That's the question, actually. An item taken at our latest scuffle. I'm... apparently too preoccupied today, to see the subtleties of the spellcraft, and I wondered if you were prepared, today, to try? Or I can keep looking for Samaritha... or it needn't be today, at all. If you're... involved, with some other matter? I know, you tend to be..."
He has just spotted her across the flagstones when a nearby blonde notices his searching glance and sidles up to him. "Looking for a date, sailor?"
"Hello Sexy," Braddon eyes the woman appreciatively, then winces as his knuckles bleed.
"Maybe another time thanks."Braddon blows her a kiss then makes his way over to his target.
"Braddon!" Lexy lights up when she sees him approach. "You finally got some time off. I mean," she looks a little nervous and lowers her voice, "you're not here about ... that person you were talking about on Wealday, are you?"
Phillip runs his eye down the bout listing, looking for familiar names. Ranef is one of the last names on the parchment, matched up against a foe known as the Notorious Punisher. He doesn't see a Harry, but there is a "Haren of the Jungle" a few fights after Varg, facing someone named Sluggy the Spanker. He can't coax a 'Drezi' or a 'Stellan' out of any of the monikers on the bout listing.
Phil considers the crowd from a business perspective for a moment. They are packed tightly along the benches and jostle each other regularly as they shift position to get a better view over the men in front of them; a gentle brush as a Small hand slips into a pocket ought to be of little import. On the other hand, the tight press of men might make extricating himself from an unpleasant situation a little more difficult, and between the crowd and the exit are nothing but sunbaked tiers of seats with little more concealment on offer than a featureless plain at high noon. It's hard to predict how much wealth might or might not be hidden within those pockets; the fight-goers aren't beggars, but they look to be mostly common working men. Phil is guessing that the more well-to-do audience members are concealed in the canopied boxes high on the rim of the bowl.
Phillip first goes seeking to see if there are odds and tables already in place for the Fireday bouts.
----------------------------
As Piccolo is dividing his attention between the girl in the box and the fight going on down on the sand, a voice calls out behind him. "Hey. You. The gnome." He glances around to meet the eye of a man standing a few tiers above him. "Yeah, you. The boss wants to see you." He tilts his head toward Zincher's box and waits for Piccolo to accompany him. There is no undercurrent of danger or threat of violence detectable, but the man does seem to expect the invitation to be accepted.