Phillip lingers for long enough to finish his muffin and allow a slight settling of his sated belly before rising and wordlessly offering farewell to all present, making a particular point to nod at Bojasc even if the gesture is not noted or returned.
From there he returns to his room and readies for the journey across town, his crossbow is left to lie... and he tucks Ethel's worn dagger in where his second usually lies. A blacksmith might be worth a question or two... if time and purpose allow. Readied and jacketed he moves into the casino proper in order to find Larur and await his readiness to cross to the furniture fabricator.
If Samaritha had not already been sitting when Gristav began his tale, she would have been by its end. "A changeling? I've heard of them... but never of the children whose cradles they were laid in ever being seen again. We once came upon a funeral at a crossroads just outside Ustalav, where they were burying small toys and trinkets but no child; he had been stolen, and they mourned him dead without question. What did she...? Why were you...?" She stops herself from prying with an apologetic glance.
"Let me tell you a story in return," she smiles. "Ipuin bat, ipuin bat: That is the way of my people. Before I was born, when my mother was young, her caravan crossed paths with a party of elves. What they were doing out of their forest I don't know, but they were friendly, as were my mother's caravan, and both peoples agreed to shorten the road and the night together."
"My people are known for music and dancing, and so are the elves. That night both sides taught the others new steps. There was one elf in particular, tall and fair, who drew my mother's eye. I think there was a dare from her cousins involved; I know there was ale involved. She never even learned his name because she couldn't pronounce it. In the morning, both went their ways, the caravan along the road, the elves across the open countryside, and there was most of Varisia between them before my mother knew she'd kept a souvenir from that night."
"Perhaps that's why I left the road, why I want to study ancient artifacts: because they've lasted, stood the test of time. You know they're going to be there tomorrow and next week and next year." She picks up the key from the table. "I never knew my father because my mother never knew him, not really. She followed her heart and her inclination without considering what the consequences might be. I can't live that way, can't make a decision that might change my life on a whim or a dream. Some things should be written in ink, not vanishing script."
"Gristav, you don't know me, and I don't know you. But if you don't stay, we never will." She gives him back the key for the second time. "What might come of it, neither of us know. When you know me better, you may like me less. But Mr. Felden is your friend. You belong here. Go to your room and study your spells. A wizard without spells: well, you might as well be a shopkeeper," she smiles.
By the time Phillip emerges from his room, armed and ready for the day ahead, the carpet layers have arrived. Larur is looking over the rolls of new carpeting they have delivered and is rather sternly going down a checklist of what's been ordered and paid for and what they are expected to do. The halfling catches his eye, and he gives Phil a nod of acknowledgement. After a little more conversation with the workmen, he delivers a final glower and crosses to the front doors to meet Phillip. "Let's hope this place looks more presentable by the time we're back," he mutters without a great deal of optimism as he heads out across the courtyard awash with morning sunlight.
"Well." Tendal says, watching the others head out of the room. "That was a bit more of an eventful breakfast than I expected." Tendal says laconically.
"Mr. Vankaskerkin, when do you think that we will have the visitors for the jewelry showing?" Tendal says, then sips a bit of coffee.
Braddon walks with Malkith down to the ferry, still holding the perfumed half handkerchief. Eventually, he swallows his final bite of pastry and takes a smell of the perfume before stowing the material in his pocket.
"Since Daynadrian cut it in half, does that mean it's now just a kerchief?"
As they approach the ferry, Braddon looks around at those out and about this morning.
"Quiet enough to ask last night's questions, you reckon?"
Phillip returns the nod and waits the short time before Larur joins him. Following after at a relatively brisk walk for his shortened legs Phil makes conversation "I would have thought the stern oversight of your recently arrived associate would have improved your expectation? Interesting fellow.." said in a non-committal tone as though Phillip had not yet decided if Gristav were friend or foe "..seems quite taken with you."
"That is an answer I can live next to." Gristav smiled softly. "I'll study here, though, for I need to be watching that central room. Should I run long, I would still be, of a sort. Perhaps I would be a better guard, studying in the vault, but the new-met aren't given those keys. And rightly so."
"I used changeling inexactly, and I would not have you mistake me: I was taken. I cannot say what was left. I do not speak much on this, I may still be sought by my... tutor."
"I apologize for the vanishing ink, it was all my skill might make, as yet. And, I apologize, for not standing while you read it. I regret, not standing, while you read it. I did not intend a dream be law or licentious license, but when a Varisi appears in a dream... you tell them of it."
"I'll stand now", he says as he does. "You've other business, I'm sure. If not, you might watch the workers, until I can. Thank you, for your time, and your welcome, to the house." The hand that held the key held it openly, as a sort of punctuation.
He didn't really watch her cross the room. Oh, she filled his eye, but not his mind, still too twist and tumult to linger over her lines.
Sitting when she'd gone, and opening his spellbook, he turned to where he knew a blotch of ink could be found, in the bits of mundane text among the magicks. Reaching with Will and Wyrd, he moved some of it about, shaping a sketch of a flying bat, and a caption, 'Ipuin'.
Then he set to study in earnest.
In the quiet of the now emptied dining room, Tendal raises the hankerchief to his face, smelling the tantalizingly familiar perfume.
"Lil Scarlet. Its unmistakable." he says aloud, dropping the piece of fabric back onto the table.
"What a foul woman...and the elf thought that this proved that she was in contact with Volo's thugs in some fashion." he says to Saul before returning to his breakfast.
"I don't believe it will change anything that Mr. Hargreaves and Hurst will do in the short term, so I will simply inform them of this discovery at the next opportunity."
"You've other business, I'm sure. If not, you might watch the workers, until I can. Thank you, for your time, and your welcome, to the house."
Samaritha looks over her shoulder at the floor, where the carpet layers are newly arrived. "Oh, I know someone who can keep them in order until you've finished your studies," she assures him with a slight smile. "Take your time."
"I would have thought the stern oversight of your recently arrived associate would have improved your expectation? Interesting fellow.." said in a non-committal tone as though Phillip had not yet decided if Gristav were friend or foe "..seems quite taken with you."
Larur glances at the halfling suspiciously, not quite certain what he might be implying, but notices the quickness of the smaller man's step and slackens his own pace accordingly. "He's a fine lad," he defends Gristav. "But a bit flighty. The elf blood, no doubt. You've heard him run on. He could start out to explain to them the need for haste and efficiency and still be talking about it by lunch time. But he's a good lad; I trust him to look out for my interests as he sees them." Exiting the courtyard of the Gold Goblin, Larur turns right instead of left, heading south into the Wharf District.
In the quiet of the now emptied dining room, Tendal raises the hankerchief to his face, smelling the tantalizingly familiar perfume.
"Lil Scarlet. It's unmistakable." he says aloud, dropping the piece of fabric back onto the table.
Daynadrian nods with a grim satisfaction. "Think I'll pay a visit to the Calistrian temple today," he says. "Shorafa may not help us, but there's got to be someone around there who's less than fond of Lil and might give us a hint of where to find her. I'll leave that here," he nods to the scented scrap of fabric. "Right now, it's the only bit of evidence we have to tie her to the robbery; better put it someplace safe."
Saul frowns at the torn handkerchief, looking worried. "Aye, I'll put it in the vault when I have the chance. If you're going to go skulking around the House of the Silken Veil, be discreet. I got the impression Shorafa didn't exactly issue us a gold-plated invitation to come back when they left there last night." He shoots Tendal a questioning glance.
"Mr. Vankaskerkin, when do you think that we will have the visitors for the jewelry showing?" Tendal says, then sips a bit of coffee.
"I put the word on the street this morning," Saul replies. "Word travels swiftly in Riddleport, but most of those affected were businessmen. They can't just up and leave when they get the news; they'll have to clear their schedules first. Also," he grins, "some of them were here with mistresses instead of wives and will have to untangle that rigging. I'd expect one or two within an hour or so, with the bulk of them taking off a bit early and coming in just before lunchtime."
When Daynadrian has left the room, Saul gives Bojasc a glance and a nod toward the open door. The bodyguard gets up to peer around the sitting area outside and then close it, with an affirmatory nod back to his employer in response. "Tendal, lad," Saul begins in a low tone, leaning forward across the table, "what you were saying earlier about a secret gentleman's club...? There's something I'd like to show you. We should be able to snatch a moment before our victimized guests arrive." Taking a final sip of coffee and tucking the halved handkerchief into his pocket, he gets up from the table and gives Bojasc the signal to open the door. "We'll need the lantern, I think, Bojasc," he instructs, gesturing to Tendal to accompany him.
As Braddon and Malkith walk toward the ferry, the uncrowded streets are in marked contrast to their experience the night before. This morning, all the activity is behind them, where the shops of Leeward are open for business. The flat-bottomed boat is tied up idle at the dock, awaiting customers. If they are seeking an opportune time to question the ferryman without distractions, this would seem to be it.
"... But he's a good lad; I trust him to look out for my interests as he sees them." Exiting the courtyard of the Gold Goblin, Larur turns right instead of left, heading south into the Wharf District.
As the malodorous aroma of the wharf district begins to make itself plainly known to the pairs olfactory senses Phillip continues to dance around the edges of Larur's defensiveness "Indeed, he seems confident enough in himself... but that is something that you have not spoken of Larur... your interests in this." pausing to smooth his mustache and choose his words with hopeful care "Of Saul the motives are easily divined... but with no offense meant you appear to have too steady a hand to sink all of your coin into a casino. I mean it is hardly a low risk venture yes?" falling silent and awaiting Larur's words.
Braddon greets the ferry man again.
"Is this the only way across the river? It's quite the earner for you. Surely not everyone crosses like this. I mean, does Scarlett Lil use your services? She's not the type who'd paddle her own boat. The big bosses can afford their own private barges of course. And they're more used to people coming to them than travelling back and forth. I woulda thought the overlord would have his own people here charging a fortune. Instead, we have you doing a great job. I didn't think things worked like that round here."
Braddon grins.
Gristav closed his spellbook. He knew how long it should have taken to impress the stable and the fragile patterns on his mind, but in the process, he always emerged dis... oriented? No. Untimed.
But it did not appear to have been long, the carpeters were still working. Gristav looked about for who Samaritha had put on to cover his watch.
"Of Saul the motives are easily divined... but with no offense meant you appear to have too steady a hand to sink all of your coin into a casino. I mean it is hardly a low risk venture yes?"
The dwarf grunts a short laugh that turns into a cough. "Aye," he answers wryly when he has caught his breath, "I suppose Saul and I don't appear to be mined from the same vein. Truth be told, I don't care about casinos as a rule. Bunch of damned foolishness, if you ask me. Never been in one until Saul dragged me to Free-Coin trying to convince me enough people were fools enough to be parted from their money in them."
He stops in the street and glances down at the cobblestones a moment before speaking again. "You know why there's a mess of dwarves in a damned pirate town, Phil? Carbauxine. It's a gas, burns hotter than anything else under the ground, and there's a natural deposit of it under Riddleport. The dwarves in Janderhoff found it and built the Gas Forges right over it. You can smelt just about anything you like in it; adamantine softens as easy as tin. It's also poison."
"We knew it. We all knew it. And it won't kill everyone. Twenty years in the Forges is all any one dwarf will pull; if you're lucky, you serve your time and go home with enough wages to keep you and your family comfortable for a century. Some weren't lucky. We knew the risk."
"Only several years ago, Cleg Zincher comes to us at the Forges, says he wants to represent us to the owners like he does the other laborers in town. Shows us this contraption, a little mask that fits over the nose and mouth; says it will filter the carbauxine out of the air when we're working below. Says if we agree to his terms, he'll negotiate with the owners to provide masks for all of us."
"We breathed more easy, I don't mind telling you. It's a hard thing to put out of your mind while you're working, the thought that every breath might be the one that kills you. Then, last fall, I got a cough. Didn't think nothing about it; there was a chill in the air. But I get summoned into the manager's office and Zincher's damned capp was there to shut the door behind me. Roldheim tells me I got the acid lung and my days are numbered; offers me a hundred gold bonus to go back to Janderhoff to die without telling anyone. Hold on, I say, what about the damned mask? 'It were always experimental,' Old Korvosa says."
"I thought about all the dwarves who'd quit before their term was up and gone back home the last few years, wondered how many of them were dead as well and took the blood money. So I say I won't go quiet, and Roldheim fires me for insubordination. Told the lads I must have already had the sickness before Zincher got us the masks, which is a damned lie; you don't live that long with acid lung, and everyone knows it. They hoped I'd go on and leave town anyway, see my family and die somewhere private, make things less awkward for them. But I had my savings, and Saul found me. He's always got his ear to the ground; said he had a business venture he just needed an investor for, if I didn't mind standing alongside a man Cleg Zincher'd tried to destroy."
He smirks. "Told you yesterday, revenge isn't the dwarven way, but that might not be entirely true. I can't deny the pleasure in poking Zincher in the eye and making his life a little less agreeable. It's not revenge for revenge's sake, though; the way our business agreement's structured, my share of any profits from the Gold Goblin go back home to my brother and his family, even after I'm dead. That casino's my legacy. It represents all the years I worked, everything I gave my life for. So that's why I care about a casino." He glares at the halfling a little fiercely. "Figure you might as well know. If you're ever looking to take revenge on me for some reason, you ought to know you won't have a lot of time to do it in."
Phillip listens to Larur's tale without interrupting, taking in all of the nuance and thrust behind it's words as they continue to walk. He allows the air to be still for a hand of seconds after Larur has becalmed, the empty silence being filled by the sounds of Riddleport's wharves growing ever closer. Phil runs his hand through his hair to settle himself before replying...
Beginning with warm words and tones, Phil's voice then gradually hardens and become more clipped and precise as he continues "That is a tale indeed Larur... and let none of my words that follow diminish it. You are an honorable dwarf... especially rare in Riddleport, where honor is in short supply." pausing to allow a flutter of nerves to pass before Phillip himself crosses the line from that which is honorable to where he feels more comfortable.
"...but to think that any actions you are taking in any way repays Zincher for the kindness he bestowed upon you is folly." chuckling mirthlessly "The Gold Goblin stands to make some coin to be sure... more than enough to care for your kin, but any real affect upon the structure of power here and by extension Zincher himself will needs come forged with blacker actions and red-handed deeds." patting his side where his holy symbol remains out of view and concealed.
Relenting a smidgeon in tone, Phillip concludes "You know my faith, and no doubt have heard and seen fanciful tales of duels in the street and jilted maidens seeking recompense... but the tapestry of the Savored Sting is more tightly weaved and ornate than that. If ever you choose to take true revenge against the man who as close to murdered you as driving in the blade himself... let me know." the casual manner in which it is said belying the resolute finality that is laced within the words "...until then, you have naught to fear from me good Larur. Why am I not your loyal employee?" a flashed serpentine grin both reinforcing and eroding the statement.
"He didn't murder me," Larur contradicts the halfling, "only lied to me. Played us all for damned fools, which is galling enough. But without his mask and his promises, I'd have worked and died just the same, like the unlucky ones before me."
"'Loyal employee,' are you?" he chuckles and cuts himself short before it brings on another coughing fit. "We'll see, lad. I won't deny I've never trusted a Calistrian, but I can't say I've ever known one either, not to talk to." He draws Phil's attention to a long, low building ahead, facing the harbor on one side and the river on the other. "Cas Cazynsik's place," he informs him. "He's got a warehouse full of spare lumber and a yard full of carpenters, if he hasn't any pressing maritime business at the moment."
The dwarf enters the structure and begins looking around for the owner. As Phil follows, he spies a familiar pair of halflings at a nearby workbench, its legs cut short for their convenience. Olin sees him and raises a hand in greeting, elbowing Ewart to get his attention and point out the visitor.
"Is this the only way across the river? It's quite the earner for you. Surely not everyone crosses like this. I mean, does Scarlett Lil use your services? She's not the type who'd paddle her own boat. The big bosses can afford their own private barges of course. And they're more used to people coming to them than travelling back and forth. I woulda thought the overlord would have his own people here charging a fortune. Instead, we have you doing a great job. I didn't think things worked like that round here."
Grimas cocks an eyebrow. "What makes you think I'm not the Overlord's own people?" he asks a little coolly. "Velashu Ferry is operated out of Maskyr's Island, and I have the exclusive license to the income, as long as I want the job. Raising fares would put us out of business. The wealthy folk can afford their own boats, as you say, and if we price the poor folk out of crossing, the pirates in jollyboats will do it for drinking money at the mouth of the harbor. The Overlord didn't get where he is by being a fool."
"Anyway," he replies, "no, Lil wouldn't cross with me. Since the unpleasantness over Falk Zincher's death, she doesn't mix with the general public much; afraid some low-life thug might decide Cleg would thank him for knifing the woman his brother was killed over. She crosses somewhere -- she's based in Leeward, and she's frequently seen in Free-Coin -- but she must travel in a private craft. One of her clients', no doubt, probably a Windward man. Or woman," he adds as an afterthought. "A lot of bored housewives up there who married for money rather than inclination."
Is the smell from the handkerchief anything like the one at the apartment of Ananda Mescher?
Phillip smiles and shrugs "As you choose to see it Larur..." before he notices the halflings and returns the waved greeting to both Olin and Ewart, calling out "Olin, Ewart; good morning... is Messr Cazynsik about?" before a spark lights tinder in his mind and he remembers both Olin, Ewart and the new arrival Gristav speak of a certain Flying Cloud... thoughts converge and mingle in an as yet unformed melange of ideas.
Gristav isn't accustomed to ideal conditions under which to prepare his spells. A man who lives on the road and has no home of his own can't expect a quiet tower or a locked door or even a private room. He has trained himself to filter out distractions, so the activity of the carpet layers through the doorway doesn't disturb him. By the time he closes his book, however, he has become aware of one piercing voice which tests the limits of his discipline. Insistent, almost strident, while he is able to shut out the sense of its words, he cannot ignore its intrusion.
Going to the threshold of the sitting room, he gazes out to see a rather petite woman holding court from the dais in the center of the room. Although she's quite pretty, with black hair and startling sea-blue eyes, the carpet layers' glances at her are anything but appreciative. She is issuing a steady stream of instruction and correction to the workmen as they unfurl their rolls of carpet: "No, no! That's not flat enough. You've left a huge blister there; everyone will be tripping on it. Take it up and tack it down again!" She spies Gris in the doorway out of the corner of her eye and turns to frown at him frankly. "Who are you?" she demands.
Grimas cocks an eyebrow. "What makes you think I'm not the Overlord's own people?" he asks a little coolly. "Velashu Ferry is operated out of Maskyr's Island, and I have the exclusive license to the income, as long as I want the job."
Braddon hands a silver over to the ferryman.
"Sorry. No offence meant. But thanks for your assistance. Only license hey? Nice. Let me know if you want to retire, though I suppose I must be almost one hundredth in line. Have a good day. No doubt I'll see you soon."Braddon turns to Malkith as they leave the ferry behind and head up to the Publican House.
"He reckons she's based in Leeward? Old information? My money is on a Windward boat.
Malkith cringes internally as Braddon starts the conversation with the ferryman, but relaxes as their pilot begins to reveal the information they seek. Grimas's last remark catches the Varisian's ear, but holds his tongue to allow Braddon to continue talking the ferryman up.
As they step off onto the opposite bank, he finally speaks, "It's ironic. Little Scarlet is trying to keep a low profile, but everyone seems to know where she hangs out. The ferryman didn't seem to know too much more than anyone else we've spoken to though. A Windward boat would make sense. Then again, she may not have need for such mundane transportation either.
"Let see what the Publican has to offer this morning."
By the time he closes his book... one piercing voice tests the limits of his discipline. Insistent, strident, he cannot ignore its intrusion.
Going to the threshold of the sitting room, he gazes out to see a rather petite woman holding court from the dais in the center of the room. Although she's quite pretty, with black hair and startling sea-blue eyes, the carpet layers' glances at her are anything but appreciative.
An imbalance which Gristav, as a student of arcane forces, hurries to balance, grinning at the little blackbird, chirping way above her weight.
She is issuing a steady stream of instruction and correction to the workmen as they unfurl their rolls of carpet: "No, no! That's not flat enough. You've left a huge blister there; everyone will be tripping on it. Take it up and tack it down again!" She spies Gris in the doorway out of the corner of her eye and turns to frown at him frankly. "Who are you?" she demands.
Another imbalance? That would not do. Reach for the badge, make a flash of it, the 'carpet inspector' joke? No, too... too. "Fine, thank you.", Gristav answered, rising from where he'd leaned in the door frame, which motion probably had drawn her attention. He walked toward the raven-hair, across the chaos of the room, his mind touching on Desna's statue, if not Her grace. "How are you? You're in fine voice... I'm Gristav", he said, as though it ought be recognized. "I'm supposed to be doing what you've been doing, but was labored with other matters of import. And export.", he smiled, at her, or his pun, or both. "And now, I'm here."
"I'd say, to relieve you. But you do it so well. You seem to belong up there.", he said, with a wandlike one-handed wave of his staff, scribing at distance the diameter and depth of the dias. "We know Her Name...", he established his preface with a deferencial dip of his head at the Desna on display. "On your pedestal, how are you to be called?"
"Olin, Ewart; good morning... is Messr Cazynsik about?"
"Aye," Olin replies, approaching to shake Phillip's hand. "Ship at the end of the pier. Scraped a reef but managed to limp into harbor. He's got Marce down in the orlop taking a look."
The woman on the dais eyes Gristav somewhat skeptically. "I am Thuvalia Barabbio," she announces as if it should be obvious. "You haven't heard of me?"
Malkith and Braddon retrace the path they took last night to the Publican House. In the daylight, the alleys and boarded-up buildings of River District seem less threatening, and there is some activity at a few open businesses; they pass a metalsmith and a building whose foul smell pronounces it to be the tannery.
Entering the Publican House, they find the main room, so crowded last night, already swept and scrubbed, the tables and chairs still pushed to the wall as the floor dries from Lalie's morning mop. Passing through to the smaller morning room, they find Arnando behind the bar and the table nearest the door populated with the same tired-looking group of dwarves they had seen their first morning in Riddleport; they even seem to be in the same chairs and places around the table. This morning, the tavern appears to have no other custom.
The woman on the dais eyes Gristav somewhat skeptically. "I am Thuvalia Barabbio," she announces as if it should be obvious. "You haven't heard of me?"
"Oh, I've surely heard. From most of a world away, your voice was known.", Gristav answers in a sort of metaphoric truth, with a sincere smile. "It seems beneath its purpose, harranguing handworkers. More grace of your voice, I would think, were it more... subdued."
He expected her protest. He counted on it. He had a silencing finger and a space-closing step readied. Using them, he answered her anger and surprise with a concerned caution. "Do you hear that?", he asked suddenly, listening with his pointed ears, to... what? Something beyond the hammering and shuffle of the work? No.
Gristav sets his staff-foot onto the floor, and again, and again, in mimickry of the noise. Then he stepped back down, and in a single move, set the staff flat, bowing deeply at Thuvalia.
"Ez da ona dantza erritmo", he said in his Caravari Varisi, with a perfect Varisi shrug, and an extended, beckoning hand. "Baina ez naiz ona dantzaria."
Braddon makes his way to the bar with a cursory nod towards the dwarves.
"Good morning. Anybody left messages for me? Money? Rewards? Ah well. An ale if you will. Two." He nods at Malkith. "Did I miss anything exciting when I left?"
Arnando fills two mugs and sets them on the counter. "Morning. Exciting? Can't say last night was much out of the ordinary." He meets Malkith's eye and then turns his gaze to the corner table where Lil Scarlet was seated two days ago, now notably unoccupied. He gives a shrug and a slight shake of his head.
"Ez da ona dantza erritmo", he said in his Caravari Varisi, with a perfect Varisi shrug, and an extended, beckoning hand. "Baina ez naiz ona dantzaria."
Her glance is withering, but she steps off the dais, as if resigned at least to seeing what the eccentric half-elf's intentions are. "Varisi ez zara," she says, laying her palm languidly across his extended hand. "Non zara? Lan alfonbra saltzaileak duzu?"
Her glance is withering, but she steps off the dais, as if resigned at least to seeing what the eccentric half-elf's intentions are. "Varisi ez zara," she says, laying her palm languidly across his extended hand. "Non zara? Lan alfonbra saltzaileak duzu?"
"Varisi? What is a Varisi? What is more Varisi? To stand and stamp a foot? Or to take the hand of a stranger? To set your beautiful smoky eyes to cold flame? Or to dance; to catch fire?"
Gristav punctuated the question by drawing her into an embrace, and turning them both about to a tacking's hammerfalls, pausing at the silence. "I warned, I was no good. But I am at least equal to the music." Another tacking came, and he was turning again by the second hammerfall, and stopped at the last. "You are better than this, of course.", he said sincerely, late into the next hammerings, but not really caring. "You are better than that", he leaned them toward the dias, as indication. "You can incite, inflame, inspire. You are Varisi, yes? Caravari?", he asked over a hammering. "You can be alive, so alive you shame the fires. Cold, anger, draws only the envy of ice."
Another hammering, another turning, and Gristav thought she'd thought on it. Hoped she'd thought on it. "Do I dare release you?", he asked, "Will you claw my eyes? Or take my hand, again?" More hammering drove them through another turn, and he admitted, "I will have to chance it.", he smiled, "But perhaps not yet?"
"Aye," Olin replies, approaching to shake Phillip's hand. "Ship at the end of the pier. Scraped a reef but managed to limp into harbor. He's got Marce down in the orlop taking a look."
Phil shakes his hand and smiles thumbing at Larur "Appreciate the steer, we're here to place an order if theres enough idle hands about" winking at them as he beckons Larur to follow him to where he indicates the master is lurking. As they wander over Phil asks Larur conversationally "So... do you want to pay the honest price or let me save you some coin?"
Phil can see the struggle on the dwarf's face as his basic commitment to honorable dealings wars with his race's pennypinching tendency to rejoice in a bargain. The halfling could have phrased the question in a way that made the choice less morally black and white -- and undoubtedly knows it. "I wouldn't want to take advantage of the man," Larur answers weakly, "but I wouldn't want him to be taking advantage of us neither," he concludes more surely. "If you think you've the tongue to talk him into a deal, I suppose it's your furnishings to bargain for. You ought to know better than I how much is fair to pay for smaller-sized fittings," he finally comes to a rationalization he can feel comfortable with.
At the end of the pier, a sailing ship with the painted moniker Gozreh's Blessing is at anchor, a gangplank providing access. Larur climbs the flat bridge leerily, seeming little more comfortable once he is safely on board as the deck softly tilts beneath his feet. A hatch stands open, but the dwarf doesn't move to investigate, simply standing in his footsteps and calling out, "Cas? Cas Cazynsik!" His strangled whisper of a shout is barely louder than a normal speaking voice, but it seems to carry far enough. After a moment, the Varisian shipwright's head appears in the open hatch, followed by the rest of him as he climbs back to the upper deck.
"Larur Felden," he says with some surprise. "What can I do for you?" He glances at Phil curiously and gives the strange halfling a slight nod of greeting.
With even voice though worrysome smirk Phillip nods and replies "I'll not lie to the man, that I can promise you."
Once aboard, Phillip returns the man's nod by walking forward and proffering hand to the shipwright for the purpose of shaking "Phillip Hargreaves, associate of Larur." giving a short bow. He then continues "He brought me along as we're in the market for some furniture cut for a shorter man such as myself... words to my ear say that you're the man to see in Riddleport... hopefully there's enough of a lull in ship business that you could fit us in?"
The shipwright reaches down to clasp the proffered hand. "That'll depend on what my man tells me about the damage below on this ship," he replies. "If we have to drydock it, it'll be a time-consuming job."
She is, in fact, better than this; he can tell by the way she moves, automatically responding to his lead without giving her feet a second thought, that she has trained, has undoubtedly danced for money and other inducements. She laughs, not unkindly but with a touch of real amusement. "Dantza gizon horiek mantendu egingo dute labors uste duzu? Ile gorria emakumea arrastaka eraman nazazu hemendik, esan zuen bere sudurra gorde beharko dut harria nanoa zen bitartean kanpoan. Litzateke zion ezartzen baduzu, azkarrago lan egiteko dantzatzeko?"
Ironically, without her notice, the carpet layers are indeed working quite diligently, taking advantage of her distraction to get as much as possible done without her direct oversight.
Braddon takes his mug over and sits at a nearby table, the same table he breakfasted at two days ago with Malkith and Samaritha.
"May as well pass an hour or so. Then maybe take off and have a chat to the Krump's maid."
The shipwright reaches down to clasp the proffered hand. "That'll depend on what my man tells me about the damage below on this ship," he replies. "If we have to drydock it, it'll be a time-consuming job."
It takes Phillip a few beats to form thought within his mind of how to wed sin to prospect, but he believes he has an angle... but the selling might be slower. Nodding he continues "Aye, I'm sure Marce will be up shortly to see if you can accommodate us or not." taking a sweep of hand and eyes to view the shipyard "Fine place you have here, fine indeed... Do you just do repairs, or refits and fresh builds as well?"
Malkith gives Arnando a thankful nod and picks up the second mug. "Perhaps something small to eat while we're passing through?" he inquires as he passes the bar. As he joins Braddon at the table, the Varisian gives a futile glance about the room.
"It doesn't seem that Scarlet was here this morning. If we can't pinpoint her lodging, or perhaps run into her later on over in the Coin, I suppose we may need to start taking our breakfasts here for a while.
"So, what's the situation with the Krump's maid? Do you think it's possible any of that could be tied to Scarlet?"
She is, in fact, better than this; he can tell by the way she moves, automatically responding to his lead without giving her feet a second thought, that she has trained, has undoubtedly danced for money and other inducements. She laughs, not unkindly but with a touch of real amusement.
Ironically, without her notice, the carpet layers are indeed working quite diligently, taking advantage of her distraction to get as much as possible done without her direct oversight.
"I think the threat of his dance would be enough.", Gristav chuckled. "Like the threat now, of you not dancing. It seems the stripes of the touch of your tongue linger long, and while you are away, they make haste to make happy. You have discouraged their dissembly, I don't doubt or debate. But you might yet encourage their assembly. I suppose we would have to stop dancing.", he observed with regret.
Sighing, perhaps in regretful anticipation of that moment, he let the next turnings settle his arm about her waist, and her waist against his hip, to whatever degree she might yield. He hushed at her ear, "At the end of their day, over their ales, you will be the shrew or the dancer, and this place, the house of the shrew, or of the dancer. You don't get to control it, but you do get to choose, which you strive for. You are beautiful; your smile could be stronger than your glare, if it came from as deeply within you."
He sighed again, and at the bottom of a hammer-drummed turn, released her. A nod to her spread into his shoulders, a faint bow. "Think on it.", he suggested softly. Taking a step back, he bowed more deeply to her, and, raising his voice in anticipation of the next set of hammerings, said, in the more common tongue, "Thank you, Senora Barrabio. I am sorry I was late. Thank you, orchestra!" Would she see the ruse, excusing her past rudeness, or even present, if she chose that path? Gristav thought any Caravari would see the subtext.
Kicking his staff up into his left hand, Gristav again nodded to Thuvalia, and began a circuit of the room, magicking away any real or imagined impediment to the carpeter's course.
"Fine place you have here, fine indeed... Do you just do repairs, or refits and fresh builds as well?"
"Mostly repairs," he shrugs, displaying no surprise that the strange halfling knows Marce; perhaps he simply assumes all halflings know each other. "We've only the one drydock. You want a ship built from the ground up, it's generally done in Roderic's Cove; their harbor's not as busy so they've more space. Of course, a simple rowboat or the like we can build here, but I wouldn't take on the task of constructing anything ocean-worthy."
"So, what's the situation with the Krump's maid? Do you think it's possible any of that could be tied to Scarlet?"
Braddon ponders carefully and at first Malkith thinks Braddon has missed or forgotten the question.
"It is a bit of a coincidence that Lil hires some thugs to trash the Gold Goblin opening while Bott kidnaps Ananda and steals her priceless birthday necklace. Maybe she's working for him too." Braddon takes a thoughtful pull of his ale."As to the Krump's maid, I was gonna lurk outside her house, follow her on a chore until I find a decent place for an ambush, hide there, then grab her on her way back. She'll be happy to talk when she realises I'm after someone else instead of her money or life. She'll tell us where to find them, then from there I'll hafta lock her up so we can get to them before she warns them. Then once we have the target, head back, release the girl and claim the bounty." Braddon raises his glass, grins and takes another swig as if he'd just described delivering a sack of grain.
"Hm," she scoffs skeptically. "In my experience, men presume a smiling woman to be a simpleton, easily fooled and swiftly to be dismissed. But I little doubt they prefer them that way. If this is your task, then I consider my obligation ended. Perhaps you will return the favor sometime, eh? I am to dance Sunday night. If I need a break, with that beard and a hat," she glances significantly at his ears, "you might pass for a Varisi." With a smirk and a swish of her skirts, she exits toward the kitchen.
The carpet layers are a five-man team; four are working on unrolling and tacking down the carpet, while the fifth seems to be employed in a supervisory position. When Thuvalia departs, the overseer crosses the floor to shake Gristav's hand with feeling. "Can't tell you how pleased we are to see you, sir. Cayden's cups, what a harpy!"
{Some scars fade late.}, Gristav laments silently. Weighing his debt, he judges himself to owe the little crow nothing, but decides he would try again, if opportunity knocked. Beside, she danced well, and the Goblin might have use for such.
"Gristav", the grey-dusted magus offers over the embracing hands. "I'm glad to speak at length, but don't let me delay or distract you. Rather, consider me a resource. There'll be iced water later, if you've thirsts. If the converse, men's rest is that door there. If you hear a scream, next door to the right.", Gristav jokes, but sobers. "Keep your team to this room, or that, or back to your carts for supplies. And when you've another moment, I have another several questions, but I may forget them by then..." Gristav fluttered a phantom hat at his face, fanning, mocking a less manly mein, "The dance, it has me all a-flutter!"
In a more conspiratorial tone, Gristav said, "I don't dare agree with you aloud; such a bird would have learned to hover. But please, do me the favor of remembering her dancing, and her laughter. Waste of a young girl's talents, such an old crone's outlook."
Bojasc having retrieved and lit a lantern, Tendal follows Saul down the stairs to the kitchen and then down a second set of stairs to the basement. The Magnimarian hasn't been into the subterranean section of the Goblin before. The steps lead down into a blind corner into a narrow corridor; except for the Varisian's lantern, there is no light down here.
"This first door's a wine cellar; we've extra kegs of ale and crates of wine stored here," Saul tells Tendal, unconsciously lowering his voice to keep it from echoing off the close stone walls. "Second door's Larur's room. That's all we knew was down here when we bought the building, but Larur noticed something odd when he was moving in. Leave it to a dwarf to notice, eh?" As they pass the second door, recently-removed stonework is evident from traces of mortar on the walls, floor, and low ceiling. "It had been walled up at some point, perhaps when Milon Chath bought the place, maybe even before that. But we tore it down to see what lay beyond."
Continuing down the hall, Tendal notices the air grow mustier as they move into the part of the basement that had been shut off for unknown years. On the left, the illumination of the lantern suddenly falls away, spilling down stone steps into a deeper sub-basement. "Tell you about that in a moment," Saul mutters quickly. "The interesting bit's up here."
He leads on until the hall ends in a flat cupboard-like door. "Watch your step," Saul cautions, lifting the latch. "You have to step over the ledge."
Tendal steps through, followed by Bojasc. As he glances back, he can see that this side of the door is covered with a thin veneer of stone that makes it blend in with the surrounding wall; while it's easily seen from the other side, its outline and workings are well-concealed on this one. Saul hurries down the corridor, passing another open doorway on the left and disappears around a corner to the right. Tendal and Bojasc follow, and Tendal steps around the corner to find himself in a close square room with a bar along the south wall. The whole room, walls, floor, and ceiling, is painted a garish red, and a few wooden tables and chairs take up the rest of the floor space. A staircase leads up to the west, and there seems to be a bit of light filtering down it.
"What do you think?" Saul asks eagerly. "As soon as you suggested a secret gentleman's club and a hidden location, I thought of it. I don't know if it was used by smugglers or if it was accessed from above by patrons looking to partake in a little illicit entertainment, but it would seem to fit your description. And look at this." He hurries back around the corner and through the eastern doorway. Tendal and Bojasc follow, and the lantern reveals rows of benches around a square cut out of the floor. "Pit fighting!" Saul surmises with a grin. "Animals or men or both, I guess. Maybe a little mud wrestling? Those stairs we passed earlier go down to the pit and a couple of rooms with cages and restraints."
"I don't dare agree with you aloud; such a bird would have learned to hover. But please, do me the favor of remembering her dancing, and her laughter. Waste of a young girl's talents, such an old crone's outlook."
"Aye," the other man agrees, "she's easy enough on the eyes but murder on the ears. We'll get these rolls tacked down, should take us until lunch time at least. We'll bring in the last roll after lunch; couldn't carry all three of them over this morning. Ought to be finished well before sunset." He suddenly cringes at something over Gristav's shoulder and hurries back to where the carpet is being laid. Half turning, the half-elf sees Thuvalia sauntering back through the kitchen doors, carrying what must be by now a room-temperature cup of tea and some of the leftover breakfast pastries. She glares at the carpet layers, nods at Gristav with a slight smirk, and weaves through the displaced furniture to enter the room just north of the statue of Desna.