"How long ago? Could this phantom catch them? Saul does not want the man pursued if he leaves the city. But let's get you back; up you go." Helping Sam first to mount the obedient haunt, Gristav rises after her. "You can report to me in practice for Saul.", he requests, the shadow already stepping. "Before we get there, can you convey all the day's discovered, and every event?"
Samaritha is Varisian: While she's more accustomed to riding behind a horse in a wagon than on one's back, she's no stranger to the animals. "You were there overnight," she reasons as he sets the steed to trotting once more, "so you know what went on then. Back at the Goblin, we didn't know what had happened until Malkith turned up just before midday. After that, Braddon and Daynadrian came in all muddy; they'd followed the scribe to the harbormaster's office and stolen a letter he'd left there for Lil, only there was some sort of strange occurrence down at the harbor: a big wave that came in and swamped the wharves, they said. After they got cleaned up, we all went back to the scribe's office, but he wasn't there. Braddon asked around and found out his home address, and we all went over there to find him. I didn't go in, but apparently his wife told them that he'd hired a horse from the stable and left for Roderic's Cove so they all went to get horses and chase after him. The scribe went north through Lubbertown, but the others went through the Boneyard, which is shorter but supposed to be haunted ... or at least dangerous to travel after dark. As soon as they rode off, I started back toward the Goblin with the news, and then I met you."
Phillip exchanges his coin without incident. Stepping away from the cashier's window, he passes half the blue chips to Ethel, noting that where the Watercress's tokens bore a flower emblem, these have a sort of serpent-like creature burnt into them on one side.
With the scribe focused on his visible adversary, Malkith takes the opportunity to get closer before stepping out directly behind Weatherby. With his target's attention on his partner, the Varisian attempts to slide his blade up and under the man's armor.
"You were there overnight," she reasons as he sets the steed to trotting once more, "so you know what went on then. Back at the Goblin, we didn't know what had happened until Malkith turned up just before midday.
"Yes, he was displeased with me. But it didn't seem a lone Varisian was worrying enough to the scribe."
"After that, Braddon and Daynadrian came in all muddy; they'd followed the scribe to the harbormaster's office and stolen a letter he'd left there for Lil, only there was some sort of strange occurrence down at the harbor: a big wave that came in and swamped the wharves, they said."
"Wharves, and boats onto and men from them. And it was either no natural wave, or else the Gate, perhaps served us all a warning, well before the wave, turning weathervanes in absence of wind, and shrieking the tin roofs throughout town. The sailors knew it's meaning, and all ran for their ships, to get them clear of the docks, and to be ready after any man swept in by the wave. I helped the crew of the Cloud with such a rescue. Well, with the spotting, not so much the rescuing. Poor old simpleton; he was adrift before he was ever awash. I cleaned him up, we saw him home."
"After they got cleaned up, we all went back to the scribe's office, but he wasn't there. Braddon asked around and found out his home address, and we all went over there to find him. I didn't go in, but apparently his wife told them that he'd hired a horse from the stable and left for Roderic's Cove so they all went to get horses and chase after him. The scribe went north through Lubbertown, but the others went through the Boneyard, which is shorter but supposed to be haunted ... or at least dangerous to travel after dark. As soon as they rode off, I started back toward the Goblin with the news, and then I met you."
"And I hope you're glad of it. Hearing that you'd gone after us spun worry and guilt into an accord; I had to go looking. Not back in the dark, is one thing, but worried for us while you're about it... Grimas honored my worry, and said you'd not crossed today. Good man, Grimas; he took pains to browbeat me over my crossings today, with the Cloud's officer; she's rather comely. Enough he worried on harm to your heart. I didn't feel a right to tell him we'd not been so close for such harm, so instead I just observed that were I a bad man, I should probably be better at it." Before him on the haunt-mount, she couldn't see his smile, but she probably could hear it.
Braddon steps up to Weatherby, trapping the scribe between himself and Malkith .
"Uncommon bandits indeed. I'm a bounty hunter and I get paid the same whether, Weatherby, you're dead or alive. Your wife was very upset to learn about Lil."
Braddon grins maliciously and jabs around the golden plate, searching for joins and unprotected thighs.
Malkith's blade flashes forward as the scribe's attention is drawn by Braddon stepping in to threaten him, but Weatherby catches the motion out of the corner of his eye and somehow manages to interpose his crossbow between himself and the dagger. The makeshift shield deflects the blow, but his quick movement leaves him open to Braddon's attack which finds unprotected flesh to tear. Dayn has another arrow on the string but holds his shot for the moment, his allies seeming to have the upper hand.
"Uncommon bandits indeed. I'm a bounty hunter and I get paid the same whether, Weatherby, you're dead or alive. Your wife was very upset to learn about Lil."
"Cora?!" he looks genuinely shocked through his grimace of pain. "She put you up to this?" He staggers slightly as blood soaks his side, and with a look of disgust, he throws down his crossbow. "That b&+%# and her jealousy: She's ruined us both." He raises his hands in surrender. "Very well, then; let's go back and pay a call on my wife." His voice twists in bitterness on the final word.
When Gristav explains the ferryman's concern, he feels her tense uncomfortably through his touch at her waist. "I... I'll be sure to disabuse him of his misapprehension the next time I cross the river," she replies a little stiffly. "I can't imagine how such a rumor might have started."
Braddon's eyes narrow, but stay locked on Weatherby down the length of his sword. He shuffles his backpack strap off his left arm, swaps the sword to his left hand, then shrugs the backpack off his right shoulder and tosses it to Malkith.
"Manacles are in there. Lock too. They both work fine. I... tested them the other day."
Once the scribe is secured, Braddon relieves him of his possessions.
"Hey D... Dan. Can you get the horses? We better head back soon."
Once Malkith is sure Braddon has control of Weatherby, the Varisian re-holsters his dagger and searches through the half-elf's pack. With a satisfying click, the steel snaps shut around the scribe's wrists. Once secured, Malkith takes the opportunity to search their captive.
"This all would have been so much easier had you simply answered my questions this afternoon," he hisses as his hands dart in and out of various pockets.
Phillip smooths his mustache and then runs his free hand through his hair as holding Ethel tight to his side with the other he herds them to one side of the casino floor so as to minimise the risk of being trampled. He then waxes lyrical about what was so recently his home...
"Magnimar... it is not too different to Riddleport in it's own way. Except where Riddleport has the Overlord, Magnimar has a Lord Mayor. Instead of the lords of the casino, there are merchants of coin... it prides itself on being the place 'Where freedom can never be lost'... but it has prisons enough in Underbridge and Lowcleft both." a tinge of sadness in his voice as though he left behind something yet trapped there.
But Phillip catches himself "But you are wealthy, you have travelled to Riddleport... so you should not speak of such places as where I slummed. Instead speak of the Bazaar of Sails - a freemarket where anything could be bought for the right price; or the thrill of races at Serpent's Run... perhaps the delights on display in the Lord-Mayor’s Menagerie. All would be of interest to a lady who has travelled far on a whim to gamble... and could be spoken of in vague terms so as to not attract scrutiny even if the person you spoke to had been to Magnimar themselves."
When Gristav explains the ferryman's concern, he feels her tense uncomfortably through his touch at her waist. "I... I'll be sure to disabuse him of his misapprehension the next time I cross the river," she replies a little stiffly. "I can't imagine how such a rumor might have started."
Gristav does not tense in turn, so much as faintly slump. "Disabuse him of his misapprehension...", he says softly, not directing, merely quoting the words for their unexpected loquacity. "As me, of mine.", he adds, in tones of soft sorrow. "I had misread you. All you hadn't written. Your speaking of unworthy, vanishing scripts; I thought myself thought such, and unsuited. But I put pen to paper, both of the usual kind, in a playfulness and whimsy that were-, were and are, heartfelt. I would never wish to trouble you, not with any offer unwelcome, nor any welcome unoffered. But it seems, for all my elfin ear, I cannot hear your heart, not even when, as now, it's close enough to whisper. I'm sorry that I only heard your heart, in the breaking. I did try, to hear it sing."
"For the rumor, it wasn't started, it was observed, deduced by Grimas, who has proved in glimpses to be wiser than I, in hours.", Gristav laments. "I will correct him, though he was... never wrong. I was."
With an amused smirk, "Dan" takes the arrow off his string and replaces it in his quiver as he strolls down the road toward where they tethered the horses. Braddon watches Malkith lock the manacles onto Weatherby's wrists with a satisfaction born of personal knowledge how much they start to chafe after a while.
"This all would have been so much easier had you simply answered my questions this afternoon," he hisses as his hands dart in and out of various pockets.
"I did answer your questions, you idiot," the scribe growls back, uncowed by his vulnerable position. "You just didn't like the answers I gave you. I had nothing to do with her Sczarni connections, and your accusations were the first time I heard she had anything to do with the Mescher family. Our arrangement was merely business, nothing more, no matter what silly conclusions Cora might have jumped to."
In addition to his breastplate, which is of quality make and embossed with a key with a city roofscape depicted on his head, a device which Malkith recognizes as the holy symbol of Abadar, Weatherby is wearing a silvery cape and carrying the stout, brass-tipped walking cane he grabbed up at his office this morning to defend himself. The light crossbow he threw down appears more finely-made than Braddon's own, and he has a full case of bolts. His pack contains further bolts and the balance scale from his office desk with its set of brass weights, along with his clothing and other necessities, and Malkith finds in his pockets two small stoppered vials and a heavy moneypouch.
"I'm not...," Samaritha begins angrily. She keeps her face turned away, but what he can see of the back of her neck above her collar is flushed. "You say you want to help me and somehow repeatedly manage to convince absolute strangers that I'm ... under your sphere of influence, one way or another. Can you even...? Do you know how humiliating it is to have people think you're my mentor or my ... two-timer? I mean, is your whole strategy to improve my life based on making people feel sorry for me?"
"Magnimar... it is not too different to Riddleport in it's own way. Except where Riddleport has the Overlord, Magnimar has a Lord Mayor. Instead of the lords of the casino, there are merchants of coin... it prides itself on being the place 'Where freedom can never be lost'... but it has prisons enough in Underbridge and Lowcleft both." a tinge of sadness in his voice as though he left behind something yet trapped there.
But Phillip catches himself "But you are wealthy, you have travelled to Riddleport... so you should not speak of such places as where I slummed. Instead speak of the Bazaar of Sails - a freemarket where anything could be bought for the right price; or the thrill of races at Serpent's Run... perhaps the delights on display in the Lord-Mayor’s Menagerie. All would be of interest to a lady who has travelled far on a whim to gamble... and could be spoken of in vague terms so as to not attract scrutiny even if the person you spoke to had been to Magnimar themselves."
"Leeward Common, Zincher's Arena, and Free-Coin District ... only more glamorous," she muses dreamily. "It sounds like such fun to be rich and see all those places, then come up here to gamble on a whim. But what did I do back in Magnimar to have so much money? What do halflings do there? The well-to-do ones, I mean. All the ones in Riddleport are carpenters or sailors or domestics ... or shop girls," she finishes with a comical smirk.
"A fair portion are beggars, sneak thieves and caught up with the Sczarni... but there are the honest among the sinful. I'd think cloth merchant would be the safest option. Plays to what you know and the bazaar would see it's fair quantity of diaphonous silks pass through it."
"At any rate, are you ready to be set free and fly milady?"
"A wealthy cloth merchant," she ruminates with satisfaction, "here for a bit of excitement ... and maybe wondering about working a deal with Avery Slyeg for smuggled silks to avoid paying customs fees in Magnimar so I can undercut my competition." She gives him a cheeky smile which fades a little at his last question. "I ... suppose. But what am I to do? And where will you be?"
"Sorry for you..?", he echoed, hurt. "No, that's
fair", he allowed as reason caught up, "That was the gambit, on the hill. And it was uninvited, and unsuccessful. I had a moment to choose, and I chose. Not my choice to make, is your point, except that it had to be. Disavow me, if she'll listen. I'll risk toadhood, if you wish, to explain, myself. I do not yet regret my impulse, any of the impulses I've felt, from the deep of your eyes to the shallows of your sigh, the let of my lore to the leave-", he stopped himself, sighed, and began again.
"I am... fool, fae, and foreign, and forever to be such. To you, I would be friend, fellow, familiar, familial, frere, futter, or affianced... but not foe or folly. And yet I am a fool, I leapt to aid, unwanted. Remorseful, paid a fare ahead. Worried, rode in search, and searched well, and a clever man, who'd seen much of us, guessed to a truth I hadn't held to hope, and you won't confirm. Or deny. Only lament. I believe you know, I would have worked against, whatever I saw as against you. Absent star or rudder, aye, my course is drift. You've vote and veto to take, if only you'll give voice."
Once at the Goblin, Gris will dismount, and help Sam down, passing her the reins of the phantom. "One moment", he asks, rushing to fetch his bow and quiver. "You'll report to Saul. I'll ride to stop them, or support them; time will tell.", he says, mounting. "Forgive me.", he says, a wish, not a request, bending from the saddle to chastely touch lips on her. "For luck.", he explains, sincerely.
And he's away at a gallop.
"Simple, approach near enough the ghoulette table to touch it without being seen by the lady that runs the wheel... then find me at the Bounder tables." Phillip's eyes twinkle as he leans close to deliver a kiss before melting away and into the crowd.
Phil withdraws only so far as to put himself where his art at stealth might cloud him from Ethel's view, but not so far as he might not be able to keep an eye upon his inamorata. He sets to cautiously follow Ethel, keen to practice his stalking at the same time she does her sneaking.
"I did answer your questions, you idiot," the scribe growls back, uncowed by his vulnerable position. "You just didn't like the answers I gave you. I had nothing to do with her Sczarni connections, and your accusations were the first time I heard she had anything to do with the Mescher family. Our arrangement was merely business, nothing more, no matter what silly conclusions Cora might have jumped to."
Braddon takes great delight in savagely kicking Weatherby, remembering to avoid his face but not really caring if an arm or shoulder breaks.
"To make it easy," he addresses the scribe, "we'll stop asking questions. Instead, you'll tell us, in detail, everything you know about Lil, her movements and your dealings with her. Every time you leave out a detail, I'll kick you as a reminder. 'Cause I'm nice, I'll warn you we've learned a lot already. And these are new boots."
The scribe grits his teeth against the new assault. "Aren't you supposed to kicking a confession out of me in front of Cora?" he inquires dryly. "Or does she have to pay extra to watch?" Off Braddon's threatening look, he sighs. "Lil is a tiefling. She likes to say she's descended from the union of a succubus and a fallen paladin, but that's just marketing; she hasn't the slightest idea where the taint in her blood came from or even who her parents were."
"She used to work for Shorafa Pamodae at the Calistrian temple, but her talents were such that she decided to go into business for herself rather than remain a temple employee. A wise decision, financially; it's always better to work for oneself rather than subsist on salary. She needed a discreet base of operations; I had recently become owner of the building my office is in and agreed to rent her the upper room."
"Unfortunately, there was some unpleasantness between two of her clients, and Cleg Zincher's brother ended up dead. Zincher's men are all bloodthirsty thugs, and there were rumors that Zincher blamed Lil for his brother's death. She no longer felt safe in the city on her own and fled back to Shorafa's protection." He grimaces. "Personally, I've always suspected Shorafa of being behind Falk Zincher's death. She hated losing control over Lil and the profit her wealthy clients brought the temple. She certainly welcomed her back with open arms. But Lil never gave up her apartment. She'd grown accustomed to being her own woman rather than Shorafa's pawn and kept some private clients on the side."
"We'd been neighbors for some time, and Lil had accumulated a tidy little nest egg for her efforts. She wanted to do something other than hide it under her mattress, so I've handled some investments for her over the years. Recently, we both got involved in a very promising opportunity with the potential for stellar profits. That's where the trouble started."
"Obviously, the more one invests, the larger one's share of the returns. Lil became obsessed with maximizing her initial investment. That's how she got involved with the Sczarni. She met him in Free-Coin one night and thought that if she could convince him to commit some heist or other, she could invest the proceeds. I told her it was a foolish idea, that getting involved with such low-life ruffians would entangle her in a milieu she had no desire to be involved with." He glances at Malkith with a sneer. "But you know women: once they get an idea in their heads, there's no dissuading them. I don't know any of the details, didn't want to know, forbade her to tell me, in fact. When I heard about the disturbance at the new casino, well, obviously I put two and two together then."
"When she expressed a desire to take a sea jaunt for several days, I encouraged her. Thought she would do well to get out of town until things blew over. But I thought she was just avoiding any inquiry over the casino job. She never mentioned anything about General Mescher or his family," he concludes emphatically. "All I know about that are the unproven insinuations you lot have made."
"A promising business opportunity and a sea jaunt. That's not very detailed. And you haven't even mentioned what you did today."
Braddon kicks the scribe again.
"Oh, sorry. I thought you finished. Keep talking!"
"Rare metals!" he snaps. "Some sort of mining operation. I don't know all the details; it was Lil approached me about it. Something she'd learned about from one of her Windward clients, I presume. They needed the money up front for equipment and labor, and when the metal comes out of the ground, they sell it to the Gas Forges and we take our cut. The location's a secret, of course; they don't want anyone finding out about it and jumping their claim before they can extract the ore. You can kick me all you like; I can't tell you. Lil delivers the money to her client, and he handles the details."
"The ship's the Teeth of Araska. One of Lil's more disreputable connections, an Elric Treeg, captains the ship. Goes by the name of Captain Grudge and does a fair amount of piracy along with a bit of smuggling, all of it under the benevolent eye of the Overlord, of course. He trawls the Gulf for ships not flying Riddleport's banner; could be away for days or weeks, depending on the success he finds. Lil enjoys getting away and not having to look over her shoulder for a while. At least she knows one of Zincher's thugs isn't going to knife her while she's aboard ship."
"As for today, it was particularly unpleasant," he smiles tightly. "It began with my being harassed in my place of business by hooligans and scofflaws, at which time I discovered my property had been broken into and my privacy violated. Having been threatened, I spent the rest of the day making arrangements to go out of town, had an early supper with my wife, and then was assailed by highwaymen and bandits. Thank you for asking."
Gristav drops Samaritha safely at the Gold Goblin. She looks unhappy but doesn't make any reply to his parlance, avoiding his eye after she gets down off the uncanny horse. She holds its reins when bid, however, although the light steed serves willingly and well and hasn't the slightest intention of wandering off without instruction. As he spurs the mount away, she sighs and calls after him, "Be careful!"
"As for today, it was particularly unpleasant," he smiles tightly. "It began with my being harassed in my place of business by hooligans and scofflaws, at which time I discovered my property had been broken into and my privacy violated. Having been threatened, I spent the rest of the day making arrangements to go out of town, had an early supper with my wife, and then was assailed by highwaymen and bandits. Thank you for asking."
"I'd like to hear more about this Windward client. I'm sure you kept notes. And speaking of violated privacy, you forgot to mention the knothole you used to spy on Lil's room."
Braddon kicks the scribe again."And you had a lot of stuff upstairs."
And again.
"And the letter you wrote."
And again.
He turns to Malkith. "Show him."
Gristav drops Samaritha safely at the Gold Goblin. She looks unhappy but doesn't make any reply to his parlance, avoiding his eye after she gets down off the uncanny horse. She holds its reins when bid, however, although the light steed serves willingly and well and hasn't the slightest intention of wandering off without instruction.
Aware of Sam's denied eye, doubt and regret scratch at Gris' mind as he rushes into the Goblin. How loudly, to sound a sense? How finely, to make a point? If he'd hurt her, he'd never forgive- but he'd never know, either... The frustration lent thunder to his shout into the great room, He rushed on to his room, taking at a snatch the quiver and unstrung bow. He dropped the quiver's strap across him like a baldric, and stopped, fortuitously, before Desna, to string the bow, stepping into the limbs and bending it until the string could seat in the upper tip. Looking up from that, he saw the statue. "Thank You", he said, settling the bow crosswise to the quiver's strap. "...", he hesitated, but words were too narrow a knot for the tangle of his thoughts. Instead, he nodded, imagining She understood.
As he spurs the mount away, she sighs and calls after him, "Be careful!"
Relieved, his joyful laugh rejoins her caution.
The streets are all but deserted now as Gristav rides away from the Goblin. Past the Mystery of the Gate, past Zincher's Arena and the now-shuttered Bazaar of the Seafaring Peddlar, past Leeward Common once more and the street where he just met Samaritha, past Squire's Stables, toward the narrow notch where the road threads through the eastern ridge toward the Boneyard.
Gristav recalls the last time he traveled this road, only days ago as he rode into town, in such a hurry to put the swampy ships' graveyard and its unsavory reputation behind him before the sun set that he didn't even slow down when the wind swept the hat from his head and flung it over the edge of the cliff down toward the creaking masts and decaying hulks and whatever subsists among them. He passes the steep off-turn that he knows the Riddleport refuse haulers climb up -- only during the day, of course -- to dump the city's garbage down into the fetid water among the rotting ships. He knows that a foul-tempered and foul-smelling half-orc hermit keeps a hovel there, built of scraps of refuse and planks pried from the wrecks; he claims the right of first refusal over the garbage hauled there and keeps a bonfire smoldering at all times, day and night. Gristav can see it now, glancing over his shoulder as he rides past the sheltering ridge, a dull red glow against the black rock.
To the north and west, storm clouds are gathering, visible only in the absence of stars from that portion of sky and an occasional flash of heat lightning. He arrives at the junction where the road circling up to the northern end of the city through Lubbertown branches off, its packed dirt showing the ruts of the coming and going of decades of Varisian wagons.
------------------------------
"I'd like to hear more about this Windward client. I'm sure you kept notes. And speaking of violated privacy, you forgot to mention the knothole you used to spy on Lil's room."
Braddon kicks the scribe again.
"And you had a lot of stuff upstairs."
And again.
"And the letter you wrote."
And again.
He turns to Malkith. "Show him."
But as Weatherby's battered body absorbs a last booted kick, his eyes roll up in his head, and he slumps to the surface of the road.
Gristav rushes on, away from Riddleport, hoping he rides toward the others of the Goblin, hoping to catch them before lines are crossed...
Phil withdraws only so far as to put himself where his art at stealth might cloud him from Ethel's view, but not so far as he might not be able to keep an eye upon his inamorata. He sets to cautiously follow Ethel, keen to practice his stalking at the same time she does her sneaking.
Phillip fades far enough into the crowd to interpose the taller folks' height and breadth between himself and Ethel. He watches as she uses the same size advantage to begin to infiltrate the crowd around the ghoulette table. Although she's obviously had little training, she has a native grace that aids her in weaving her way unobtrusively between the bettors and observers. Her dress works somewhat against her, Phil notes clinically, being of what Betta might term the "painted butterfly" variety, but there are enough patrons in the Hoard who took the time to change out of their workday clothing to evening finery that she's not the sole spot of color in the crowd.
But as Weatherby's battered body absorbs a last booted kick, his eyes roll up in his head, and he slumps to the surface of the road.
"No," Braddon tries to gently slap the man awake, "you don't get out of it that easily."
He soon gives up. "Great," mutters Braddon in disgust. "Well at least he won't know where we're taking him."
He asks Malkith, "Can you check him, then let's horse him and get him back."
After Malkith has made sure the scribe will live, Braddon sits Weatherby back on his horse, ties him there and finds a cloak to cover him.
"In the dark, riding between us he may just look drunk. We only have to get him back inside. Dunno where we'll put him though. What's in those pouches? Do you want my crossbow? I think I'll be using his from now on."
Hellbent's unnatural hooves continue to thunder eastward toward Roderic's Cove; if not for the limits of his power to hold the steed in this plane of existence, Gris knows it would continue to thunder thus tirelessly all night and all day until it reached that blot on the coast of Varisia, a blot more worthy of that epithet even than Riddleport, which has at least a Thassilonian ruin and a squadron of honest dwarves to lend it respectability.
Gristav keeps his sharp eyes peeled and his ears attuned to any sound of battle or cry for help or to any horse's hooves other than those pounding the hard road beneath him. But the first sign of life he spies is one figure, not several, on foot, not ahorse, and trudging at a measured pace toward Riddleport rather than speeding to the east in either flight or pursuit.
------------------------------
Once Ethel has begun her infiltration of the crowd around the ghoulette table, Phillip steps out cautiously to follow her. Despite the bright hue of her dress, she does a surprisingly good job of weaving from person to person in the crowd while avoiding the eye of the woman behind the wheel. Liry is dressed in a white blouse and trim black trousers, just as she was at the Gold Goblin's opening, albeit without the devil horns and tail.
Overall, Phil is impressed by Ethel's stealthiness, but apart from advising a less colorful wardrobe, he finds another flaw in her approach: She is so intent on her mission of avoiding Liry's notice that she is paying no mind to anyone around her other than the object of her attention. A far less stealthy man than he could be stalking her through the crowd and she be none the wiser. She cannot afford to be so single-minded; if she were, in fact, picking pockets, an entire squad of Gendarmes could be watching without her notice. A simple mistake by a good Erastilian girl unused to looking over her shoulder, but a potentially fatal one that needs correction.
As the wheel ceases to spin and the ghoul head croaks out another insult, the crowd roars in laughter, Liry looks down to check the payout due, and Ethel's small hand darts out between two eager bettors to brush the edge of the table, triumphant.
...the first sign of life is one figure, on foot, trudging at a measured pace toward Riddleport.
"Hail! Afoot!", Gristav calls, cantering his castling closer, silently thanking the Night for Her Grace of stars, the Moon for whatever part she's let Her veil slip...
"Riders just passed you?", he asks, as he begins to resolve the walker's features.
The traveler stops in his tracks as he hears a rider approaching. He narrows his eyes so as to get a look at the visitor as he does so.
"Hail! Afoot!", Gristav calls, cantering his castling closer, silently thanking the Night for Her Grace of stars, the Moon for whatever part she's let Her veil slip...
"Riders just passed you?", he asks, as he begins to resolve the walker's features.
"No one's passed this way, bub," he responds plainly, his voice sounding gruff. You notice the man appears to be quite tall for a human, sporting a trimmed beard and wearing a brownish-gray trench coat with a wide-brimmed hat to match upon his person. He also carries a staff within one hand and a backpack over his shoulders. "You lose someone?" he asks, looking to the man awaiting a response, wondering what truly lies behind such questioning, yet, hoping it's nothing more than just that.
"No one's passed this way, bub," he responds plainly, his voice sounding gruff. You notice the man appears to be quite tall for a human, sporting a trimmed beard and wearing a brownish-gray trench coat with a wide-brimmed hat to match upon his person. He also carries a staff within one hand and a backpack over his shoulders. "You lose someone?" he asks, looking to the man awaiting a response, wondering what truly lies behind such questioning, yet, hoping it's nothing more than just that.
"Hundreds, in decades, by handfuls, and singly.", Gristav answers. "But I suspect I'll find some of the latest..." Gris wheels Hellbent about, but then about again. "... or rather, now I will. Grand hat; suits a man afoot. Have a care; ahead, Southernmost path is ill-favored by night. You'll want the Northernmost, I should think. And once in Riddleport, a drink awaits you at the Gold Goblin, in thanks, and in awareness of your wield and way-wear... I am Gristav, that will buy your drink. If you're bound for the Gas Forges, the Goblin first might reward better. The why of that is long, too long for now." Gristav nods in farewell, smiling as he says, "So long, for now!"
Then, wheeling Hellbent a third time (and widdershins, of course (of course)), Gris gallops away, following the advice he'd just given, bound for the Northern Road.
Phillip lets slip a smile of praise as he notes Ethel's successful attempt at the table before thinking and now the true test starts... He keeps watching and stalking her as she makes her way away from the ghoulette wheel, noting if she maintains her stealthy manner, or if she relaxes. Paying also some mind to any others that might take notice of their dance, Phillip follows at a safe distance towards the Bounder tables...
As the man wheels his mount around and leaves in haste, the traveler watches him ride off in the darkness. "Riddleport and the Gold Goblin, huh? Thanks, stranger." He tips his hat in appreciation at the now gone rider and continues on his way into Riddleport, taking the Northernmost route as suggested.
"He'll live," Malkith reassure Braddon as they haul him back onto his horse, "I'm sure Herr Vankaskerkin has an unused room we can keep him in for a while." Once again on horseback himself, the Varisian holds out the vials for his companion to see, "Just these" "and a rather heavy money pouch."
Malkith rides in silence for a while before he finally gives voice to his thoughts, "If Herr Weatherby is correct, and Little Scarlet arranged the heist to increase her own business investment, and not a personal vendetta against our employer, do you suppose she's done with the Golden Goblin? While I am admittedly curious about the details of this investment, it doesn't seem to be of direct concern to Herr Vankaskerkin or the casino - and therefore is not of our concern."
Braddon's mood lifts at the thought of the money pouch.
"Ooh... how much coin? We'll split it three ways: you, me and Dayn- a quarter each."
Braddon listens carefully to Malkith's thoughts but speaks up quickly.
"Not our concern? What about Gramma? Look, we dealt with the banshee and her flunkies and Lil ran off. Problem solved. But Gramma is still missing. And Ananda's necklace. And Lil's behind that too. It can't be coincidence she sent Ananda to the Goblin. You have to figure all that out."
He thinks a moment more. "I might take that breastplate too. I'll have to get the device changed. I doubt I'll have much use for it in the city but if we go after Lil and her pirates it might be handy."
Malkith thinks on the half-elf's words before speaking again, choosing to ignore his mathematical error, "Indeed, but we have entered into Herr Vankaskerkin's employ with the agreement that we protect his investment in the casino. Whatever this scribe and harlot are up to, it does not directly involve the Golden Goblin. In fact, with Scarlet out of town, Herr Vankaskerkin seems content to let the matter drop." There is a long pause followed by a sigh, "The Fates brought me to Riddleport for a reason. Although their motivations are sometimes beyond mortal understanding, I doubt it was to stop a simple robbery. They have shown me that Scarlet is part of something far more nefarious; but I grow impatient at these games of cat and mouse. Perhaps the Fates will see fit to share more in the morning."
Malkith gives the breastplate a quick glance and shrugs, "I suppose if he were to have lost his armor along the way, you can't be to blame. These roads are quite dangerous at night after all." His breaks his solemn expression by giving Braddon a sly grin.
Daynadrian returns up the road with the horses, including the scribe's runaway mount. "Found him where we tethered ours," he explains cheerfully. "He must have recognized his stablemates." He seems unalarmed by Weatherby's unconscious state and helps Braddon try to balance his dead weight across the saddle.
In the meantime, Malkith gives the vials a closer examination. There appear to be tiny labels affixed upon them, but the script is small and scratchy, too difficult for him to make out in the dim light. Once the scribe is settled, Daynadrian takes a look with his sharper eyes. "That one's a curative," he points to the one with the conjuration aura, "and the other one says 'protection from chaos.'"
"Are we going back the way we came," Daynadrian asks, "or the long way through Lubbertown?"
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Ethel does indeed seem to feel that she's completed her task and can revert to her natural manner, making her way through the crowd filling the casino with enough care not to be stepped on by the taller patrons but no attempt at subterfuge. Her attention is entirely focused on the bounder tables as she approaches, seeking a figure that, if she only knew, is actually behind her....
Malkith looks to Braddon for a reaction, but adds his own opinion, "The sooner we can deposit Herr Weatherby, the sooner we can get a night's rest."
Malkith gives the breastplate a quick glance and shrugs, "I suppose if he were to have lost his armor along the way, you can't be to blame. These roads are quite dangerous at night after all." His breaks his solemn expression by giving Braddon a sly grin.
Braddon returns Malkith's grin and gives him a slap on the back before helping Dayn with the scribe.
"That cape is almost as obvious as the armour. Give it to Malkith, we'll put Malkith's cloak round him.""Are we going back the way we came," Daynadrian asks, "or the long way through Lubbertown?"
His brow furrows at the idea of the return journey via the Boneyard.
"Lubbertown would be safer, right?" His look drops at Malkith's words."I suppose. And there's less chance of him being recognised. Do you think it's midnight yet?"
"Thought you weren't afraid of ghosts," Dayn reminds Braddon with a wink as he turns his horse's head back toward the south. "Don't worry: If there are any ghosts in those shipwrecks, they're probably younger than I am." He glances up at the night sky. "Shouldn't think it's been that long yet. There are some clouds moving in from the northwest, though: another reason to take the short road home. Without moonlight, we'll none of us be able to see out here."
The three move on at a measured pace; the scribe's horse follows its fellows readily, but the men ride close enough to steady the unconscious scribe bundled under the Harrower's cloak should he start to slide from the saddle. As they near the junction, they hear the pounding hoofbeats of a horse riding hard; a few moments later, a rider on a black mount comes into sight on the main road from behind a grove of trees. Daynadrian has an arrow on his bowstring before he stops and lowers his weapon. "It's the dwarf's friend, Gristav," he says with some relief. "What's he doing out here?"
Ethel does indeed seem to feel that she's completed her task and can revert to her natural manner, making her way through the crowd filling the casino with enough care not to be stepped on by the taller patrons but no attempt at subterfuge. Her attention is entirely focused on the bounder tables as she approaches, seeking a figure that, if she only knew, is actually behind her....
Phillip lurks and watches from afar as Ethel makes for the bounder tables... giving Ethel a couple of minutes to look, realize that Phillip is not there and begin to either panic or get frustrated. Once an emotion has boiled to the surface, Phil pads across the floor and leans in close behind her to whisper "Looking for someone?"
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...Trod the hoof, after hoof
And the third, and then four
Thudded ground, and again
And again, as before
And the yards fell like drops
As the hooves drum'd tattoo
And the yards pooled furlongs
Then a mile, then two
Drink well deep well of far
Quaff your freedom astride
For its worry and toil
At the end of the ride...
...he'd been remembering, as he rode, lamenting the sophomoric scansion, celebrating the feel of the freedom he hoped it conveyed. Or rather, recalled. To convey, he'd have had to share it. And it was... sophomoric.
As was his smile, wondering to whom to assign 'Worry', and who 'Toil', when he saw the larger party. But the smile didn't survive the counting of the horses as the distance closed, and the sighting of the slumped scribe.
"I was to tell you:", he began immediately, "If he got clear of the town, he was to be left alone. On another note entirely: If you intend discrete return with him, and I'd recommend both discretion and return, there is a man walking toward the junction now, who will take this road when he reaches it. If you ride, hard, you might get onto the Boneyard road before he gains the junction." Nodding at the scribe, Gristav reasoned aloud, "But you've adjustments to make... so I'll delay the walker."
Phillip stalks Ethel across the crowded floor, taking care to stay out of her sight. It's simple at first, as she is intent on her destination, but after her first slow circuit of the bounder tables is fruitless, she walks around again, a little more quickly, and then, with a frown, starts to peer around the rest of the casino floor. Despite the fact that she's actively searching for him, Phil is still able to avoid her gaze by ducking behind other patrons when her head is turned his way. She is just craning her neck to look up at the balcony where the golem games are underway when Phil steps close enough to lean in behind her.
"Looking for someone?"
She jumps, her eyes wide with alarm which is quickly suffused with relief as she turns to see who has slipped up behind her. "Oh, Phil!" she laughs quietly. "You frightened me."
Taking the hand of Ethel that graced the ghoulette table and giving it a kiss, Phillip raises a singular eyebrow and asks "So... where do you think you went wrong?" in a matter of fact tone, but without any malice or true negative reproachment.
Malkith shares an amused smile with the elf over his jibe at Braddon. Slinging the new cloak over his shoulders, he moves his horse into position next to the scribe, opposite the half-elf.
The harrower does his best to remain relaxed as the sounds of another traveler approaches, but he doesn't breathe easier until Daynadrian is able to identify the newcomer.
"I was to tell you:", he began immediately, "If he got clear of the town, he was to be left alone."
Malkith looks in the direction of the Boneyard and shrugs, "Obviously, he didn't get clear enough."