With an edge of iron but without overt threat Phillip flippantly adds "Who knows Maddy, perhaps it'll settle on yours a week hence."
"At the Mystery of the Gate?" she replies with a chuckle. "Not likely. No one's crazy enough to cross the Cypherlodge."
-----------------------------
Gristav climbs the stairs and finds himself in the hallway where he fought Beltias's goons, the broken window and attendant drop to street level looming precariously. As far as he can see, the corridors are empty and the doors to the rooms closed.
Phillip looks to Ethel, seeking a reckoning of whether his inamorata is sufficiently in control and he might seek leave to attend his other business...
...picking up upon cues and running a hand through his hair. "At any rate, I'm going to have to take my leave for the moment and attend some business... I'll see you all tonight." moving to Ethel to deliver a peck upon the cheek and roguish wink before moving to the ladder and descending.
As he departs he ticks off locations in his mind as to where his path might lead...
"Are we waking folk for conversation, or peering parentally through parted portals?", Gristav hushes at the top of the stairs.
Just as Snake is about to answer, he stops as the loud ranger would only drown him out anyway. "I'm gonna have to go with waking folk."
"No!" a child's voice answers emphatically from the other side of a door. "Go away!"
-----------------------------
As he exits the flat, Phil steadies himself before starting to hustle at a decent pace... he had some ground to cover, and little time to manage it. The first port of call he had was with the outskirts of Lubbertown, so his steps led him Northwards through the back streets. The edifice of the Silken Veil looming as his first landmark along the way.
The halfling intended to hustle to where he had an eyeline on the Silken Veil, before slowing pace a mite and skirting the Western edge of the temple... giving those within ample time to either notice or ignore him. Ultimately his path would lead him round past Shoreleave to the fringes of the Varisi compound... where he'd take stock before plunging within.
Snake moves up to the door, "Hey, Cassey, it's me, the tall man with the hat. Snake. You remember me, don't you? I just wanna make sure you and Finnie and Micah are okay."
"...and Padraig.", Gristav insists softly to Braddon, but makes no effort to divide their numbers. The window being handy enough.
Snake moves up to the door, "Hey, Cassey, it's me, the tall man with the hat. Snake. You remember me, don't you? I just wanna make sure you and Finnie and Micah are okay."
There is a silence from the other side of the door, then a slight rattle in its frame as she presses her face to the floor on the other side to peer underneath. "Yes," she answers cautiously through the crack. "I remember you. What do you want?"
--------------------------------
Phillip takes his leave from the tension-filled attic flat and makes his way out of the boarding house and westward toward the river road leading out of town. He passes the Calistrian temple, noting that even their business looks a little slow this morning; the girls on display in their plaza aren't as numerous as usual, and their protectors in black leather seem more lethargic than watchful. One of the women on the cobblestones is the woman Phil encountered as bath attendant on Oathday, Anakinyi. She and the brash young gladiator in Zincher's stable are the only Mwangis Phillip has seen in Riddleport; despite its port, the city seems far less diverse than Magnimar.
Phillip diverts his path to approach Anakinyi, giving her a short bow once she notices him and greeting her "Morning Anakinyi, I trust the morning shades you with Shorafa's protection?" an odd choice of words surely... but not without intent in their use.
"Just making sure you're all okay, sweetheart. And Neenah too. How is she doing? Is she doing all right? And is Micah and Finnie still here? "
"Neenah's fine," the child replies, pushing the doll's one hand into the crack beneath the door as evidence. "Finnie's annoying. She's cranky and mad that the short old lady isn't cooking breakfast anymore. She sent Micah away, said his muttering was getting on her nerves. I think he's in one of the other rooms."
"Morning Anakinyi, I trust the morning shades you with Shorafa's protection?"
The woman looks up at the sky, bemused. "The only shade I see is the Cyphermages' ink blot," she replies with the slight accent which betrays that Taldane was not her first language, "and I have no parasol, though I could retrieve one if it is desired."
Not really whispering, merely not raising his voice to be heard through the door, Gristav muses, "The Goblin might miss my fumblings at food, when I set sail. I wonder, who might qualify, sous-chef to a semi-sidhe?"
Put at ease by the kindelah's kvetching, Gristav starts to drift from the others, a wandering sort of walk, toward the dovecote's demesne.
As a grin finds its way upon the tall man, "Good. That's good, sweetie. That's all I was wanting to know. You're doing good watching after the others... I'm proud of you. Will come back and check on you and Neenah again real soon, okay? I've got to go now." With that - and barring Cassey saying anything else - Snake steps away from the door and moves over next to Braddon, noticing Gristav wandering away.
"I don't think this place saw any trouble," he says to the ranger. "And I don't think it will of a serious nature. It's far too small time. And where is Gristav going? To check on the old man? I'll be amazed if he still lives."
Gristav knocks, but not too loudly, and doesn't wait overlong before trying the door to Padraig's pigeon-post office.
"And where is Gristav going? To check on the old man? I'll be amazed if he still lives."
Braddon nods and follows Gristav but mutters back to Snake.
"The old guy seemed okay. Though wasn't he sending messages or something for the gang of crazies?"
Gristav ends his amble, turning back toward Braddon.
"Let us be of one mind on this:", Gris begins, a beckoning gesture of his unstaffed hand calling his companions to closer counsel.
"The gang used clever birds to carry messages. Another gang might be as clever; we might be they. Birds need care, and a weak-eyed, heart-sick, hop-soaked elder was a good choice for them, his gin-blossomed nose, too broad, to stick into the business. So there it is, the second profit of this place." Smirking, Gristav adds, "I suppose the first, would be that man of Sarenrae."
Only beginning a step again in the direction of the dovecote, Gristav sums levelly, "The elder, is innocent."
Smirking the halfling shrugs "Not on my account, there's little in the sky that gives me pause... though be wary if a parasol you turn to. A sudden downpour is all that it might take to shred it's canopy and leave you bare against the sky." not sure if he knew exactly what was saying this time... but being somewhat strange and at the least memorable was his aim "Good day milady." doffing his imaginary hat before straightening his mustache and continuing upon his merry way without turning or looking back.
"The priest is no profit, Gristav. You make him worth more than he really is. The people in here are barely considered as paupers if that. Not important enough to even bother with."
"The priest is no profit, Gristav. You make him worth more than he really is. The people in here are barely considered as paupers if that. Not important enough to even bother with."
Gristav again pauses in his approach to the pigeonkeep's premises, momentarily reflecting on... some paradox or other, about an infinitely divided turtle, somehow racing a sprinter. But the thought passes, and Gris replies to Snake, "You don't believe that. Because you witnessed, in this hallway, four men, fall to mixed arts, mostly mine, but you rose to the defense against me, of these unimportant, unconsiderable paupers." Gristav was smiling. "You know", Gris said, as if reminding Snake, "You're more worthy than you think you are. And so are they."
"You fail to understand, Gristav. I never meant as people."
The trio make their way down the hall to Padraig's room, and Gristav pushes open the door. As with most of the rest of the structure, very little seems to have changed with the absence of the Norgorberite and his men. The dank little room still smells of mildew, and the cracked window is still cloudy with grime, the morning light diffusing through it softly, as through stagnant water. The cot with its threadbare blanket and the makeshift desk and chair made of stacked crates take up most of the available floor space.
Across the room, the warped wooden door to the deck stands slightly ajar, a breath of air carrying the acrid smoke of the Gas Forges in to mix with the ambient miasma.
--------------------------
Phillip leaves behind the bemused Mwangi and makes his way to the eastern bank of the Velashu, turning north along the road that threads the needle between the river and the cliff. Once past this strait, the vista opens up before him: the walls of Gaston Cromarcky's complex rising sharply from the shores of the island in the midst of the river, Free-Coin District barely visible past it on the far bank, lying quiet and peaceful in the morning air, and in the hollow created by the ridge on this side of the water, the military complex of Devil's Fork, with its prison and barracks. Apart from a perfunctory crew of Gendarmes atop the walls of Maskyr's Island and a yawning counterpart at the Devil's Fork guardhouse, there is no visible activity.
The trio make their way down the hall to Padraig's room... Across the room, the warped wooden door to the deck stands slightly ajar, a breath of air carrying the acrid smoke of the Gas Forges in to mix with the ambient miasma.
Might be a market for those masks in the general population..., Gris thinks, letting his gaze through the door firstmost.
Cautiously, Gristav peers through the door to the deck. It's largely shaded at this time of morning by the tree in the back garden. Padraig is standing near the pigeoncote at the edge of the roof, leaning his insubstantial weight against the rickety stiles of the railing, in a demonstration of an all-too-resistible force putting a highly-movable object to the test.
"Padraig", Gristav says gently, hoping to avoid any abseiling startle. Tapping on the door out of the elder's room though he hadn't knocked his way in, Gristav steps out onto the deck. "How are you?"
With cautious air Phillip continued upon his way into Lubbertown. He mentally ran through the checklist of where his wealth and weaponry was stowed... resisting the urge to pat the exact locations as that was merely a signal to whatever pickpocket might be lurking of how easy a mark he'd be. Once he breaches the border of Lubbertown proper, he seeks the least garish of the folksy harrow reader's wagons as his first port of call...
Once Phillip has passed the Gendarmes' headquarters, all that remains of Riddleport is the city gate, little more than a stone arch over the road into town. Outside Lubbertown awaits, a conglomeration of idle caravans, horse paddocks, tents, shanties, lean-tos, ramshackle stables, and simple wooden buildings that couldn't have been more than a week in the raising.
Lubbertown is a temporary home for caravans, not an attraction for townies; most of the fripperies and furbelows the Varisians use to impress the rubes aren't in evidence here. Still, Phil has little trouble locating a Harrower's shingle outside a converted wagon set on blocks rather than wheels.
"Padraig", Gristav says gently, hoping to avoid any abseiling startle. Tapping on the door out of the elder's room though he hadn't knocked his way in, Gristav steps out onto the deck. "How are you?"
Gristav needn't have worried about startling the old man. He seems not to hear the hail at all and turns without the slightest alarm when the half-elf's approach darkens his peripheral vision. "Hm, aye?" he asks hopefully. "Is the Grail in port then?"
Still wary and smooth in his movements, Phillip draws up near to the wagon set to be motionless and thumps his feet on the steps in lieu of knocking. He follows the 'knock' with a steady phrase "Arrotz bat dator arrotz baten bila ... hura ikusi nahi duzu?" glancing around to see if his activity raised any other activity nearby.
As the old man turns, Braddon looks a little guiltily down at his sword and slides it back into its sheath. He backs out of the room and peers around a different corridor, listening to Gristav but avoiding the conversation.
Gristav needn't have worried about startling the old man. He seems not to hear the hail at all and turns without the slightest alarm when the half-elf's approach darkens his peripheral vision. "Hm, aye?" he asks hopefully. "Is the Grail in port then?"
Moving closer more than speaking louder, Gristav spoke gently, feeling a sadness he hoped he didn't show. "Not that I've heard, no. I'll ask at the docks, later. How are you, Padraig? How are your birds?"
"Aye," Padraig replies, turning his attention back to the sky off the end of the deck, "they're not well, are they? Not flying like they should be. The Father won't be getting his messages if the birds don't come." He shakes his head worriedly.
Braddon performs a quick reconnoiter of the corridor. Apart from the old man on the deck and the little girl barricaded inside the room at the top of the stairs, the upper floor appears to be abandoned. Around the corner to the right would be the halfling woman's room, the storage room he was locked into for part of the fight to take Rag's End, and the bell tower where the priest died.
------------------------------------
Phillip draws up near to the wagon set to be motionless and thumps his feet on the steps in lieu of knocking. He follows the 'knock' with a steady phrase "Arrotz bat dator arrotz baten bila ... hura ikusi nahi duzu?"
"Agurra, arrotza, arrotz batetik," comes the expected answer, a deep and throaty voice with the rasp of many cold nights on the road. "Errepidea laburra, hain zuzen ere mahaira atetik da."
With a quick glance around him, the halfling doesn't notice that his presence has drawn any undue attention, but the sooner he accepts the Harrower's invitation to step inside, the fewer eyes might have a chance to be drawn to him.
With a last running of his hand through his hair, Phillip slips into the wagon and pauses standing and blinking - allowing his eyes to adjust to the interior and taking stock of what's before him...
"Aye," Padraig replies, turning his attention back to the sky off the end of the deck, "they're not well, are they? Not flying like they should be. The Father won't be getting his messages if the birds don't come." He shakes his head worriedly.
Freedom is not always mercy Gristav thought, and sighed, and lied.
"You haven't heard? He was called back, probably has met his superiors by now." Well, half-lied "Keep taking care of the birds, though. If any message comes, we'll find a way to get it where it needs to go."
"Where there usually many messages?"
Snake remains in the doorway, leaning against the frame as he listens in on the conversation.
"Were there usually many messages?"
"Oh, aye," the old man nods vaguely, still peering into the sky above the harbor.
The interior of the wagon lacks the typical props used to impress the townies: draped scarves, the candles, the smoking incense, the familiar animals, either live or stuffed. Instead, the bare table is spread with half a loaf of bread, a knife, a small wheel of cheese with a sizeable notch missing, and a bottle of wine. The woman sitting at it is perhaps the age of Shorafa Pamodae or Fenella Bromathan, though less well preserved; she is dressed in Varisian fashion but without the theatricality that Harrowers are known for.
When Phil enters, she looks expectantly over his head for a moment before her gaze slides down to him. "Ha!" she erupts in surprise. "Arrotz bat, hain zuzen ere! Hitz egiten duzu, gure hizkuntza ondo, erdi-gizon jauna. Zer ekartzen duzu kanpina?"
With Braddon's patience and attention to detail, he wanders round into the halfling woman's room and pokes around.
Memories seep into Phillip's consciousness as he drinks in the wagon... the sights and smells reminding him of Magnimarin days... and the emotional baggage that goes with it. Pushing same away from his thoughts he responds to the matron "Mesedez, naiz Master gabe ... ikaskide errepidean bidaiari bat." keeping to his feet and not seeking a chair, nor offering his name without invitation to do either.
"Eta etortzen hori baino ezin da jendearen artean aurkitu duten bilatuz dut. Zintzotasuna eta bidezko merkataritza." a slight wink betraying that a thread of jest runs through the last statement. "Ez duzu irakurtzeko?"
Do you read?"
Pocketed scarf
Incense and a few knick knacks of Varisi origin
"Were there usually many messages?""Oh, aye," the old man nods vaguely, still peering into the sky above the harbor.
"And there have been no messages today or yesterday?", Gristav asks, comradely attentive to whatever patch of sky Padraig's attending.
"Today, no," the man replies, shaking his head. "Yesterday...," he hesitates. It's not clear how firm a grasp he has on the passage of time.
Braddon saunters around the corner to try the door to the halfling woman's former room but finds it locked.
-----------------------------
"Eta etortzen hori baino ezin da jendearen artean aurkitu duten bilatuz dut. Zintzotasuna eta bidezko merkataritza." a slight wink betraying that a thread of jest runs through the last statement. "Ez duzu irakurtzeko?"
"Liburuak, edo txartelak?" she asks flippantly. "Badaukat ez badut zapiak eta xalak jarri? Gela epela da."
Still standing and shaking his head to the query of whether he needed the trappings of harrowing to be borne "Txartelak." producing a single piece of gold through sleight of hands and holding it betwixt his index finger and middle finger "Laiko ondoren, zapi eta kandela beharra egongo naiz."
After the lay, I'll be in need of cloth and candle."
"Today, no," the man replies, shaking his head. "Yesterday...," he hesitates. It's not clear how firm a grasp he has on the passage of time.
"It's no matter, Padraig.", Gristav says in raised voice, but lowered tones designed to comfort, as he stepped close enough to take a more normal voice. "But if any message should arrive, you give it to me, or to Mister Kane, here. We'll do our best to get it where it needs to go. Isn't that right, Mister Kane?"
"Oh, aye," Padraig responds with a smile and a nod before his gaze wanders back out over the rooftops.