"Sorry, Ren! I'm just used to calling people 'Mister' if I don't know them. My mom told me it was polite."
"Think nothing of it," says Renato. "You will find most Galtans do not deal well with shows of authority, even minor ones. More so than Nirmathans, I surmise."
"OH. Wasn't that guy talking about the Red Raven? That famous vigilante? I've always thought vigilantes were pretty cool, but also a bit scary. What do you guys think?"
"The masked hero," the writer mutters. "My personal opinions aside, his career would undoubtedly make for a good story. I highly doubt it will have a happy ending, though..."
He looks to the crowd, or through it, and sighs. "It is sad, honestly. The most important kind of freedom is to be what we really are. He is trading his reality for a role, and his sense of self for an act. I wonder even he knows who he truly is. A mask? A symbol? Or a real person?"
By himself, Pick was already the subject of many speculations in the dwarven hold when he was living there, but it seems that he also has a knack for surrounding himself with interesting people! There were Rowena, a cheerful and talkative young woman with an interest for rumors, Siulor, a local hunter from the Boarwood, Renato, too distinguished to be a native of Azurestone, and an half-elf who hadn't spoken since Torg had arrived. This would sure make for a good evening, if his ale arrived soon...
She waves at Torg and grins.
"Nice to meet you, Torg! Sorry to hear about your archery not going so well. Dad tried to teach me, but it never really took."
"I ain't much of an archer myself, but I try to practice. Ya never know when ya're goin' to need to defend yarself on the road. Us dwarves turn to stone when we don't exercise enough, you know." Torg winks at the girl.
I'm Siulor. I'm a hunter in these parts. If you're in the mood for any particular game while you're here, let me know. With Huan here, I can find most anything in the Boarwood.
"Thank ya kindly for the proposal, but I ain't used to bein' picky about the food in my plate. As long as they keep servin' rabbit and mutton here, I'll be happy. I wonder though ; I haven't been to the Boarwood in a long time..." The dwarf looks pensive for a moment before continuing. "32 years, to be precise. I ain't expectin' ya to remember how 'twas back then, but how has it changed in recent years with the revolution and all?"
"OH. Wasn't that guy talking about the Red Raven? That famous vigilante? I've always thought vigilantes were pretty cool, but also a bit scary. What do you guys think?"
Torg shrugs at the question. "I do not know the particular vigilante ya're talkin' about, but us dwarves ain't very fond of them, traditionally. Individuals takin' matters of justice into their own hands, that ain't right ; that's what organised societies are for! The moral compass of one person is too easily swayed one way or another by circumstances..." He spoke matter-of-factly, before adding his own personal touch in that last sentence.
"Of course, with the chaos in Galt these days, it is not surprisin' that there are such men."
Pick nursed his whiskey, waiting for his food.
"The name was Aric," he said almost-absently to Renato's words. "Daring chap, if rumors are to be believed. Slipped from prison just before the dawn that would have seen him headless."
Pick chuckled a little at the talk of vigilantes, knocking back some of his drink. "Ah, well... Torg does a good job summing up the dwarven school of thought on the matter. Times may drive a well-intentioned man to feel he must act alone, that those in power are too corrupt, and that common folk need a champion... but what is to say that all who fancy themselves to be champions actually are? Might some not be driven by ideas of vengeance, or by the sordid thrill of getting to do in a mask what they cannot as normal folk? I imagine there's some with good intentions-- and others less so. Having never met the Red Raven--" Pick puffs on his pipe, "--I'll be responsible, and withhold judgment on the man until I do."
Donnen hears and understands what's being said - the dwarven part included - but limits himself to greet the newcomer and pay attention to the conversation.
The Red Raven..., he thought, ... Always subject of conversation. Well, I guess it's that time of the year....
He smiled, friendly, not agreeing or disagreeing. There's something special about this year and the cold, but he still can't pinpoint what. His parents death came to his mind, for seconds, but quickly the memory faded.
I ain't expectin' ya to remember how 'twas back then, but how has it changed in recent years with the revolution and all?
Nah, I wasn't yet born back that far, but I can tell ya what's been goin' in more recent years.
Let me see, probably the biggest change has been the upkeep o' the roads. Hard t' keep a road clear when folks are busy arguin' 'bout government. Some o' the less wholesome beasts have started t' get a bit restless too. Aside from that, a wood's a wood, no matter what the government says or does. Dunno what else you might want t' know, but that's the most o' what I've noticed.
"The name was Aric," he said almost-absently to Renato's words. "Daring chap, if rumors are to be believed. Slipped from prison just before the dawn that would have seen him headless."
"So it is true," Renato says gravely. "Well, I certainly hope this Aric is as adept at avoiding pursuit as he is at slipping his bonds. He was not being quite as inconspicuous as one would expect from a man marked for death. I pray he was not tracked here. For the sake of Azurestone, if not his. It would be a true shame to see the Gray Gardeners ruin its tranquility..."
The writer shudders slightly, and turn back to Rowena. "You have heard of the Gardeners, have you not? Look no further for your gloried vigilantes. They wear masks their masks of gray, and the people think them heroes for their violence. That is the fruit of inculpability. No good thing grows from an orchard watered with blood..."
Let me see, probably the biggest change has been the upkeep o' the roads. Hard t' keep a road clear when folks are busy arguin' 'bout government. Some o' the less wholesome beasts have started t' get a bit restless too. Aside from that, a wood's a wood, no matter what the government says or does. Dunno what else you might want t' know, but that's the most o' what I've noticed.
"I wasn't askin' for anything in particular. Mostly wonderin' whether some less savoury characters had taken residence in the wood, given that law enforcement away from the big cities is certainly lower in priority nowadays than ensurin' the survival of the Revolution, whatever that is..." Torg visibly does not have a high esteem for the Revolution or, at least, for those leading it. "Would be a perfect place to hide for some of the old aristocratic families too, I s'ppose."
With that, Torg turns to look at the room, hoping to see his ale arrive soon. "Service is terribly slow today! They could have hired some extra hands for the Festival."
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Rowena's mouth turns down in an instant and her eyes flare at the conflation of the Gardeners with the truly heroic.
"Some people think Razmir and his masked bullies are good guys, too! Doesn't mean it's true or that they should be even spoken of in the same sentences as people like Red Raven, Dark Arrow, Blackjack, the Ten Magic Warriors, Black Midknight, or even the Blue Porcupine! Well, you know, except to say they aren't like them. Or that they are getting taken down by those heroes. Or that they're lamer Or--"
She cuts herself off as she finally notices how she had turned into a rant. She grimaces, closing her eyes in embarassment.
"Hehe, you get the idea. This is kind of a subject of interest to me."
She very, very clearly has some personal stake in this matter.
Renato raises his hands in a placating gesture, with a look of deep sadness on his face.
"I meant no offense," he says. "I have... I mean... many people have lost people they love to the Gardener's Blades. Once you have seen their work, it is hard to keep believing in true heroes..."
Obviously, Renato's pain is quite real and very, very personal.
The hustle and bustle of the inn, even getting later into the evening, is intense; the waiter and waitress are nearly run off their feet keeping up with the work. Finally, though, drinks arrive at the table in heavy pewter tankards, and some time afterward plates of food follow. Sorry! Festival time - you know how it goes, the waitress huffs out breathily with a smile as she sets Siulor's meat on the table. But don't you worry - I'll take care of you folks.
And she's true to her word; indeed, she seems determined to keep food and drink flowing for everyone in the crowded great room, and while sometimes there's a few minutes' wait between refills, they're always forthcoming. Before you know it, a couple of hours have passed. The evening grows late, and with all the food, ale, and truly quite excellent whiskey, it starts to draw close to time to take comfort in beds, whether at home or bought for the night - although by the noise outside there's still plenty of celebrating happening.
The ale and the sausages offered by the inn were excellent, Torg thinks. Content, he listens to the conversations of his new acquaintances, commenting here and there when he has something insightful to say about a topic.
The dwarf is the first to stand up. "Well, I reckon it's time I retire to my room. 'Twas an honour to meet all of ya. I hope ya enjoy the rest of the festival. Maybe we'll meet again." He raises his hand in a salute and bow slightly his head, before retreating up the stairs.
Torg had conveniently booked a room at the Lattice Inn, so he doesn't have to go very far. After opening the door, he removes his multiple weapons and places them on the small table. He then starts a complex workout routine: push-ups, squats, sit-ups, lifting his heavy backpack... He does those moves slowly and purposefully, without breaking a sweat. Once he his done with his physical exercises, he undoes his armour and kneels on the floor to pray for about fifteen minutes before he lies down in his bed.
Donnen stands up right after Torg and, smiling, says his goodbyes to the group. He follows to his room - presumably at the hunters lodge - and spends a good time in his prayers. Finally, he retires to sleep.
After enjoying the company and conversation of the others at the table, Siulor stands and yawns loudly. As he places a couple of gold pieces on the table he slurs to the others, Well, I s'ppose i's time Huan an' I head out. We got s'more game t' try n' sell t'morrow and I don' tend t' sell well when I'm hung over. G'night to ya. Come an' see me anytime ya wan' some good ven'son.
On his way out, he salutes the waitress who had treated the party so well, then stumbles out into the night, Huan following close behind. They makes their way groggily back to the rear of the lodge where the owners had allowed him to leave the cart for the evening. He and Huan climb up into the rear of the cart, with the remainder of their game pushed to the front. He pulls a bedroll out from the underside of the cart, lays it out, and climbs inside. Huan circles a few times before flopping down by Siulor's legs.
Before falling asleep, Siulor thinks, Too bad I didn't get a chance to talk to that "Renato" fellow. He must be Jean. Seemed like he recognized me too. Hopefully we can catch up a bit more privately tomorrow.
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Rowena quietly panics as Renato begins talking about the Final Blades. She's never had to deal with someone so close to something so "real" before, and she's not exactly sure how to handle it. She certainly doesnt pick up on the personal feelings underwriting his words. Stella really just doesn't care enough about the scraggly writer to pay much attention, instead warily eyeing Huan, even as he leaves. Rowena shifts in her chair, avoiding eye contact with anyone.
"Well...yeah...that's, like, really bad, you know? I mean, yeah, you know, but...like, you really know, you know?"
She jumps up and yawns widely, stretching her arms towards the ceiling.
"Oh, wow. I'm just so tired! Nice meeting all you guys. I totes need to get to bed now."
She's totes lying and the yawn and stretch were completely affected. She's not tired at all, and she's definitely not going to bed.
She walks off, conveniently stopping at a place in the tavern with good acoustics that's highly visible, suddenly turns about, and throws up another V-sign and winks.
"See you later!"
Renato blinks in confusion at Rowena's befuddled response, not quite sure what to do or say to salvage the conversation. After she and the others start leaving—especially after the young woman's swift departure—the writer quickly closes in on himself. He refrains from further discussion with any of the remaining patrons, instead sighing and intermittently jotting down some notes in his journal.
Fugitives and vigilantes, new acquaintances and friends of old. So much for a relaxing sojourn into the countryside...
Finally, in the small hours of the night, he wanders back to his room for a few hours of fitful sleep.
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Rowena, now Black Midknight, wears an outfit much like her normal one, but all the silver accents have turned to black. Her kapenia is gone, replaced with a hood and cloak. When outstretched, her cape's silhouette conjures that of a butterfly. They are dotted with silver and misty streaks of faint purple, like the depths of the night sky. Under her hood, a black mask covers her whole face except for her eyes, which now appear a singular pure white. The area around the eyes carries the silhouette of an opera mask shaped like a butterfly. White hair the same shade as her eyes spills out of her hood.
As for Stella, now Silver Starlight, she looks much like this except with the black and silver parts reversed.
Pick stays late at the inn, one of the last to leave as he nurses his whiskey, and then some ale, well into the wee hours and observing the people who come and go until finally the innkeep begins to pointedly wipe tables, and there really is not much of anyone left coming or going. He leaves a generous tip, and slips out into the night, humming to himself as he putters for home, leaning on his cane though he's not really so drunk as all that. An interesting bunch of people, he thinks to himself. He decides he'll pick up his table-and-booth from the square in the morning.... he doubts too many people will try and swipe anything from the table in the night, when it's hard to tell whether you've grabbed sneezing powder or a curative or rat poison, after all.
His shop and home are the same modest cottage; Pick unlocks the door and breathes in the scent of herbs and chemicals that tickles the nostrils. The front room of the cottage is crammed with alchemical equipment, books, and little bits of this and that; he weaves his way through the bric-a-brac to the small room at the back that features a little bed, where he exchanges the day's fine clothes for night-clothes instead. Pick yawns, blows out the candle by his bedside, and drifts off to sleep.
You and Stella quickly settle into a quiet alcove between two shops, peeking out from behind a bin of apples; it seems your hiding place is more than adequate, as no one makes any sign that they've noticed you keeping watch.
Around midnight, you hear the noise of some kind of hubbub in the square before you; it seems a couple of celebrators have let their drink go to their head, and there's been a couple of punches thrown, although onlookers seem to have quickly broken up the altercation, including a member of the town guard.
The heated argument between the guard and the revelers goes on for several moments before the crowd dissipates and the guard takes off with one of the most belligerent of the combatants. It weren't me! the man continues to cry out as the guardsman takes him roughly by the collar. It were him what started it - he's the one y' want! Popular crowd opinion, though, seems to think quite the opposite; they're consoling the man who remains, with one woman looking over his already-blossoming black eye.
Around midnight, you hear the noise of some kind of hubbub in the square outside the inn; twitching the curtain aside and peeking out the window, it seems a couple of celebrators have let their drink go to their head, and there's been a couple of punches thrown, although onlookers seem to have quickly broken up the altercation, including a member of the town guard.
The heated argument between the guard and the revelers goes on for several moments before the crowd dissipates and the guard takes off with one of the most belligerent of the combatants. It weren't me! the man continues to cry out as the guardsman takes him roughly by the collar. It were him what started it - he's the one y' want! Popular crowd opinion, though, supports quite the opposite scenario; they're consoling the man who remains, with one woman looking over his already-blossoming black eye.
Pick idles out into the night air and to the black-eyed chap, wanting to see who it is of the townsfolk, or whether there's one of the tourist-visitors responsible.
"Here now, you'll want to put something cold on that. Or a salve. I have salves..."
Cold...shomething cold...you're right, shir, the man replies, holding a hand to his eye and seeming more than a little inebriated. You don't recognize him straight off; likely an out-of-towner, then. I dunno if I got enough cash for any fanshy shalves, though; shpent too mush on playin' cardsh, don'sha know. An' then that guy showsh up, shayin' I'd picked hish pocket when I wash jusht shtandin' in the shquare thinkin' 'bout goin' in the pub...
Pick gives the man a shrewd look-over from behind his half-moon spectacles. "Ah, yes, it's easy to lose track of the money you've spent once the ale is flowing and the cards are flying, mmm, certainly..."
He turns to the woman who was fussing over the man's face. "I beg pardon, miss, but are you two together? Do you have a room for the night? I don't recognize the gentleman, so you must be from out of town-- I'd hate for you to think poorly of our little town..."
His eyes flick between them both, trying to assess whether this is a solo deception, or whether it has accomplices. A grift, perhaps? Pick's curiosity wiggles around like that big dog of Siulor's with a game scent. He supposes his life would be easier if he could keep his nose out of other's business, but the idea that something's up always scratches the old itch awake.
Pick digs out his pipe and serenely lights it, showing no signs of ambling back inside just yet. He discreetly watches the two he's pegged as being dodgy. The old pick-pocket grift, he muses? One for the bump and jostle, the other for the deft snick of the purse? He watches the woman especially, to see if she's sliding any small objects away on her person.
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Black Midknight's mind begins to wander as she waits around. She doesn't notice anything awry with the drunken man, having little first-hand experience with drunken people.
Silver Starlight notices Black Midknight's attention wandering and tries to focus her attention all the more. When she begins suspecting something is...off...with the man, she paws at Black Midknight, empathically trying to push her towards paying attention to her.
Black Midknight responds quickly, seeing this interruption as a potential sign of oncoming trouble. She looks about the scene until Silver Starlight sends her an approving signal from her emotional link. Black Midknight keeps her eyes on the man, silently drawing her best starknife.
The morning's wake-up call is a buzz of conversation in Azurestone's streets and stalls; the tone is one of shock at best, outright panic at worst. As you move blankets aside, you realize a chill has worked its way into the Lamashan morning, a stark contrast to the warm night you had fallen asleep to. The mass of people outside seems to be moving slowly toward the Inclusive Hall, some pushing and jostling to get there faster, others seeming almost afraid to face it. When you watch the tide of humanity, huddled in worried knots or going from door to door with sharp knocks, you realize you can see their breath on the air. And the stories riding that breath into the cold morning are the same from every fearful tongue.
The Key - the Vernal Key - it's gone!
What'll we do? The storehouses won't be ready for this kind of cold, all the vegetables will freeze...
I don't even remember what winters were like without the Key...
I heard the Red Raven flew in, using that magic cloak o' his as wings...
But why would the Red Raven steal the only thing keeping us from freezing? He's supposed to look out for honest folk like us, take from the dirty noblemen holding back all their treasure...
The reeve is asking for anyone willing to go after the thief...but if it is the Raven, he's legend! What can any of us do?
Torg awoke before dawn, as was his habit, and began his usual morning routine: a quick but thorough workout followed by exactly thirty-five minutes of orisons to Torag and his godly family. The former activity warmed his body and the surrounding room, so it wasn't until the end of his morning prayer that he noticed the unusual cold.
That's certainly unexpected ; the weather is usually much milder during the Harvest Festival. If this is anything to go by, the Vernal Key is losing some of its effects and we're going to have a rough winter, he thought. The dwarf contemplated for a moment whether he should wear his cold-weather apparel, but he figured that even though it was cold by Azurestone's standards it was an normal temperature for the season so he dressed with the same travel clothes as he had the previous day. Before heading out, he made sure that all his gear was properly set: easy too reach and not too obvious. Thankfully, his tunic hid his armour well and his cape did the same for his weapons.
---
Hungry for breakfast, Torg exits his room and makes his way to the inn's common room. The starkness and worry painted on the faces of the still numerous guests strikes him as soon as he reaches the last step of the stairs and his ears are overcome with the rumours which are circulated by word-of-mouth. The Vernal Key is gone, they say, stolen by the Red Raven, a vigilante renowned for his habit of stealing from the rich to give to the poor. The folk tales do not matter much to the dwarf, but the repercussions of the event, regardless of the rumours' truthfulness, strike him as particularly dire. For years, the whole community of Azurestone and its surroundings has relied on the Key's benevolent effects. Who knows what will happen now that it's gone?
"Stone Father, is that why you called me here? Is this a test of my devotion and priorities? I will not fail you as I failed Ma. I will do my best to ensure the dwarves of Azurestone can return to a faithful existence."
Following the crowd, Torg heads towards the Inclusive Hall.
The Vernal Key is a curious item, a nested set of three latticed spheres made of blue stone. Little is known about where it came from, or how exactly it came to Azurestone, but it's been in town for time almost out of mind. It reduces the effects of the region's cold weather for about five miles around the town, with a soft wind demarcating the edge of its effects. It's kept in a reliquary above the Inclusive Hall's rostrum, quite visible to everyone.
Siulor wakes up shivering in the pre-dawn light. Despite the warmth of his clothes, the bedroll, and the warm body of Huan sleeping next to him, Siulor quickly feels the sharp drop in temperature. Hells it's cold! he says to himself as he crawls out of his bedroll. Huan gets up and shakes himself awake. He sniffs the air, then looks at Siulor with a look of confusion on his face. I know just what you mean, the hunter says to his hound.
Siulor looks around, now noticing the drone of worried voices coming from the center of town. He decides to check things out once he's taken stock of his wares. He quickly does an inventory to make sure all of his goods are accounted for, which they are, then stows his bedroll and other gear in the compartment beneath the cart. He makes his way into the Lodge and asks Ost what has everyone in such a hubbub, besides the cold morning.
Upon hearing news of the theft of the Vernal Key, a look of concern comes over Siulor's face. Well this won't be good for the town. And what gives this Red Raven fellow the idea that stealing the Key would do any good?! Some hero. It's obvious that he is outraged by the idea that anyone would rob this community of the one thing that gave them any help to prosper in this gods-forsaken country.
He storms out of the lodge and makes his way to the Inclusive Hall to see if there's anything he can do to help.
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Here are some climb rolls for you (looks like it will take three attempts most likely haha):
And three accompanying stealth rolls:
A soft, breathy woman's voice calls out from one of the roofs near the Inclusive Hall:
"PEOPLE OF AZURESTONE! I hear that a masked villain calling himself the Red Raven has stolen a precious artifact from you."
A figure in pure black leather steps out where everyone can see her. The inside of her cape is dotted with silver and misty streaks of faint purple, like the depths of the night sky. Under her hood, a black mask covers her whole face except for her eyes, which now appear a singular pure white. The area around the eyes carries the silhouette of an opera mask shaped like a butterfly. White hair the same shade as her eyes spills out of her hood.
Accompanying her at her feet, a silver cat with violet eyes and black star-like markings raises its head in a pose of pride. (She looks like this with the colors reversed)
She places her left hand over her eyes, then holds her right index finger to her mouth.
"I am void's daughter and silence's wife..."
She crosses her arms and lowers her head, covering herself in her cloak, raises her arms to her sides, showing the winged silhouette of her cloak for just a moment, then holds her hands, making a circle .
"Shadow of a butterfly in moonlight..."
She clutches herself close, wrapped in her cloak, then suddenly throws up her hands, fingers splayed, as though fire erupted, and she freezes.
"I bathe in night's fire, a silent still-life..."
She opens herself to the light of the moon (if it was night), her arms thrown wide in a welcoming embrace, her head back.
"The Beautiful Butterfly, Black Midknight."
She lowers her torse into a half-crouch, her hand hovering near a shining silver starknife. She then picks up the cat...
...and leaps off the roof, flipping once in the air, then landing with her cloak against the ground. She stands slowly, one vertebra at a time.
"Who better to combat a masked villain than a masked hero? I am Black Midknight, Sting of the Black Butterfly. How may I help you?"
Renato is slow to rise, even with the abrupt drop in temperature and the growing susurrous outside. Finally, he drags himself out of bed and opens a window, only then fully realising the unnaturalness of the sudden chill. Looking in confusion at the gathered crowd, he catches their panicked exclamations, and feels the same coldness reach into his soul. As he realises the circumstances, all his plans are swiftly put aside. He dresses himself and hurries down to the square, pushing his way through the crowds to the Inclusive Hall.
The writer arrives at the scene still wrapped up in his blanket, staring blankly at 'Black Midknight' and their dramatics. With numb fingers, he fumbles with his journal and starts verbally sketching out the scene.
Pick huffs out into the morning air, noting the fact that his breath is steaming in the chill. He walks quickly as he can, leaning only perfunctorily on his cane, eyes darting to left and to right as he listens to the flying rumors.
"Eh? Now all of you, keep your head--" he says to the nearest little knot of concerned souls, but his attempt is interrupted by a very dramatic entrance.
Pick stares, gray brows climbed up nearly to his hairline. He stands still through the masked figure's speech, and then, in the moment of silence that hangs in its conclusion, he clears his throat.
"I beg your pardon, but we don't need folk dressed up like Chelish opera stars to go saving us. And I, for one, don't know what I think of some gussied-up masked stranger showing up the night after a theft and offering to solve it. A touch convenient, isn't it?" he says somewhat acidly, his voice pitched to carry over the crowd.
"What's the evidence that the Red Raven is responsible? It's mighty fine to go blaming it on some masked figure out of a legend. It's also mighty fine for a masked figure to show up spouting nonsense about 'voids' and 'silence' and 'fire'. We don't need any of that cult business here in Azurestone, thankyouverymuch, and I've no reason to trust someone who doesn't show their face like honest folk. Azurestone can solve its own woes, stranger-- unless you're actually the thief. You've certainly just proven you have no difficulty in climbing up to where the Key was kept."
Pick stares severely over the rim of his glasses at this figure, then digs out his pipe, and a small flask, which he swigs quickly. It clears the last of his hangover and sharpens his senses.
"Now then: I suppose it's much too much to hope for that people haven't trampled the earth all around the hall all to bits by this point in affairs, isn't it? Blast and dammit."
The old dwarf pushes through the crowd, trying to get nearer to the base of the Inclusive Hall in the half-hearted hope there might be some possible clue remaining.
As Pick shows up and challenges the stranger, Renato nods along emphatically and keeps jotting down notes in his journal. He does feel the need to help in some fashion, which quickly tangles up with his need to construct a clearer narrative of the events for posterity. He turns to some nearby townsfolk and starts asking for any eye-witnesses, moving on to question anyone who claims to have seen the masked menace. The writer keeps glancing back at the self-proclaimed vigilante, and tries to keep his eyes on the dwarf as well, doing his best not to miss anything worth writing down.
Wide-eyed at the spectacle of Black Midknight's appearance, bowled over by Pick's insistent search, and quickly wooed by Renato's questioning, the square's populace immediately begins to part, clearing the way to the Inclusive Hall. Inside the open meeting room, the town's reeve, Antero Ikonen, speaks to some of the more aggressively concerned townsfolk, trying to calm their fears.
We are doing everything in our power to get to the bottom of this, I swear it. Now, if all of you could please give us some room to work - ah, Mr. Pick! Here he is - here to help, just as I've said. As Pick makes his way toward the shattered glass of the reliquary, he finds himself suddenly pulled aside into a rough embrace by the reeve, who claps him on the back eagerly as he beams to the crowd. Play along... he whispers from the side of his mouth into Pick's ear. And Mr. Vitrotti - one of the best minds in all of Galt! Mr. MacBruthe, one of Ost's finest hunters...and a dear friend of Ilda Seppatar's, one of Torag's holiest! he adds, seeing Siulor and Torg enter in the back. See, we have some of our greatest on the task - the Key will be returned before we know it!
The face he puts toward the crowd is brave, but when he turns to you, there's a hint of desperation in his eye. Thank the gods you've arrived, he mutters in a low voice. I didn't have much more I could say to keep them from panicking. You have...come to help, haven't you? We can reward you, I promise, but we need - Just then more frantic whispering makes its way to the front of the hall, and the masked woman's name is in every ear. A hero! A hero, just what this town needs in such a dark time! he proclaims over the rush of whispers. Bring this Black Midknight in!
Black Midknight? Who in the seven hells is Black Midknight? he mutters aside.
The other "expert witness" the crowd points you toward is Larno, a half-orc farmer who had been tending to his animals and turning over his compost heap late last night. Just as he was preparing to complete his work around midnight, he saw a figure running down the road, with a canvas-wrapped bundle under his arm and a long red cloak flapping like wings behind him. It were the one all them stories is about - the Red Raven. Stake m'farm on it.
Torg is more than a little surprised by Black Midknight's sudden appearance. Instinctively, his hands reach under his cloak for the crossbow that is hidden there, but he relaxes as the masked figure speaks. The would-be hero's theatrical speech would probably make him chuckle, if the circumstances were different. Instead, he muses about the excessiveness of the human race (or is the mysterious woman an elf?).
"Weren't we discussing vigilantes yesterday evening? This is certainly an interesting coincidence," he mutters under his beard.
Pick's brutal dismissal of the ostentatious vigilante and his down-to-earth concern for proper evidence rather than the wild rumours which abound in the anxious crowd are felt by Torg as a welcome turn of events. Despite having a reputation in Highhelm for his eccentricity, the older dwarf was also considered a brilliant mind... His involvement in the investigation of this theft can only be a good thing.
Torg follows after Pick as he enters the Inclusive Hall, intent on helping him find clues. (Dwarven) "Good morning, Master Pick. I'll give you a little help if you don't mind." The young dwarf mouths a simple spell, looking at the reliquary where the relic is usually kept, and joins his elder in his inspection of the room for clues left by the thief.
However, he is disrupted and surprised by the reeve's recognition. "So much for discretion," he grumbles. Furthermore, he is surprised by the unlikely band of investigators that the official has just assembled. Apart from the silent elf and the excitable young woman, all the people he drank with the previous night are here. "This is no coincidence. Looks like you have your hand deep in this, Father." He politely but coolly responds to the panicking sheriff. "I did not expect this when I came here, but I'll take it as a sign from Torag. You can count on me."
Siulor enters the Inclusive Hall and is immediately uncomfortable due to the press of the crowds and the palpable stress radiating through the room. He looks up and spots the shattered reliquary and again asks himself who would do such a thing. A moment later his discomfort is amplified as he hears the voice of the reeve call his name out above the din of the crowd.
Oh gods, he says with a sigh. He makes his way none too gently through the crowd up toward the small group assembling around the reeve and finds Pick, Torg, and Renato already there. Yes yes, Ikeno, of course I'll be glad to help. Although I don't know where you get the notion to call me the town's "greatest hunter." You know the others down at the Lodge will be all over me for that don't you?
He sighs again and turns to the others.
When the call for Black Midknight goes out, Siulor hangs his head. Just what we need in this situation. More masked and mysterious figures. Perhaps I should get a mask myself, and one for Huan while I'm at it!
Siulor then begins searching the hall for clues himself, specifically looking for any kind of unusual tracks.
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The hero suddenly balks at the admonitions of Pick, briefly dropping her character. Even with her face covered, her jerky, expectant movements as she looks about the crowd for people in agreement gives away a complete bewilderment, as though she had never even imagines this kind of reaction.
"Wait, what? You think I did this?! I am a hero, and I have no need for things like this key! Silver Starlight saw someone suspicious last night. It was probably them."
She follows into the Hall at the cries of the crowd, that response being more expected. She approaches the Reeve.
"I am Black Midknight. I am here to help..."
She glances towards Pick.
"...despite what some people think."
She takes a deep breath and holds forth her holy symbol necklace, her voice turning solemn.
"I swear by the Black Butterfly that I am not the one who committed this crime and that I will do whatever is necessary to catch who is responsible."
She glares at Siulor, but says nothing.
Donnen wakes up and follows the commotion with curiosity. Worse for him isn't the appearance of a vigilante - he just assumed it was someone with the need for attention, to be dressing up and yelling around. Donnen was much more of a reserved, "team" person, instead - but the fact the key was stolen. The consequences, he thought, what would be the consequences? Maybe his past would finally catch up to him. He was concerned, worried, and simply tried to pinpoint with his eyes the people he has been with on the previous night.
Antero quickly nods at Black Midknight's words, seeming all too eager to accept any help he can get - especially high-profile help. Thank you - all of you, he gushes profusely half-under his breath, then turns to the crowd. As you can see, we have our best working to figure out this conundrum. If the Vernal Key can be found, it will be. In the meantime, Adryan Nylund will be in here later, giving advice on how to weather-proof homes and fields to make the next few days more comfortable, while the artifact is recovered...
With a sigh, he turns back to the side. Anything yet? Any sign of what's happened?
Renato flips through his notes, freely sharing the results of his enquiries with both the reeve and anyone nearby.
"Only two people claim to have seen the Red Raven with their own eyes," he says. "The first is the rector of the Inclusive Hall itself, who might have been in his cups last night. However, his story is corroborated by a farmer named Larno, who did not seem like the type to lie for attention. Overall, I do not see any reason to doubt their combined testimony, though whether or not they saw the Red Raven, or simply someone who looked like him, I cannot say. The farmer said he saw the thief running down the road out of town, with the stolen artifact in hand. The trail seems worth investigating..."
The writer taps his chin, leaving smudges of charcoal admidst the stubble. "Oh yes, I almost forgot. According to both testimonies, all of this seems to have occurred during the altrecation outside the tavern last night, around midnight. Might there be a connection between the two events? A distraction, perhaps? That is how I would write it, at the very least..."
"Yes, yes," Pick mutters irritably at the reeve's desperate whispers to them. "Now just let me work, young man..."
He peers at the shattered reliquary, pipestem jammed between his teeth, brows beetled together as he looks over the detritus of the crime, and finds things.... of interest, indeed. Pick pulls a handkerchief from his pocket and uses that to pluck a few red filaments he's noticed, nodding absently at Torg's words in Dwarven-- he hears you, he's just... focused right now.
He turns back at hearing Renato's words. "Ha! A fine distraction, yes. I talked to the chap who was... supposedly... the wronged party there; I knew something seemed off about him, damnit! Too clever by half. He wasn't local, and he wasn't alone-- there was at least one woman in the crowd that I believe may have been a part of it. So, hrmnn, they stage a bit of ruckus in the inn to draw the guards, while somebody cracks the reliquary with a dagger, prim as you please, tsk tsk. Leaving behind a souvenir," he says, and spreads the handkerchief to display the thin scarlet strands.
"Vanes! Red-dyed! From a northern wood pheasant, unless I am much mistaken," Pick says, smoothing down his beard in a self-satisfied fashion. "Now, the question is:" he adjusted his glasses and cleared his throat, "if this very convenient red feather is indeed symptomatic of the Red Raven, or if this is the same cup-and-shell game of last night's 'pick-pocketing' -- if we are not being fed a bit of a sugar line, if you all catch my meaning."
Let it never be said Pick doesn't have a certain streak of showmanship his own self. --speaking of which, he pauses, with the handkerchief and its damning red feathers held up still, and glowers at the masked woman. He opened his mouth to say something-- considers the crowd-- and thinks the better of it for now, clicking his mouth shut but with a certain latent threat of more on the matter.
"Now, then, the trail of prints leads to this window, and... hmm, perhaps we can pick it up out the building again. Siulor, how is the nose of that hound of yours? I know these feather-scraps wouldn't be much to go on, but..."
Siulor stands and reports his findings. Pick is right, the thief did go through the window, and the tracks back up the farmer's story about the figure heading out o' town too. he leans his head out the window and peers down the road a ways. Seems like this person was in a hurry to get out of town.
As Pick reveals the feathers he had discovered, Siulor steps over and, with just a short whistle, brings Huan to his side. See what you can make of it, boy-o.
Huan snuffs at the feathers for a while and seems to get a bit of a scent, but after searching the floor, to pick up the trail, lays down at Siulor's feet, apparently frustrated at his failure to please his master. That's a'right, Huan. The trails been muddled by all the folk trampin' about. Good try. He reaches into a pocket and draws out a chunk of dried meat, which he feeds to the forlorn hound.
Looks like the scent trail is no good for now, but I was able to pick up traces of the thief's path. We could follow that for a ways. Shall we go. Trail's only growing colder while we stand here talkin'.
"That damned thief has at least seven hours of head time. We won't be catchin' up with him today," Torg counters. "And the weather ain't gettin' any warmer. We need to be properly equipped if we are to follow after him, with tents and blankets, or we'll all fall sick before we catch that Red Raven folk." He looks down at his rugged but thin tunic. "I, for one, would rather go pick up some warmer clothes in my room at the inn."
The stout dwarf turns to the more urban would-be saviors-of-the-day, Renato and Black Midnight, and adds, without any animosity in his voice. "I don't know if Mister Renato wants to follow us out there. No offence meant, but he looks like the type of man that'd more at ease in a chancellery of sorts. And ya, Miss, I hope ya're not afraid to get mud on that fancy costume of yars."