So it's morning. All of you are in your respective homes or places you call home and the day goes by as normal. However, you notice that a harrow card has been placed somewhere where you would first see it. Goffred, finds an inquisitor card in his spellbook. Tristain finds a midwife card inserted in a pile of chalk he prepared the night before. Durriken finds an avalanche card in his wrist sheath. Theron discovers a cricket card on Korada's symbol. Raseri discovers the juggler card placed neatly on her greatsword.
As different as these cards may be, they all have one thing in common: a message, and by the discreet location you have found the cards, it is certain this message was for you.
"I know what Gaedren has done to you. He has wronged me as well. I know where he dwells, yet cannot strike at him. Come to my home at 3 Lancet Street at sunset. Others like you will be there. Gaedren must face his fate, and justice must be done."
As the day has just started, there is still much time till sunset. If you wish, you may check the townspeople if anyone knows who lives at 3 Lancet or if something similar may have happened.
Theron takes the card flips it around in his fingers.. He sets it down and starts washing up. He thinks it over while shaving .. not a trap .. if they wanted me dead.. He reflexively looks over to where he was sleeping - imagining the furtive intruder.
Theron rinses and dries his face. A pawn .. worst case I'm a pawn .. He looks at the card again before getting dressed.
He wraps his arms and chest with the leather straps of his armor - attaching the wooden plates like phylacteries. He tests the tightness in his final morning ritual. Theron packs his few worldly possessions into his satchel, his crossbow in its case. He checks the plumpness of his leeches before packing their jar as well. All questions gone from his mind he greets the day completely present.
Raseri reads the card again before setting it down and finishes getting ready. As she goes to leave, she picks up the card as an afterthought, and puts it in one of the pockets lining her cloak. She rubs the heel of one of her hands in her eye to try and get rid of the last of the sleep in it.
"Too damn early in the day for this."
She walks out the door and considers the offer. It's almost too good to be true, but she hasn't had much luck in the past year.
Lancet Street, huh? I think I know where that is. Maybe Mak* knows something.
She sighs as she continues down the street. The day was looking to be a long one.
Not even ten minutes outta bed and I need drink. That has to be a new low, even for me.
She continues along the familiar way to the tavern she had started going to. She was almost out of money and was going to need work soon, which often meant as a serving girl in an inn or tavern.
'Least most of Mak's regulars have enough wits about them to keep their hands off.
Raseri sighed again as she walked into the dark common room. Mak was already behind the bar and a few people were brooding over their ales, but the tavern was mostly empty. She slid up to the bar and pulled out a gold piece.
"Hey Mak, mind if I ask you a few questions?"
Durriken starts to crumple the card in his hand, then smoothes it back flat against the wall. He rereads the message on the back. This has to be a trick. But who could possibly know? I've been careful...
He flips the card over and looks at the image. He knew what a Harrow deck was, but the meaning of the card was not known to him. Was this card selected for me? It might bear some looking into.
Durriken opened the chest where he kept his meager belongings. He drew out the shirt of fine mail links and settled it over his head, the weight welcome and familiar. He covered that with his overtunic, then belted on his swords. He slipped one dagger into his wrist sheath, one into his boot, and a third in the small of his back. If someone was watching him, he'd best be prepared to deal with the threat.
His preparations complete, Durriken opened the door out onto the alley and stepped out into the morning. His first order of business was to find a Harrower and find if the card held any significance.
What section is Lancet street in? Who might live there?
Fredo first noticed the pasteboard card when the surface slipped under his quill. He'd been struck by inspiration during the night, with the solution to a problem that had been stubbornly refusing to be solved for weeks. He knew it was a long way from increasing air resistance to truly creating lift, but now he'd figured out that the way to increase air resistance was to pack the air denser under the body, not to alter the body's surface area or mass. More importantly, he'd been shown how to do it. So when he woke up he wanted to write it all down before he forgot. He'd opened his spellbook and started to write. When his quill nib reached the card it continued to write, but also to move the card with its strokes. By the time Fredo noticed, the card had smudged his wet notes all over the page.
"Of all the things," he cursed, slapping the table and pushing the hair that still reached his forehead back. The notes were lost forever and the page was ruined. He tore it out of his spellbook, crumpled it up, and threw it against the wall. But the card could be saved. Fredo grabbed a wad of blotter paper and pressed it to the pasteboard, calling from his mind a spell he'd prepared, but had not had occasion to use, the day before. It was the most minor of magics, but it drew the ink out of the card so the blotter paper could do its work. It was sodden, and Fredo's fingertips stained with the ink, before the card was dry. He let it fall to the floor, where it landed with a splat, and wiped his fingers on his robes. They were black, it wouldn't show.
Having saved the card, it was now time to examine it. Fredo moved to the window to get a better look. He saw the face, the part that had smudged his notes, first. The frame glinted in the daylight, as though it had been reinforced with metal. The image was of a man in black robes, a red hood, and a red and black shawl and tabard holding a file full of papers. There was a chain wrapped around his neck, and the papers were falling out of the file. The man's pale finger was pointed at Fredo, and his eyes were narrowed in suspicion. Along the bottom ran the appelation "the Inquisitor". Fredo quickly turned it over.
Then he saw the message. It was odd. It looked like it had been scratched into the pasteboard with a pen, but holding it the surface felt perfectly smooth and the slightest bit sticky, as though it had come fresh from the printer. Fredo could not even feel the scratches his own pen had made a few seconds ago. Maybe his spell had had a hand in its pristineness, but Fredo hadn't willed it so and was deeply opposed to the idea that magic he had called up could have gotten out of his control. But the message itself was far stranger than its lack of accompanying texture. Nobody he'd talked to in the last six years, or even in the last six months, had known where to find Lamm, even if they knew his name and believed in his existence. Yet here in his hands he held, unsolicited, a suggestion that someone might.
And yet it might not be what it seemed. The card, and its message, merited further examination. Fredo spent the next hour in preparation, fixing some minor spells in his mind. The card suggested that Fredo would learn more at sunset, and he did not want to prepare anything major unless he was sure it would be useful. But he did not need his major magics for the investigation he wanted to do. He wanted to stop by the College's library first thing, and try to decipher the meaning of the card's image. The text was obvious information, but if its mysterious sender had only wanted to send that message they wouldn't have written it on the back of a picture so obviously pregnant with symbolism. That Fredo knew not what it meant didn't mean there wasn't an additional message in the picture. Then he would need to consult a map of the city and find Lancet Street. It sounded like it would be in or near Gray District, but Fredo needed to be sure. Finally, the card would need its dweomer examined, but that could wait until Fredo had the other information he wanted. Fredo grabbed some day-old bread to eat on the way to the library, strapped a waterskin and pouches full of spell components, weapons, and other gear to his belt, and left.
Tristain turns the card over and over again in his hands as the walks through one of Korvosa's parks looking for berries.
Survival
A midwife. I like the art on the card; a skilled hand drew this.
Turning the card over, he reads the message again and thinks of Trina.
Mulling things over, Tristain goes directly to 3 Lancet Street, walking by it a few times to see what he sees. After a few casual walk-bys, he will see what he can learn about 3 Lancet.
Know (local)
Diplomacy (Gather Info)
While walking, Tristain will put some of the berries in his pouch, others he will cup in his hand.
Cast Goodberries.
Meh. I really need to find a better way to eat.
* * *
Tristain will spend the day still trying to sell some of his chalkwork, but his mind will really be focused on tonight's invitation.
How could anyone know how much I hate Gaedren? He's a blight on this city...*my* city...and he took Trina from me.
Theron lets chance carry him, and finds himself in front of the tavern where his retired friend from the watch, Ellick, eats breakfast with his retinue of aging could-have-beens. He walks in and orders, waiting to catch Ellick's eye. He waits for Ellick to motion him over before asking him what he knows about 3 Lancet Street. Theron can already tell from Ellick's expression, he may not be in the mood for another favor.
It is now sunset.
"Just curious. I heard something about that place."
Better to not let them know someone left that card, that might lead to some awkward questions. So this woman is supposed to be dead. I dunno if I like the sound of this.
Raseri buys a drink and some food and thanks Mak for the information before leaving the tavern. She wanders around the streets for a bit before heading to Lancet Street. When the sun begins to set, she walks up to the front door of third house, and knocks.
"Hello? Anyone there?"
Fredo puts the card back in his spellbook where he found it, and gathers the books and his other things. The books he drops off at the reference desk to be reshelved, and makes for the door. As he passes the threshold, his stomach rumbles, and he puts a hand over it, embarassed.
I suppose hunger is one of those immutable realities the card representes," he thinks, trying to find a food cart so he can grab a quick bite before going to see Zellara.
As Fredo chews on the tangy but overly-ground sausage he makes his way down to the waterfront, and thinks.
That book didn't tell me much about what "immutable reality" meant. Surely it could not mean the shape and form of things. I can accomplish feats of transmutation that put that theory to rest, and the masters of the art can do so much more. From the docks Fredo could see the sun beginning to dip behind the tallest buildings on the far side of the river. He could also see the evening rush over High Bridge. Men and women who lived in East Shore crossed that bridge every day to sell or buy goods and labor, and made their way home each nightfall by the same route.
Nor can it refer to the form of social life. The history of intelligent life is the history of changes in the modes of living that life. And a good thing, too. Korvosa's stifledness was evident not only in the man to whom the card promised directions, but also in the throng on the bridge. But aside from a philosophical problem, those people presented a practical one. Fredo could see that he'd have a hard time crossing against the current. There were other problems too. Judging by the map of the city, Lancet Street was fairly far to the north of the bridge's west terminus, and to get there he'd have to walk by the Citadel. That wasn't an experience he was eager to repeat.
Instead, he casts about on the docks, looking for a light skiff to take him across. As he looks he continued to think. Maybe what is immutable is not things or phenomena themselves, but the rules by which changes in them operate. The will is important, in magic and in life. It directs change. But it cannot do so as it pleases. To do so is to court disaster. His mind on his problem, Fredo only half-notices a skipper approach him with an offer to take him across, and only half-negotiates a halfway-fair price. He helps the woman put up the boat lights, green on the left, red on the right, and white up the mast, and she casts them off.
The crossing was uneventful. "You picked a good time," said the skipper. "No one captaining a big ship wants to put in at dusk. Too many sandbars around Old Korvosa, and the dockies are just about to change shifts. Even night's better, cause you can see the lights on the docks and the other boats." Even so, she had to tack them around - and scream instructions at Fredo so he'd know what "slacken port fo'sl sheet" meant - half a dozen times before they put in on the other bank.
"Thank you," he said, vaulting over the side. The skipper wasn't listening. She was busy arguing with a surly-looking halfling over whether she had to pay a docking fee just to drop off a single passenger. Fredo was lucky. They'd started out near the south end of the eastern waterfront and ended up on the southern end of the western waterfront. It only took a block of walking south and a right turn before he was on Lancet Street. He started to look at numbers but the sound of knuckles rapping on wood caught his ear. He'd never seen the woman before - he would have remembered a head of hair like that - but she sounded a little on edge, as though she did not usually haunt this place.
"Are you looking for the fortune teller's place, miss?" he says, walking up to her. "Because I am." He left the implication hanging in the air. If she'd gotten a card, now she could share.
Theron nods to Ellick "Yes .. rest. You have earned that luxury." He leaves and spends his day as he has for weeks - walking the streets on the edge of the shadows.
He passes the address an hour before dusk. Spreading his awareness around him, the alleys .. dark windows .. the light fixtures and where they will cast shadows after dusk. Know your surroundings, but don't plan. Never plan. Plans calcify the mind and body.
Theron takes note of the possible routes to the address, and patrols around them. He sees a man approach from the waterfront just before dusk. Something familiar about the man, a vague feeling of trust that .. strange strange.. He sees the man walk to the door and also a petite young girl.
Theron finds himself walking to the door, as well. Best to get a read on the others now .. outside..
For the most part, Durriken's day proved fruitless. Finding the name of the home's owner hadn't really provided any insight into what kind of game was being played. He didn't like feeling hunted - he'd been the hunter for years. He doubted this was Gaedran's work, the place was too public, and if he'd wanted him dead, why break into his quarters and leave the calling card?
As darkness began to descend on the city, he followed along as his feet carried him towards the address, almost of their own volition. His thirst for revenge was too great to ignore the possibility of finally putting an end to Lamm, as good to be true as the situation likely was. It will be the death of me, one day...
Keeping to the shadows as he approaches, he notes three figures already gathering at the door. He's never seen any of them before, but one... So familiar, but I don't know why...No matter. So four of them, then. He quickly appraises each as he moves across the street to the door. Let us see just who, and what, we are dealing with...
Tristain arrives early to 3 Lancet, for better to stake out to enters and exits before him.
He will set up 'shop' nearby, not so close as to be directly in front, but near enough to watch the building.
Perception
Not nearly as much foot traffic here as in the markets. And few are interested in buying. Meh.
Tristain keeps hawking until nearly sundown, only doing one chalk sketch of note, the 3 Lancet Building itself.
The chalks the building as he sees it: one of many small pieces that makes up Korvosa, a piece of puzzle for this great city, a protector of the citizens that may dwell within.
Holding the sketch out, he realizes that it will probably never sell...it's not interesting to others.
At sunset, Tristain begins to pack up while discretely keeping an eye on the building. Rolling his sketches together to pack in his scroll tube, Tristain eyes a woman knock and enter the building.
Interesting, I might not be alone in there.
Tristain spies the others approaching and hurries his packing.
I don't want to be late.
Seeing Durriken approach as he does, Tristain calls out to him.
"You looking for 3 Lancet too? You get a calling card?"
The house is built in the architecture uniformity laws of Korvosa. However, the residence is adorned with colorful Varisian cloths and a sign that says "Accurate Harrowing Guaranteed".
It has been some time since Raseri first arrived. Five of you have come, yet nobody answers the door. It seems as if no one is home. The door does not seem to be locked either.
Tristain wheedles his way through the group waiting at the door.
"Excuse me..."
Tristain tries to open the door.
"...I think I smell food inside."
Eating berries, as good as they are, aren't a match for real food.
Durriken's eyes flash and he whirls on the artist, his left hand reaching under his cloak and grasping the handle of his handaxe. Belatedly he recognizes the man from the market, and quickly becomes aware of the others looking in his direction. He relaxes his grip, though he doesn't move his hand away from the weapon. Wound too tight, boy... He stalks over to the artist, his voice low and gravelly when he speaks, each word obviously a labor.
"Keep your voice down. What do you know of it?"
"Enough to guess what your card says," interrupts Fredo. With a flourish his card appears in his hand, and he holds it out so the whispering man could see the writing. "Though perhaps not the image on the other side. I don't know the whole Harrow deck by heart." Another flourish, and the card disappears again.
"But our hostess is likely missing her property, and our business is not something to which we should call attention by congregating on the street. I think this man," says Fredo, gesturing to the lean scroll-carrier, "has the right idea. We should wait inside."
"Hmm .. I received a card as well." Theron nods at Fredo's suggestion. "Shall we?" Theron keeps his wits about him while trying to appear casual.
Durriken's tension eases, some as he regards the others. "Right. Best be getting inside, away from prying eyes." He deliberately turns and follows the apparently starving artist to the door.
While Tristain tries the door , he turns and smiles at the group.
Boy, that one has a mug on him.
No point in being sly to this one.
"I am. I guess that means someone left you a gift this morning as well?"
Raseri's eyebrows raise as more people show up in front of the house. She looks at the group uneasily, she could probably get away, but she'd be hurt in the process.
Gotta trust them for now.
She follows the others inside once the door is open.
The cozy chamber within this small home is filled with a fragrant haze of flowers and strong spice. The haze comes from several sticks of incense smouldering in wall-mounted burners that look like butterfly-winged elves. The smoke itself seems to soften edges and gives the room a dream-like feel. The walls are draped with brocaded tapestries, one showing a black-skulled beast juggling men’s hearts, another showing a pair of angels dancing atop a snow-blasted mountain. A third tapestry on the far wall depicts a tall hooded figure shrouded in mist, a flaming sword held in a skeletal hand. Several brightly-colored rugs cover the floor, but the room’s only furnishings are a wooden table covered by a bright red throwcloth and several elegant tall-backed chairs. A basket covered by blue cloth sits under the table.
Tristain enters the room and looks around, breathing deep the aromas of food.
Perception
Heading directly for the food, Tristain picks up the note and reads it aloud, his head tilting back over his shoulder to allow his voice to reach the others.
"'Thank you for coming. I had to step out for a bit, but shall return shortly. Please, have a seat while you wait. The basket under the table contains bread and drink for you.'"
Tristain peeks under the cloth, hopeful that food is there.
True enough, the basket is filled with bread. A couple of bottles of wine are there as well. Tankards can be found on another table within the room. The bread looks a bit stale despite the alluring smell just earlier and the wine not fine, however they seem of ok quality.
Tristain smiles, grabs a loaf of bread and bottle of wine (sans tankard) and makes his way back to the others.
"Free food. At least this night won't be for naught," Tristain says to the group.
Holding the loaf in his mouth (his other hand has the wine), Tristain will offer a hand to Goffred. "Tr-st-osh," Tristain says through the loaf in his mouth.
Tristain recalibrates, moving the wine to be pinned against his body by his left arm, and then moving the loaf from mouth to right hand and then repeats the greeting.
"I'm Tristain? And you?" Tristain smiles friendly.
"Allow me to check if it is safe to eat." Theron speaks a few unintelligible words and gestures toward the food.
This screams trap.
"Maybe we should check to see if anyone's home."
Fredo smiles at Tristain's antics and shakes the proffered hand. "My mother calls me Goffred. My friends call me Fredo. It's good to meet you. A greater pleasure I've not had all day." Fredo lets Tristain's hand go, worried that if he keeps it much longer Tristain will lose the grip on the wine bottle. Fredo raises his eyebrow at the sight of the macabre tapestries, but goes to sit at the table anyway. He chooses the spot farthest from the door, the better to see everyone.
Already there was something interesting to see. The eldest among them was casting a spell, he was sure of it. There was no mistaking the seemingly nonsensical words and gestures. That he felt confident enough to do so in front of a group of random strangers bespoke a cofidence to offset the suspicious one's jitteriness.
"If we're going to be sharing food," he proposes, reclining a little in his chair, "We might as well all share our names. I don't know about Tristain, but I can't work with titles for long."
Went to a good deal of trouble and had to run out? Theron offers his thoughts .. "Not poisoned. Watching us maybe? .. caution or more manipulation?" Bah, food is clean but questions .. poisoning my thoughts
"My name is Theron."
Turning politely from Fredo, Tristain takes a big bite of bread (not worried about poison...it's free food!) and offers his hand to Theron.
Noticing chalk on his bread from his hands, he wipes his hands on his pants before re-offering the hand to Theron with a smile.
"Greetings, I'm Tristain. Well met. Say, did you get a card too?"
Tristain holds the bread again in his mouth while he fishes into his pocket for his harrow card.
"I got this...just slipped in while I was sleeping. Weird, eh?"
Tristain's eyes narrow as a thought occurs to him.
"Wait...did you all get this bit about..." Tristain reads from the card, "'Others like you will be there. Gaedren must face his fate, and justice must be done.'?"
Tristain puts down the card.
"Did Lamm get one of your friends too?"
Theron shakes Tristain's hand .. he starts to retrieve his card from the satchel when Tristain catches him with such a personal question. He takes a deep breath. "My business with Lamm is my business. However.. I would not be here if what the note says were not true."
He decides to soften the awkwardness of his curt behavior and lays down his card .. "This is the card I received. 'The Cricket'"
"No pressure, Theron," says Fredo. "This is not a place to share our life stories if we don't want to. As the cards say - and yes, Tristain, my card says the same as yours - this is a forum for justice." Fredo's Inquisitor appears again, and he sets it on the table in front of him, face up.
Tristain moves to shake the woman's hand.
"...and you are?" Tristain asks of Raseri, feeling that he's met or seen her someplace before.
"What brings you here?" Tristain asks while unstopping his wine bottle with his teeth.
Ignoring the greetings going on for the time being, Durriken examines the surroundings. The tapestries are disturbing, even to him. The smell of food hits him and he reaches for some bread, suddenly realizing that he's neglected to eat all day.
Noticing that everyone else is laying down their cards, he fishes in his belt and pulls out his, tossing it face up on the table. Avalanche. I don't know what it means. Meaning on the back is pretty clear, though. He eyes the group, and turns to the short man who had started the introductions. "Justice, you say? Seems to me it's vengeance our absent host is after." He pauses to take a bite, chews and swallows, then continues. "Which makes us of a similar mind."
"Well, that's as much a matter of place and audience as anything else," says Fredo. "Bleeding Lamm in his lair would be vengeance, because it's personal and private, and the only satisfaction would be ours. Hauling him out on the street, pronouncing his name and crimes before people who have folklorized both, and showing them his death would be justice." The wine bottle, making its rounds through the group, finds its way to Fredo. He pours a little into one of the cups passes the bottle on, and drinks. The wine is sour in his mouth, but he swallows it anyway.
"I think it's important that people know of Lamm's destruction, and not just from our mouths. He deserves to suffer for what he did to us and to everyone else not present here. But beyond that he does not deserve eternal life in stories meant to frighten children."
Durriken eyes the man coldly, but decides to set the matter aside for the time being. "So long as he dies. He'd do no less to us," he says, inclining his head slightly, accentuating the horrible scar across his throat. "Bringing a man who operates in the shadows to justice may be more difficult than simply ridding the streets of him, however."
Durriken pours a small amount of wine into a tankard and drinks deeply. The taste fits his feelings about the whole situation. The woman hadn't spoken yet, but the sword she carried left little question as to what she was. The others, though...The old man had murmured and gestured strangely, a spellcaster of some sort? The short one had offered no indication of why he was here, but his manner and speech spoke to someone of an upper class background. And the artist might be mad. And how, exactly, are these four supposed to help me?
"So be it," says Fredo, inclining his cup slightly to the man, then swallowing the rest of the wine. He stares up at the ceiling and thinks of the scar the man had taken the trouble to point out. It meant he had survived personal combat with someone, possibly Lamm or more likely one of his agents. But seeing, and surviving, one of Lamm's agents was closer than Fredo had ever gotten. And since, despite Fredo's voicing his preferred plan, Lamm was likely to die in his lair, the scarred man could tell him things he needed to know.
"Tell me," says Fredo, "Does Lamm normally hire himself or his men out to kill? Or is it something exceptional?"
Raseri seems lost in thought while the group talks. She seems to finally come out of her stupor as the talk of justice and vengence fills the room.
"You can decide whether he lives in a prison cell or dies at your feet. All I want is to find my sisters. After that, you can do as you wish."
She looks at the group with cold gray eyes, taking in what they have on them and what they're doing as they talk.
"Other than that, all you need to know is that you may call me Raseri."
Raseri moves to a spot where she can keep an eye on everyone and any doors to the room. She makes a point to not touch anything, especially the food and wine.
"Prison, Raseri? Who mentioned prison? I want him to die on the street, in the face of all his victims instead of us select few. Prison has no place in his future." Fredo's black eyes find Raseri's grey ones, and he sits up straighter. "I'm sorry to hear of your sisters, but heartened at your faith that they still live. Lamm was not so kind to all our families. I want him to tell me why he killed my brother."
"I suppose it depends on his mood and the circumstance. I've seen it done both ways."
He turns to the woman, his eyes softer than the rest of his countenance would suggest him capable of. "Lamm has your sisters?" He glances to the artist. "And you, as well? You are sure of this?" That was not good. If Lamm had potential hostages...But, he was what he was, now. New children need not follow his path. If they could be saved...He nods to Raseri and Tristain in turn. "Durriken Garde. Your loved ones are lucky to have ones so devoted as to risk their lives for them." He pauses briefly to drink more of the wine, swirling it in the bottom of his cup. "It might make all the difference, in the end."
"Well the one who has brought us together risks raising my ire. I do not enjoy being toyed with .. and when time tips the balance on lives that could be saved... "
Theron scans the room. where could you be watching from..
Theron, with his eagle-like senses, hears someone open the door. An attractive middle-aged Varisian woman with dark hair goes inside the house.
"Greeting everyone, I am Zellara"
She produces her Harrow deck from a pocket and idly shuffles the cards whilst subtly hinting everyone to introduce themselves. Her skill with the deck is obvious as how the cards seem to float and dance over her hands and the table. She nods her head at everyone except Goffred, who is already sitting.
"Please, my guests. Take a seat."
"No reason why we can't beat both answers out of him, but how is having him die in the street any different from having him die at your feet? He's dead either way."
Raseri drops her steely gaze from Goffred's. her sigh is barely audible in the room.
"I know it's hard to lose family, but I really wonder if killing Lamm is really going to help you find peace."