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The tavern is fairly empty, as folks slowly enter into the Mended Drum. It's not a very nice establishment, as you can tell by some of the bloodstains on the floor, but it's generally where people of all colors gather, good, evil, Upper and Lower, everyone goes to the Mended Drum fairly frequently- Primarily because it's also the safest place in town.
At the head of the bar is a old man, Old Isaac, wiping down the bar. He waves as everyone slowly peters in, shrugging. A DC 12 knowledge (Local) check shows you that, legend has it, he's a ancient wizard from a world, distant and unknown, but we know that he's been here since London's founding five hundred years ago- And nobody is quite sure WHAT he is. It's well known that he is a Wizard, though nobody knows how strong. However, he refuses to leave the bar- Ever. For the most part, he sends his granddaughter out.
To his left, is a fairly young woman, a small book around her neck. She's cleaning a few glasses. She's quite obviously a cleric (Of whom, nobody is quite certain), and has a pair of feather wings on her back. She idly waves at you, turning back to her glasses. You know that she usually handles the cleaning and everything having to do with leaving the house. Her name is Abby.
The Mended Drum is about three floors- First floor is the bar and such, second floor is the lodging for guests who wish to stay, and the top floor is for Isaac and Abby's room, along with a small kitchen and a game room, where card and dice games are performed.
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It is for them a day of impending misery. As the rays of light slowly begin to pierce the thick morning fog, the morning sounds remain that of the gentle roll of the surf, but perhaps just a hint more surf than there is, for there, glinting gently, where the surf reaches the beach stalk several figures, barely visible in the mist, dressed in salt encrusted furs and armor, bearing weapons stained with the signs of much use.
Within moments, more than a dozen armed warriors set foot to sand and wait quietly, any sound they make is muffled by or could be confused with the song of the surf. There to the south, another group flows up onto the beach. Yet without any sound or signalling between them, the groups flit up into the village, leaving one from each group waiting on the beach. As the first Raider steps foot up to the first building, the silence is finally shattered by a thundering of a deep drum, and then an eerie, almost metallic warble echoing across the bay, striking fear deep in the hearts of the sleeping villagers.
There in the bay, anchored, are three vessels. Two are long narrow sea worthy ships capable of holding 80 or more raiders between the Dragon head at the stempost, and the curved tail on the sternpost. A single sail lies tightly furled to the yardarm on the single mast. The third, much smaller vessel is of similar design, but appears to be better suited for shorter, coastal voyages with a mere dozen or so, lies lightly anchored about ten to fifteen yards from shore.
It is there that the thundering of the drum and soul shivering cadence comes from, as there is one left aboard. Striking at the large drum lashed to the ribs of the boat, and then to the curious water jar in this lap, two large mallets blur as the roll off the drum, and then hang by leather straps secured to his wrists as he rattles his fingers across the water jar.
There is a look of peace on his face as he drums, of one who has tuned out the world, caring little that the world has yet to tune him out, as a wave swells a bit higher than those prior, gently lifting the ships boat up, pulling the anchor free for a moment. It is then, that the drumming stops, completely, and abruptly, mid bass roll. A look of sheer panic on the young man's face. He darts for the anchor chain and pulls it up some as the long mallets rattle at his sides. He stares vainly into the cubic mile of pea soup in front of him as he uses the waves to bring his vessel to shore, and whispers the words. "They're gone, as if out of range. That's NOT the plan!"
The look of surprise reappears, followed by one of deep confusion, as from the fog ahead booms a mighty bell, tolling the hours.
"There was no bell tower... and THAT'S not an Alarm pattern."
An errant gust of wind thins the fog, finally, resulting in the anchor chain slipping from once again surprised fingers, dropping deep into the bay, far deeper than expected. The view through the the thinning fog, is that of the mighty London Skyline, with the scream of a seagull above.
There he sat, crouched in the bow of the large boat staring out at the city before in silence for several long moments before someone shouted from a passing ship.
"Ahoy, you there in the Dragon Boat! You can't tie up there! Try the docks westward, you see em?"
"Your not from around here are you boy? Watch yourself in the city, they don't take kindly, and there is murderer loose."
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A young woman enters the Mended Drum, carrying only a violin in a battered old case. She nods to Isaac and Abby and walks directly to the small stage to the side of the fireplace. She sets her violin case on a stool and from a fold of her bright red cloak, she pulls a few pages of piano music and sets it on the piano in front of a young man who was idly playing some cheerful melody. Without saying a word, she communicated to the young man that she wanted him to play the music to accompany her. The somber look on her face made his fingers freeze mid-phrase and he nodded, looking over the music while she got her violin out.
Regulars of the Drum knew her as Qat, an actress with the local actors' guild, regular performer and playwright at the City Pantheon theatre, as well as a skillful violinist. She also liked to gamble and was rumored to be involved in some scandals. Tonight, however, she was obviously not her usual cheerful self. Her hair appeared to have gone uncombed for the past few days, she had applied no make-up, and her face showed evidence that she had been crying and needed sleep.
She tuned her violin and said to the occupants of the room, "I have recently lost someone near to me to a horrible act of ..." Her voice cracked but she mastered herself and continued, "of violence. Were I with my Gypsy friends, we would honor her with many traditional acts. However, in their absence, I would ask you to please allow me to perform a traditional Gypsy chaccone."
As the room grew respectfully silent, she walked slowly around the perimeter and turned the lamps down low near the piano and off completely at the far sides. When she got back to the piano, she lit a single candle and set it on the stool. She pulled a small mirror from a pocket and said "Frumesetarkista". Then she drew forth a red scarf and covered the mirror and set it next to the candle.
She stood next to the stool and composed herself to play, nodding to the pianist when she was ready. He began the piece with a series of quiet chords in a minor key and then she began to play a soulful melody, full of sadness and love.
Listeners knew that she could play much better than she did in this circumstance, however, it still sounded quite beautiful.
After the performance, she placed her right palm around the candle flame, extinguishing it and burning herself a little. She stood with head bowed. Then she thanked the audience for listening, pulled out a sheaf of papers with handwriting on them, walked slowly toward the fire place and with tears in her eyes cast the letters into the fire place. After this, she collapsed into a chair and began to sob softly.
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Vir Invictus, self styled champion of the faë and the fair folk, was in a splendid mood today. He had come to London just about three years ago and today was his 'anniversary'. Like many others he had come to their beautiful city stumbling trough one of the many portals, brought here by chance - or was it fate? Fate. It was fate. She has always led my way. Fate, you truly love me. He grinned to himself. He had been half mad from delirium, haunted by a strange fewer and otherworldly dreams.
It had taken him almost a month to recover - and when he could stand on his own he couldn't find the right portal back. Not that he didn't try. Heck, he had tried a few just last week. But none of the places he had stepped into was familiar. Maybe he just didn't remember where he came from, his 'home'. Past the fever, past his first arrival in London, everything was foggy. Maybe he had already found it. Maybe it was London all along. He didn't really mind. It was a beautiful city and it was his home now. The search was more ritual now, a tradition kept up for traditions sake. He was not the man to fail such a simple task, so it must be so.
One thing was clear about his past, one memory was crystal clear as the finest of Old Isaac's spirit. The woman in autumn red dress - an unearthly maiden more beautiful then life itself. She was regal. A queen at the very least! The woman was always constant, she always had the same peculiar but inviting smile in every time, yet the scenery changed with every dream. Memory! he corrected himself. She was his fate and she had declared him his champion. She hadn't said it, but he knew it. Her emerald eyes left no doubt.
He had nothing when he came to London but the thorn rags on his body. It had taken him long time to earn enough gold for a new sword, yet he had persevered. Manual labour was beneath such as him, heroes and champions. But for her he would do anything - and then he had a sword again. From there it was easy! Those whom had chuckled at his tales of valour soon learned to eat their words. With his sword he had journeyed trough the portals and brought back new tales, tales of Vir Invictus, Champion of the Faë and the Fair Folk.
The fey of London had been apprehensive about the whole 'champion' thing. He suspected that they remained unconvinced still. None of them seemed to know the fair faë lady from his vision. Memories! But about a year ago, they had relented - on one condition. One of their kind, a brownie named Stella, would watch over him to make sure he didn't 'misrepresent' their name.
At first, it had been burdensome. He had missed the back-alley duels. But then, he had learned to appreciate his constant companion. She absorbed his tales like a sponge and unlike others of her kind she didn't disdain the sword. Soon her position shifted from watcher to squire and her reports morphed into chronicles. Quick of wit and blade, one day she might too be a glorious hero like me! His grin widened. Not *quite* that good, but close enough!
But enough pondering about the past! While it was still his 'anniversary', he preferred to live for the day. And today he was celebrating his 'anniversary' with an evening at the Mended Drum. Best inn in London I reckon. Otherwise, why would he be here? He even had a room in his name upstairs. He was nursing his second ale for the day, already developing a pleasant buzz. He wasn't drunk of course. I would never! That is for lesser men, not heroes like me! With him around the table was a handful locals - he knew the names of about half. Quietly he chuckled into his ale. He was fairly certain he knew their names at least. But more importantly, they knew his. Stella was there too of course, enjoying a drink of her own. He was telling them all the grand tale of how he outsmarted the blue dragon of Maximillion's Creek and rescued the village it kept hostage. Wait - wasn't there a cyklops too? Right, I need to make this right!...
Then, something cut trough his thoughts and the pleasant sound of his voice. It was that actress, Qat, from the City Pantheon. He had met her a few times before when he had graciously offered the theatre to set up a few plays about this own grand tales. They would have to be toned down a bit, of course! To fit on the scene... Curiously, he had never heard back from them. The main cast is thought to fill obviously. Perhaps I should grace the stage myself, but I am such a busy man. But Qat was not her usual beautiful self - no. This day, she seemed troubled. I ought to be a gentleman, to cheer her up! Holding that thought he blinked, realized that she was actually talking. Something about a 'traditional song'? It seems important to her... I better let her. Back in his mind, a nagging thought told him he missed something. Urged by the last sheds of common sense Vir did something rare - he fell silent. In his mind, it was out of respect so that the patrons of the tavern would get a chance to listen to Qat's performance. It did not occur to him that even Stella had stopped listening to the tale he had told twice since his first ale already when Qat had entered the common room.
After the performance was over, Vir got up. It took a moment for him to steady himself, then he was off. Without swaying, he walked over to Qat. (Rumour say that Vir was impossible to trip since his ego always pulls him to the sky. None have yet to disprove this.) He did stub his toe on one of the many chair legs between him and his destination. Ach! The trials I endure ... Such is a heroes path!
With a deep bow he re-introduced himself. It was mostly formality and etiquette, for whom could forget me?
"Vir Invictus, Champion of the Faë and the Fair Folk, at your service my troubled lady. How can this humble knight aid you this solemn evening?"
That annoying nagging thought at the back finally came trough and he put it together with the latest news on the street. The sad song suddenly made a little more sense. With a sigh he adds
"It is dark times, these days... It is only dishonesty and cowardice that would pray on the meek, a slayer without courage to fight properly! I would put him down myself, had he only the guts to face me..."
The self-absorbed knights eyes betray that he is not entirely sober, but his wits doesn't appear much worse off then usual. His claims are dubious as always, but here might be a grain of truth hidden within his boasts. Some of the fresher blood stains in the bar where his doing, but not his blood, after all!
Qat senses someone approaching and looks up. A handsome man heading her way, a little unsteady. Tears in her eyes blur the details, but she masters her emotions and sits up to regard him, wiping the tears away with one of her bright scarves, careful to keep the edge of the scarf away from her face. He's rather handsome, with some seriously well made armor and a dueling sword, so not some common tavern lout. She is grateful for the distration. Self-pity is a dangerous indulgence.
"Vir Invictus, Champion of the Faë and the Fair Folk, at your service my troubled lady. How can this humble knight aid you this solemn evening?"
That annoying nagging thought at the back finally came through and he put it together with the latest news on the street. The sad song suddenly made a little more sense. With a sigh he adds,
"It is dark times, these days... It is only dishonesty and cowardice that would pray on the meek, a slayer without courage to fight properly! I would put him down myself, had he only the guts to face me..."
Qat regards him critically, trying to figure out if he is sincere or if he is mocking her.
Suddenly, she recognizes him. He had been by the theatre once asking the staff if they would like the privilege of producing plays bringing some of his legendary escapades to life on the stage. She had not talked to him directly, but was amused by the way he went on about himself. Tellridge, the manager, had pretended to be excited and had told him he'd get back to him real soon. After he left, everyone had a good laugh. Qat felt a little sorry for the guy. But London was a hard town for the amateur artist. Lots of competition.
"Thank you, kind sir. Bring your drink over while I fetch one of my own. If the fiend won't fight fair, we may have to lay a trap or hunt him like a rabid dog." Qat rises, sets her violin in her open case, and walks gracefully to the bar and orders her usual, a plum wine. She hears another patron make a snarky remark, but such is always the risk of playing in bars. Not everyone is sympathetic to the message of the musician.
"Isaac, I'll buy the complainer a refill." When Isaac has filled a mug, Qat sets her wine at her table and delivers the ale to Ruskov, with a smile. "Sorry if my grief has inconvenienced you," is all she says and returns to her table.
Something about the woman looks familiar to Qat. Then she recognizes her as a warrior who trundles about town in the company of a bear dressed in armor with a sword. She is rumored to have some connection to a distant once-famous circus, but Qat has never been very interested in such entertainment. It did put into her mind a quote she always liked that said, "Words are like a cracked teapot on which we tap out crude rhythms for bears to dance to, all the while wanting to compose music that will move the stars to pity."
Seeing the glimmer of recognition in Qat's eyes Vir's grin widened. Now that he was here, he could see how her mood was improving quickly. Ah, another good deed - another soul soothed! His aura of good spirits seemed more potent then usual, for it seemed as if the woman with the baleful chair-leg was also affected. Before, her soul had been empty. Now, she was cheerful!
With a grin he trailed Qat to her table and gestured across the room for Stella to bring him his drink. The little squire quickly came dashing with a pair of mugs - easily criss crossing across the common room. Without spilling (much) the brownie leaped up on the table and placed down the mugs, then sat down cross-legged and looked around with a friendly grin.
The knight, pleased that his drink had arrived, sat down and only vaguely remembered something about catching a murderer. "A trap? Why yes it would be perfect ..." he nodded on autopilot while studying lady number two. Back in his heads alarm-clocks were ringing - reminding him to not come close to this woman for some reason. Something something brown and fuzzy? Bah! Certainly nothing! "If all misfortune turned to drinks, I'd be the champion of beggars and the lame quicker then the blink of an eye!" he laughed.
"Inconvenienced? Nyet. Look, my mug is full now. Your grief has been very good to me. Unfortunate that it does not treat you so in turn."
Qat ignores the sharp retort, thinking only of the words of a famous bard, "Souls whose hearts bring naught but hate cannot but help to live with fate that imparts the dark waters of the heart, yet never exhaust that cold internal spring."
At the table, she watches the odd sight of two mugs of ale levitating across the room a few feet above the floor before getting a good look at the tiny brownie carrying them. As she draws up to the table, Qat smiles, sincerely this time, and says, "Comtianda zendamir! Tiendal arsha dommela 'Qat'. Tomishha tiendin aresh diel?"
The brownie appears female but her curly brown hair is cut short at her shoulders, in a page haircut. She wears a colourful tunic over an earth-coloured dress and she has a pair of swords in her belt. One is short and straight, the other is longer and slightly curved. Despite the warlike apparel her expression is soft and friendly, with huge brown eyes. Foam from her ale gives her bubbly facial hair for the moment, which she carefully wipes away with the tip of her tunic before replying.
The brownie's voice is high pitched and the pace is quick. With a pause for taking another sip of ale (and wiping away the foam) she adds a bit slower -
Qat says, "Thank you," in Sylvan. She continues to talk in Sylvan, partly because it is a beautiful language and partly because it provided more privacy, since most people could not speak it.
"I grew up in a far-away place called Minkai. Near our city was an ancient forest. I used to slip away and meet a friend of mine named, Fairvik. She was a kitsune and we liked the forest because she could take her fox form and we could enjoy being ourselves without worrying about what other people might think. We were friends with many of the fae of the forest and they protected me when I needed a way to escape. That led me here. I miss my friends, but otherwise, I've never longed to return to my village. I had been a slave and was to be given to a vile man as a gift from my daimyo. Here I'm free and can do what I want. Of course, right now, what I want is revenge, but I am grateful to the Fey for helping me. If you ever need anything or if this guy ever treats you mean, let me know." As she finishes her last sentence, she glances at Vir to see if he even noticed what she said.
Seeing as he now had an audience again (Ruskov, poor sod!) Vir was once again retelling the impressive epic of how he wrestled the three-headed blue dragon of Maximillion's Creek. The tale was accompanied by wide gestures, and - as it approached the finale, he wringed out the life out of a spoon representing the foul beast. Despite the dubious level of truth, he attracted some of the other tavern patrons to come over and listen (if they where drunk enough to believe him - or simply amused by the tall tale was harder to tell). As such, Vir paid little attention to the conversation between Stella and Qat. Except the part where his name was mentioned of course, which he dignified by giving the violinist a wound look. I? *mean*? Surly she must realize that pettiness is for lesser men! After half a second he was blabbering again.
The brownie listens with an attentive look to Qat's tale wile sipping her ale. When she finishes, the little fey smiles and reaches out to pat Qat at her hand (or whatever part of Qat she can reach) as a soothing gesture.
After the short phase Stella sits down again and looks up at Qat.
Seated in a corner, on the floor is a tall, muscular man, with a oddly bronzed skin that glitters in the light in shades of red, blue and gold. His focus seems to be entirely on a what appears to be a painted ceramic water jar, running his fingers over it, and occasionally holding it to his ear while tapping it quietly.
Today he is dressed a heavy fur lined cloak of a dark blue, with a flash of gold at the throat, a dark green tunic of a coarse canvas like material, and thick light woolen breeches worked with faint gold patterns. His left foot, is bare and heavily calloused. His right ends just below the knee into a length of wood with a round knob at the tip. Slowly orbiting his head is a small cloud of blue, green and red in the form of a dozen ioun stones of various shapes, though it appears that each and every one has been cracked at one point or another.
He has a pair of slender rods with significant weights to one end, slipped through his belt, though they appear to best balanced and suited for drumming, they appear to have at least one other purpose as well. The first, is a slender length of black wood, etched with tiny gold characters, and appears to have a dual grip, so it can also be used as a club. The other, appears a similar length of crystal of a deep purple shade wrapped in a fine mesh of gold. This second length appears to have a tiny crystal shard floating in the air nearby.
While a brief look will give the impression that his focus is solely on the odd jar on his lap, a careful observer will notice that he has placed his back to a wall, and is intently studying and watching everyone.
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Taking a deep breath, Rae pushes open the door of the Mended Drum, and steps inside. Waves of smells and sounds overwhelm her, flooding her senses. The iron tinge on her tongue of blood, the poor piano music, the shouting, bantering, and hushed secrets. What she feels more than any of those tangible things, though, is nostalgia.
'It must be six years since I've been here.' She thinks to herself, noting that neither the place, nor Old Isaac, had changed in the slightest. 'My. What a wretched hovel.' She thinks, before breaking out into a grin, surprising herself by how happy she is to be back.
While she took it as a sense of pride that she had been able to fit easily into her old battered leather corset and tight-fitting trousers (leaving the "proper" attire at home), blending back in in other ways was a bit trickier. Still, by the time she reached the bar, she had regained a swagger, and was already working on dropping her posh accent. "Long time no see." She grins at Isaac, her words beginning to drawl together in a lazy manner. "Lemme getta whiskey."
Rae pushes her dark bangs back, thinking about how she'd need to remember to do something about those. Her hair was a lot shorter the last time she ran in these circles, and it would be problematic for it to get in the way. Looking around, she sees some familiar faces looking at her curiously, but no one that she's interested in talking to. There would be too many questions that she didn't feel like answering. 'Where've you been?', 'Thought you went all respectable?', 'The hell you doing back here?' - Imagining them repeated over and over, and having to make up new explanations every time, left her feeling beyond tired. 'Besides,' she thinks, 'Those that matter will find out soon enough.' Feigning ignorance, she let her eyes pass over them.
Those were only some of the people she saw, though. Others had a look on their faces that said they understood. They knew not what brought her back, only that it had happened, as it inevitably would. They bore no satisfaction at this knowledge, only a grim acceptance. Her being back meant one thing to them, that another person who attempted to escape the dregs had come back, and that there was no leaving this life. It didn't matter how far she had gone, or what she had done, only that she had come back as one of them again.
Trying not to shudder at the thought, Rae downs her whiskey and shifts the hilt of her rapier, unaccustomed to wearing it. She wonders idly what the Academy would think if they knew that she had taken her sabbatical to run around playing teenage runaway again. Part of her wonders if they knew, or at least suspected it. She imagines their eyes like those of the older men in the bar - having always expected her to go back to this. She shakes her head, instead focusing on how envious her students would be, and another smile spreads across her face.
'Well.' She thinks, her bright blue eyes narrowing. 'Enough reminiscing. Time to get to work.' Ordering another drink, she begins to eavesdrop through the room, listening for any chatter about the recent murders.
To Stella's 2nd question, she says, in Sylvan,
Qat pauses for a moment and waits until Vir is talking about himself and says to Stella,
While talking to Stella, Qat's gaze strayed to other occupants of the Drum. A strange man sat by the wall with a halo of Ioun stones. She had seen him lumbering about the docks on his peg leg. There had to be a story there. She made a mental note to ask him about himself later. She also noticed a newcomer to the bar. At first she didn't register but then Qat remembered seeing her play violin somewhere. She played well (not as well as Qat, but better than most). Maybe they had played together at a rave somewhere.
The brownie doesn't seem sure if she should look happy or sympathetic, so her face shifts between sadness and smiles. Halfway trough her short speech the positive emotions win over and she has a full blown grin again.
Clearly excited, the Brownie's speech speeds up towards the end and the words start to get mauled together.
What you see: Qat is a slender 5'4" tall with straight black hair down to mid-back, a pretty face with dark almond shaped eyes, graceful eyebrows, a dainty flat nose, and a narrow mouth. She appears to be a teenager or a young looking 20-something. At the moment, she has circles under her red-rimmed eyes from lack of sleep, crying, and a hangover. Her clothing is colorful with a graceful looking suit of quilted armor mostly covered by layers of scarves, sashes, and the like. Over her armor she wears a loose fitting jacket with lots of big pockets and long, full sleeves. Her only equipment at the moment is her violin case. Strapped to the case is a lady's parasol made of colorful fabric. A hairbrush is looped through a strap to a belt under her jacket.
If you are the suspicious sort, you might wonder what she might have hidden in the many folds of her layers of clothing.
Knowledge Local - Qat = 27 (Above)
The man's studied front of disregard for the occupants of the Drum solidifies into a steel mask of oblivious as Sergeji steps into the Drum, and only the truly masterfully observant notice the gentle stilling of his fingers tapping at the jar in his lap, or the gentle purple glow around his collar for a fraction of second before fading, unused.
This place, and these people ... I almost feel as I know them all...
There, the Flamboyant duelist, strange, but he's ALMOST as good as he thinks he is, hmm, front line or perhaps knight takes rook, yes, place someone across from him to take advantage of all the off balanced foes he creates. His little lady, perhaps not the most deadly, but you'll never see her coming. I wish I could understand more of what she was saying, I suspect it would grant greater insight into her companion.
The lady and the Bear ... I suspect they are a fearsome front line duo, though I doubt her companion is ready to learn to count. Perhaps by and by, especially if she has it running errands already....
The lady with the rapier, hmm, ink stains on her fingers, and a little unfamiliar with the weight of her blade perhaps? I think I heard a story two nights past, a local college perhaps ... what were the details... regardless she has the callouses to claim that her blade is no affection, she'll remember how to wield it soon enough. Another flanker, or front line in a pinch.
And that leaves the lady violinist... no visible weapons, could use a good night's sleep and something for the headache she's bound to have, but is plenty confident in these parts to be out alone, especially with a murderer loose. From what I learned last night, I'm sure she's able to hold her own, but I'd need to see her in action to be sure what role she'd play on a battlefield.
Four, or perhaps three and the bear, would be ideal. Now, to formulate strategies with each combination, not quite time to intrude and introduce myself, no not yet. Hmm, a distinct lack of ranged capabilities...
As his mind wanders across those he see's before him, his fingers continue to gently tap across the water jar in his lap, occasionally drawing brief choreographed placements on the ceramic's surface.
The wind howling outside can be suddenly heard in the tavern as the door slams open. A tall, blonde, elven woman in worn leather armor stands dramatically in the doorway, her cerulean orb eyes scanning the sparse crowd. She raises an eyebrow at the bear, but pays it little heed, as she proclaims in a sonorous voice, surprisingly strong for her lithe frame...
-
"I hear we're actually going to do something about this mass murderer. It's about time. Where do I sign up?"
-
You've either met or heard of Izzy Carbuncle before. She's a local knowledge-seeker, treasure-hunter, and all-around do-gooder known for her uncanny intelligence and spell-binding oratory.
Qat decides she had better let Stella calm down, so she offers a toast to their new friendship and then takes her wine on a stroll around the bar, since Vir seems content to tell his stories about himself whether she is listening closely or not. Before departing, however, she gives a moment to his current monologue and glances with a sly grin at Stella and winks before waving and strolling away.
About then, all eyes turn to the bizarre, but not unprecedented sight of a bear making its way through the maze of tables. Qat is a little jealous of Ruskov for such a wondrous distraction. Picking pockets with that thing in the room would be child's play. She's not interested in taking advantage of it this evening, as she wants to focus on her grief. As she moves around the room, glancing this way and that at the occupants, she finds her mood has been elevated by her interactions with Vir and Stella, so she resolves to make good use of the distractions and see if she can identify some who might join her in a quest to discover the identity of the murderer and put him or her down. She had parted company with the London Fog, an adventuring party that left to explore a ruin in another world through one of the many portals into this world. It was high time she formed a new one.
She drifts toward the hulk of a man sitting on the floor, studying the room as if it were a chess board. Something familiar about him, now that she gets closer. More than just having seen him near the docks. She finds images floating unattached that apparently are from the night before, after she learned of Gia's murder and the monumental bender it inspired in this place. Vaguely she recalls him lifting a glass of water in toast to her curse on the many generations who were the ancestors of the abomination who brought her world down in a crashing, burning ruin.
She ends her stroll in front of him and invites herself to sit on the floor near him, being careful that most of her garments do not get pressed into the dirt on the floor. "Well met, again. I probably learned your name last night, but remind me again. Then we can discuss if you'd be interested in hunting down a wild animal loose in our community."
"I hear we're actually going to do something about this mass murderer. It's about time. Where do I sign up?"
When Qat hears this, she interrupts her conversation with Einar and puts her fingers to her mouth and makes a shrill whistle to get her attention. "Line forms over here," Qat calls out with a grim smile. She scans the room, making eye contact with each patron, making the invitation inclusive.
"... and then I threw the Cyclops down the pit!"
Vir blathered on and on, but when Sergej approached the table he stopped. Sadly, it lasted only a few blissful moments. Squinting and leaning closer, he inspected the bear and passed his judgement. The gnawing feeling he had earlier finally made sense now.
"My my, 'Sergej' was it?"
With a grin he leaned back again and blinked at Ruskov. His eyes darted back to the bear once or twice. I wonder if I could pet it ... Hmmhmhhmmhmmmhmmmhmmm...
"Doesn't it seem unfair to you that one of your duo got both the smarts and the looks, miss ... ?"
Meanwhile, his brownie companion waved farewell to Qat. When the 'line' was mentioned, she tugged Vir's arm but failed to direct his attention in the right direction. Instead she merely returns Qat's look and nodded eagerly, pointing to herself and Vir.
The blonde elf saunters over toward the whistler sitting on the floor in the corner and her unusual companion with the jar. She gives them both a nod.
"Problem with the chairs here?"
Without waiting for an answer, she slips gracefully into a cross-legged position nearby, moving her rapier, shortbow, and leather bag easily and silently into an alternate position to accommodate floor-sitting.
She looks closely at the woman in the colorful outfit and speaks up, blunt as ever.
"I've seen you perform before. You weren't bad. Today you look awful. What happened?"
Rae visibly stiffens at the loud (and surprisingly strong) voice, and whips around to locate the source. 'Ah, if it isn't Izzy Carbuncle.' She muses. 'My, this murderer is bringing everyone calling. And so loudly, too.'
Seeing the shorter, sad-looking girl gesturing to Izzy, and inviting anyone else to join in makes Rae nervous. Already a band was beginning to form, based not on any degree of trust, but rather on mutual desire, which was a scary thing. She'd been hoping to find one or two people she used to work with regularly. Not this many, and not new faces. It only takes one to want the glory for themselves for the entire thing to fall apart. It was one of the reasons she got out of this kind of thing.
She looks towards the door, half-thinking about walking out, either to go it her own or give up on the idea, but she knows she can't do either. She's too out of the game not to have at least someone watching her back. The question was, would they? Carbuncle at least has a reputation for being something of a goody-goody. But then again, in certain circles, so did Rae.
And as far as giving up? Hell with that. 'It doesn't hurt to hear them out, you big coward.' she mutters to herself. 'You can always walk away if it starts looking like an angry mob ready for a lynching. Or if they're just liabilities.'
Following Izzy, Rae approaches the women and pirate, but while they sit, she leans against a pillar, doing her best to appear bored and like she isn't paranoid. "Heard you guys're talkin' 'bout goin' after the killer?'
As Qat meanders through the room and diverts in a beeline for the back corner, Einar's concentration on the jar in his lap stills, though his fingers do not, and he looks up as she approach and settles herself nearby. Between them in the dirt lies faintly etched lines of a grid, barely perceptible amidst the hard-packed earth and floorboard. As he makes a seated half bow, the closer perspective on the Ioun cloud gives credence that each stone was at one point fixed into a device that exerted pressure, giving them all small cracks in precisely the same fashion.
Well met again milady, I begrudge not the fog of grief. The name is Einar Colby. I'm told that in the tongue of my people that it means He who Fights Alone, in a Town of Darkness. The first part is something I strive hard to avoid, though from what little I've heard the last few days, this city is indeed shrouded.
I think you will find my talents ... useful. For those willing to accept it, I can grant truly discreet communication to up to 4 others, at a range up to 150'. I have found this a incredibly effective when hunting with others. While not my only useful skill, it alone may be worth it's weight in gold.
Though, perhaps, it might be best to allow the connection to say, Sir Invictus's little lady, Stella, if I heard right, than Sir Invictus himself. I can't imagine letting him speak mind to mind for any length of time
This last is said with a quiet smile, just before Izzy's grand entrance, stage left.
As the bold blonde approaches, one last aside aimed for Qat's ears alone.
Strangely I believe I could form a connection with that Bear over there as well, were those two interested.
In response to Izzy's question about the lack of chairs and the arrival of the two ladies, Einar again gives a seated bow.
While I'm sure Lady Qat is just being polite, I've spent the last 3 months at sea, and I am enjoying the little pleasures of being on dry land. And with a wry grin. That, and the floor pitches and yaws less. Strange that you say that you were told to come here. I was as well, twice actually. Once by the Lady Qat here, and once before that by someone else...
My name is Einar, and I'm new, lately arrived just 4 days ago from ... elsewhere. I've quickly learned that this is not an uncommon occurrence in these parts, and while I've tried to learn quickly, please forgive me if I'm unfamiliar with the entire area. That said I am willing to help in this hunt, though I may have a less personal stake in the matter, I do have my reasons to wish this hunt seen to it's end
"I've seen you perform before. You weren't bad. Today you look awful. What happened?"
"Sooner or later, the murderer was bound to kill someone with a powerful friend who would revenge her death. That happened last night. He killed my friend. Now I am going to see that he suffers and dies." Qat spoke quietly but with a deep reservoir of conviction and confidence.
Einor spoke about his interest in the matter. Then another patron of the Drum approached.
"Heard you guys're talkin' 'bout goin' after the killer?"
"I'm talking about it. I'm normally non-violent, but I was trained to kill, among other things, so now I'm going to do what it takes to find and eliminate this ... abomination." As Qat said this, she made a casual gesture with her hand and suddenly she was holding a war razor, examining her reflection in the wide blade.
"Anyone care to help? Even if we fail, someone will surely write a marvelous ballad about the effort." She snapped the blade back into the handle and the weapon vanished again into her robe.
When Qat feels the mental message, she raises an eyebrow at him and thinks,
To Einar's proposals regarding his special abilities, Qat only nods and says, "That could be very useful. If we wish to set a trap, we may need to be in different places but may need to know what we are seeing or doing."
Qat studies the man as he speaks, suspicious he might be connected to the murderer or even the murderer himself. After studying him as he speaks, she concludes that this is not the case. Whatever his motives, he is not interested in helping the murderer.
You feel quite confident that while he may be hiding something, or at least hasn't told the whole story, he's certainly not helping or participating in the murders. The statement of being in town only 4 days rings true and complete.
As Qat becomes more determined to get revenge, she begins to be more wary of those who she might enlist to help. She watches eye movements, hand gestures, fidgeting, and postures to spot tells that indicate lying or false emotions.
Izzy probably couldn't tell a convincing lie to save her life.
She's genuinely eager to find the bad guy and stop the evil murders.
-------
Izzy nods at Einar's explanation. Makes sense to her. By way of introduction, she offers a hand to shake.
"Izzy Carbuncle. Welcome to London."
At Qat's explanation, she turns grim.
"Sorry to hear it. Horrible thing, these murders. Do you know if there was any connection between your deceased friend and the other victims?"
When Rae heads over and joins the conversation, and Qat responds by showing her blade and soliciting aid, Izzy replies...
"I'm in. I'd like to get that psycho off the streets."
The blonde elf looks up at the recent arrival leaning against the pillar nearby, her elven eyes scanning the woman carefully.
"I remember you. Rae, right? I think you're supposed to be good at this kind of thing. So, how should we set the trap?"
Finally, Izzy notices the madly gesticulating Stella still clinging to an oblivious Vir and calls over to her in Sylvan...
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What a scoundrel.
Just look at his smug (and scaly?) face!
There is something noble and mysterious about him, a regal stance. Maybe he is a prince from a faraway land? *Swoon*
Hmm.
Hmmmmm...
But that sword looks awfully sharp!
So ... a one-eyed ogre and a blue lizardman? Maybe, hard to tell without *accurate* details. And those ain't going to be easy to come by!
But - for all the 'enhancements' of the truth, he do looks like he knows which end of the sword to stick in people (and monsters).
Wait!
That was Virb...
Said to be the champion of something or the other, but details eh?
Caused some stir among the local fairies, but it seem to be resolved now. One of them even follows him around! Some sort of a squire or something.
He didn't have any money with him, so he worked a while down at the docs. Still, he went on and on about his exploits back then too but people paid him less heed then.
[ooc]Like most people around, he got some magic at his call. Most of it seems to be fuelled by his personality (Cha based) and involve spells that enhance his efforts to appear and be heroic.
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The tiny brownie, noticing how Ruskov's eyes dart between Vir and the Bear, redoubles her efforts to get Vir's attention. Finally she succeeds! With a confused look, the knight halts his unknowing attempt to be bear food and looks down to his side. Seeing were she is pointing, his face shines up in recognition, just in time to hear Izzys comment in Sylvan. "Ah!" I had hoped it could wait 'till the morrow, but a Heroes work is never done! The 'little one' descriptor confused him somewhat, but the woman clearly hadn't the same grasp of the language as he had. Everyone couldn't be as smart has him, obviously. And she shouldn't really call the bear a pet. They are quite intelligent animals! Somewhere in the multiverse, the god of narcissism nodded in approval.
With somewhat swaying steps Vir strides over to the gathering in the corner. Stella the Brownie follows in his wake, almost bouncing. She was very excited to partake in some 'heroics'. Coming to a halt near them, Vir bows 'majesticly' and introduced himself. Not that he needed one, everyone had surely heard about his great exploits! Surely! But still, good manners is good manners.
"Vir Invictus, Champion of the Faë and the Fair Folk at your service." With a grin he looks around and nods at everyone he knew (which would be everyone. Including that peg-legged he didn't recognize - but he didn't want to break the poor mans heart by not greeting him. The knowledge that the great Vir hadn't remembered might be more then he could bear! Maybe I signed his leg? Hmm...). Once again the god of narcissism nodded. "Judging by the gathering here, I say I am with the right crowd!"
Qat stands and sizes the quartet of would-be heroes gathered in the corner of the Drum. "So what talents do you offer in this dangerous game of catch the killer? I am an actor and can transform myself into just about anything."
She pauses, raises her delicate hands above her forehead, and says, "dissimilat et consolo". As she says this, she passes her hands in front of her face and then sweeps them dramatically downward. As she moves, her body appears to transform into a seedy looking male homeless person, covered in rags, hunched over, with a dingy beard and stringy grey hair.
She affects the walk of a partly lame old man and dodders around the group, reaching out a hand and saying in a croaking voice, as low as she can make it, "Spare a bi' o' coin fer a vet'rin o' the Battle o' Tarker 'ill?"
She stumbles a bit when she gets close to Izzy and holds onto her arm to steady herself.
Once Qat stepped back from Izzy, she simply vanished.
She appears again as she makes a mock strike against Vir from behind, holding a dagger with its pommel facing forward.
Vir feels a bump as the pommel drives into his back. It does 1 point non-lethal damage, but would have done much more had the business end of the dagger been used.
Qat drops the illusion and returns to her normal pretty self, bows, and says to Vir, "Sorry about that. Even taken by surprise, I almost did not get that hit in. We can use the City Pantheon theatre stage to do some practice combat, where we can get a better sense of our respective fighting abilities. I cannot overpower an opponent, but I can trick, blind, steal, and feint with the best of them, which usually gives me an opening, if I need to attack or a chance to escape." She hands the dagger back to Izzy, from whom she took it earlier. After her exhibition, she sits and looks to the others expectantly.
Einar's eye's blink once as Qat rattles off her major skillsets and challenges everyone to reveal some of their secrets in return.
Aha! And add that like so!
"Impressive display Qat. As I was saying just a few minutes ago, I have a skill that I believe is uncommon in these parts, or at least, I've seen little evidence that it is as abundant as say, an afternoon song amongst the neighbors. Perhaps it would be easiest to just demonstrate. I however ask consent before doing so, as I can link mind to mind almost all of us here in the corner, granting a significant increase in coordination and communication. This would grant a greater facility in setting a trap or searching multiple areas at once. The range is a bit limited as I need to be with 150' of everyone, but it may still turn the tide.
Please indicate, and I will show you what I mean.
IF everyone indicates yes, I'll start adding and dropping people at semi random until everyone's been in at least a while and had something said while were out as well.
"This connection with but a little practice it will allow you to reach out to one, or all, of those inside."
I'm sure with a little thought, you can imagine the benefits this would bring to our hunt. There's a little more that it can grant, but unless we are 100% positive we are not going looking tonight, I will save those energies for when they are needed.
Vir grins and applauds the performance, despite being 'stabbed'.
"No need to apologize, Qat. If a ladies mere touch could lay me low, I wouldn't be much of a champion; no matter how beautiful the lady!" With a sweeping gesture he points towards some of the dried blood stains and laughs. "I would demonstrate my prowess with my blade, but old Isaac made me promise never to draw it inside. Too many drunken fools itching for a shot at the Champion and he doesn't want more stains! And I do not look forward to a life as a toad, so I shall honour his wishes. As much as it pains me to say - that treat will have to wait." I've always wondered if I look as good on stage as off? "But!" He exclaims and gently lifts up Stella onto a nearby table. "Luckily - my squire can demonstrate in my place. I trained her myself, so she is almost as good!"
The brownie in turn bows gracefully and brandishes her long, slightly curved, sword with a hopeful smile.
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Curious about the peg-legged man's (that he totally knew - Dang it! What was his name again? ability, Vir volunteers with a nod.
Nifty! Reminds me of that time where I fought the mind-eaters of Shellbyville, foul beasts! They sucked out peoples thoughts and left them as empty husks. Nevertheless! Thanks to my mental fortitude I ... The monologue continues for a while until the newly added people figure out how to suppress Vir's mental voice into merely an ignorable background voice. The idea that perhaps it wasn't his 'mental fortitude' that saved him, but rather the 'mind-eaters' starving to death doesn't seem too far-fetched.
Qat allows Einar's mind link and finds the experience intriguing. At some point, when Vir is not connected but Stella and Qat are, Qat asks Stella, "If we're going to conspire with Vir to catch the murderer, we need to know one thing: Is he as good a fighter as he says he is? If he is not, for his sake, do what you can to influence him to find another project."
Once Einar's mind link demonstration is done, Qat looks to Rae and Izzy.
*Eager nodding* Champion Vir is very good with his sword - yes he is!
A man - totally normal, entirely average, and entirely unnoteworthy sits at a table by himself.
He seems absorbed into his own thoughts, and his own ale.
- arrived about four days ago, but definitely after the killing; came through a presumed portal on a raider ship; not the murderer, but a killer -
- a well-known performer, though normally thought of for her cheer and indiscretion; the current reason for her melancholy is uncertain (a lost friend, she says... hm, but lost how) -
- arrogant, amnesiac, originally thought a possible key to my own history, but possibilities quickly exhausted in that regard; obsessed with fey, much to their chagrin; brownie "squire" supposedly "learning the sword" named Stella -
- callous but not malevolent warrior; haughty, bear-trainer, former "princess" of a circus town before its destruction; now a mercenary; this alias is known to her -
- Former slummer, currently runs in "high" circles, unfortunately likely to recognize me; dangerous, clever, and old enough to recognize me -
- Known. Extremely well known. Crapcrapcrapcrapcrapcrapcrapcrapcrapcrapcrapcrapcrap. How does that bothersome meddling woman keep showing up everywhere I go?! -
Having arrived much earlier, he's been quietly nursing his ale, un-bothered by Old Isaac or Anna, and simply absorbed into his own world.
Watching the events unfold, he listens to the rambling of a self-obsessed warrior, the self-indulgent sorrow of a grieving friend, the strange presence of the peg-legged sailor. He arches an eyebrow at the bear, but otherwise seems unconcerned. He takes special note of Rae, as she travels the bar.
The only real change expression he makes is when the elf, Izzy, bursts into the bar. There is a moment when he seems... concerned, before he returns to normal.
As he continues to watch, it becomes clear that the actress is a clever one, vanishing entirely even from his own gaze. He watches as the conversation continues, wondering if, perhaps, he should take a more direct hand. Usually he stays out of these sorts of things, but this murderer... while he's not usually a champion of the wealthy, the city itself was in the grip of terror from the highest to the lowest. Perhaps it was time for him to come out of the shadows.
- Fear. Pain. Terror. -
He looked around wildly, frightened - no, terrified.
But... terrified of what? he thinks.
There were terrible things, awful things, out there in the dark. His eyes clearly penetrated the gloom, but only functioned so far.
Where... where am I?, he wandered, in panic.
Exhaustion, but not sleepiness. Terror, but unfocused and unnamed. Confusion, but clarity of thought. Aching, but not hungry.
Who... who am I?, he thought, even as a new terror began creeping into this thoughts.
It was gone. All of it. His past, his history, his life. It vanished, like so much vapor in a foggy night. His clothes were rags, and his
He began running again. And he didn't stop until dawn.
He listened for quiet in his own mind... but didn't find it. Even in this time, his fears began kicking up, haunting him. He hadn't had a dream in almost fifteen years. They were terrifying. He'd never quite understood what people meant by "good dreams" - he'd never experienced such things himself.
Gremlin - not his birth name, but that meant little - was no one important - not really, at least, not according to the normal standards of the city. He died from a fever. A common fever. That he got after being viciously stabbed for all five coppers he had to his name.
The young-looking man's eyes narrowed with cold fury. No one would ever look for Gremlin's killer. Gremlin was too "unimportant" and, a much worse sin, too poor. No one stood for justice for these people.
No more. He'd made his contacts. As "Aaron" and "Jacques", he'd made quite a few underground contacts. He could talk to a few of his more underground contacts. Justice would be done. And perhaps, if he convinced people the Coppers were heroes, the 'Yard might actually become heroes.
"Iquo" was a new alias - an oddly-accented "foreigner" with a weird stories and plenty of reasons to be invited to parties as a result.
The human stain he was currently laughing with was none other than "Master" Terigold Ryebank. Cretin. Thief. He'd been a thorn in the side of the poor for years, giving them seemingly "good" loan rates, but hiding the truth in the subclauses. Most people didn't care - after all, if it's only poor people, they're not important - but what most people thought didn't matter. He needed to help.
Ryebank was arrogant, stupid, and, like most such greedy fools, impatient. All that needed to happen was a little patience to wait until he made a stupid mistake and crossed someone he shouldn't have.
While Ryebank had tried to pin it on some poverty-srticken schlub, the poor man's innocence was proven by "Logan, Independent Detective" earlier this afternoon (though Ryebank, naturally, was unaware of this), and now, under the laughing, psychophantic behavior of "Iquo", the weak-willed Ryebank had slowly become ever-more-intoxicated, until coaxed to share his own "funny stories"... a funny story that just implicated him in the robbery of a very wealthy merchant indeed.
As the shock rippled through the nearby party-goers, the hostess took the hand of the foreign "Iquo" trying to explain, "Oh, no, no, dear, it's not funny at all. That's a serious crime!"
As "Iquo", of course, he pretended to have a language barrier and thus be slow to understand. "Oh! Oh, my!" he said, pretending to catch on, at last, "Oh, that is bad!" he says. He gives his best hurt and confused look at Ryebank, who was sputtering failed excuses.
The law quickly came and dragged the terrified man away. His poverty stricken victims could rest easy, as the robbery - and subsequent fraud - means that all of his contracts will be under review, and thus, legally, all of his victims will be compensated.
Such a simple trick - getting an idiotic fool to drunkenly confess a crime at little too loudly - and so very effective at making the world a better place.
He had to do that, you see. If he didn't... if he didn't... than who was he?
When Vir approaches, Izzy, recognizing him as a man of more certain words than deeds, responds,
"Vir, if you get your sword into London's killer, you'll finally have a story worth telling."
When Qat does her transformative and then vanishing act, Izzy nods, mildly impressed. However, when her dagger is handed back to her, it takes her a confused moment to realize it had been taken from her in the first place. She shoots Qat a look of annoyance and suspicion.
When Einar asks for volunteers, Izzy nods, looking curious.
"Is this thing on? Hello! Yes, this could be useful, indeed."
And really, where does he disappear to when he "migrates" to other work? Though he claims to follow up on leads from locals, none of their relatives or friends have ever really seen him.
And most damning of all... he's been seen once or twice entering a condemned building, only to have (in)famous folk with connections to sinister guilds and gangs later emerge.
No, Norman is not normal at all.
The missions he takes are rarely terribly dangerous for one of his skill level, but he does so often and repeatedly, and has steadily increased in skill and daring over time.
He has several aliases, some criminal, some famous, most innocuous. He uses these aliases to gather information and make networks of contacts throughout the city in that way. He always has a quiet and persuasive word to nudge people in certain directions, or assist them in making the decisions he thinks are the "right" ones.
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As Qat talked with her newest friends, her eyes keep drifting back to a man sitting alone drinking and observing. She had noticed him earlier. Something odd about him. Hard to put her finger on it. Maybe he was too non-descript, almost as if by design, so he left no distinct impression. That sounded familiar, once she thought about it. After letting go of the effort to mentally place him, she kept looking back at him to get a fresh impression. Finally it clicked. She had encountered him, or someone with similar height and non-descript visual credentials, during a number of her contract jobs for local organized crime contacts.
She never took jobs that required her to harass common folk for loan repayment or to bump off witnesses to some crime or another, though she occasionally was asked to do such things. She only helped if they were needing intelligence on other criminals, some evidence they could use to blackmail an already corrupt politician, or stealing something they needed from someone who had obtained it illegally in the first place. Someone had once set her to discover the identify of someone known to be investigating one of them.
She took the job and did a lot of leg work, but couldn't find anything about him except that he was good at hiding his tracks and his true identity. The guy just seemed to drift about the shadows. Did not seem to be connected to known law enforcement concerns. She concluded he was some kind of vigilante, but that was conjecture, mostly due to the fact that the guy who asked her to look into him got fingered for something illegal that took him off the organizational charts of the underground criminal organizations. That could be someone different than this shmo sitting here, but something in the back of her mind thought there was a connection.
Now he was here. She wanted to be suspicious of him, but she did not have any evidence that he used his chameleon skills to cause anyone harm. If he could be trusted and if he were an investigator, he might be a useful addition to the team. But, of course, he could be the murderer, just very good at hiding his activities. Watch and learn, she decided was the best course.
(To hide her repeatedly looking at Norman.)
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Perception all around: 1d20 + 14 ⇒ (7) + 14 = 21
-A man spending quite a bit of effort to blend in, there must be a story or four there. A professional chameleon, most likely trying to pick up information just like I was before being visited by half the Drum. Izzy and Qat might know more about him.
"Most of my hunting will not allow too much overlap in tactics ... Other than using my 'Network' ability to communicate and set a trap or two or roaming the streets at night seemingly alone.
He turns his head and looks up at Rae ().
"I for one would be happy to hear from someone more experienced hunting amidst a city."