Shadow over Riddleport

Game Master Joana

"I'm suppose to let him know they're ready for him to make his way over whenever he is. But take your time, I'm in no hurry to get back. This is the most peaceful time I've had since..." he ponders it a moment before, "well, since never." He takes another drink.

"Aye, stay then, Marce," she tells the other halfling, "and we'll see if Arnando can't get this business taken care of and back before happy hour." She turns back to Snake. "Finish your pint, and I'll let Arnando know you're ready if he is."

She disappears into the back hallway and, a few minutes later, comes back with the barkeep. Without his apron, he looks more imposing than usual; not quite as tall as Snake, he is broader in the chest and brawnier of arm. "Where are we headed, then?" he asks cheerfully.

Returning to the hall, Gristav raises his voice again. "We're running out of time for you to make any exit at all.", he says in more annoyed notes, "If they get up here before you go, they'll break down that door and put you pain, and in irons. I'd rather you go down the tree, now. If you don't, don't expect me to help you; I'll be the dutiful citizen...", he says, the last notes mocking the duty he'd declared.

"Stay! You aren't the problem!", Gristav calls, then shouts down the stairs, "HOLD them! GENTLY!"

As they disappear from Gristav's view and reach the first floor, the harsh voice of a Gendarme cries out, "Ho, ho! What have we here?" and Finnie screams, while Cassey's moaning protest continues, "He said I was in charge! It's my house!"

"They are WITNESSES!", Gristav demands, all the imperiousness he was raised to in his voice. "You'll answer for any harm!"

But there were others to answer, Gristav knew. And he still thought, that they were nearby. But if the child and the woman had gone downstairs, who was moaning in the other room?

"Ask the child for the keys!", he shouted.

"I was told Orin killed Falk over Lil. Falk was Cleg's brother. Cleg holds a grudge that he also holds against Saul. Is there anything else you could add to the sordid tale?"

"Some of them," Tendal replies, considering his words carefully, "those who knew Mr. Felden personally, in particular, are probably less than sanguine about their agreement. But you know dwarves, once they've given their word about something. Unless it could be proved that Zincher lied about the device, they won't break their contract. And I believe he's had it given out that Mr. Felden contracted the disease before he began using the mask, or that he was careless about pumping the air. They want very badly to believe that the mask works, you see, just as a soldier would want to believe that his armor was impervious when he is marching into battle."

"Apart from the dwarves, unfortunately, I don't know of anyone with a complaint against his representation. The half-orc, Boss Croat, is something of a rival; he maintains a stable of gladiators that fight against Zincher's men. Ostensibly, it's all in a spirit of friendly competition, but they bet good money on the outcome of the matches. If there's anyone who might relish seeing Cleg Zincher taken down a peg, it might be Croat."

"And Shorafa Pamodae, of course," he frowns. "Neither of them will own up to it, but the scuttlebutt is that there's still bad blood between the two of them over the ... unfortunate incident involving Orik Vankaskerkin, Falk Zincher, and Lil Scarlet. You know about that?"

As Snake finishes the rest of his drink, he sets the mug down, reluctant to let go. Shaking his head, he sighs as he eventually does let go. "Alright, I guess I'm ready." He leaves the coin on the bar as he rises from the stool. "Thanks, Eulalie. I'll be back. I like this place, nobody has tried to kill me here yet." He then turns to Arnando, "We're headed to the General's place... there's a dead person you're suppose to talk to." He snaps his coat and leads the way out.

Braddon leaves Mescher's office and finds his own way down the staircase. A few of the Gendarmes on the ground floor glance up at him, but they recognize him as the general's luncheon guest and get back to their work. He lets himself out into the packed dirt yard, where only a few determined weeds brave both the rocky soil and the constant tramp of men and horses. The area directly in front of the general's HQ appears to be used for training, with a few straw-stuffed cages standing in for enemies and some little used archery targets set up against a short rocky spar to the south; walking around the ridge will lead him to the barracks and, past them, the prison called Shoreleave. Straight ahead, toward the road is a small stable. A few soldiers in the yard, fraternizing more than training, look at Braddon suspiciously as he strolls out.

----------------------------

"Ask the child for the keys!", he shouted.

"No, no, they're mine! The tall man said!"

Her wails carry up from the ground floor, followed by a man shouting, "Ow! You little brat! You'll pay for that! Hold her still!" Cassey's continued struggles end in a howl of despair, and Graves walks up the staircase carrying her little bundle of keys. "All right," he grins. "Which door do we open first?"

"Thanks, Eulalie. I'll be back. I like this place, nobody has tried to kill me here yet."

She grins. "That's a feature here. I keep telling Arnando we should have it stencilled above the door."

He then turns to Arnando, "We're headed to the General's place... there's a dead person you're supposed to talk to."

"'The General?'" he frowns, as he follows. "General Mescher? I didn't know this had to do with the Gendarmes." It looks as if the news doesn't please him.

Snake stops and turns, a slight grin forming at Eulalie's joke. "I think you'd need a bigger building if you did." He tips his hat and walks out.

"'The General?'" he frowns, as he follows. "General Mescher? I didn't know this had to do with the Gendarmes." It looks as if the news doesn't please him.

"This ain't got nothing to do with the General specifically. That's just where the dead body is of Braddon's grandmother. She was murdered and they where hoping you could talk to her and find out how it happened. Did Gristav not tell you any of this?" He looks to Arnando with a furrowed brow.

"He said there was a dead woman and a grandson under suspicion. Sounded like a favor for a family. I never suspected this was an official matter." His face is dark. "I don't know if I feel good about helping the Gendarmes. Even when they do something right, they usually find a way to bully the little people while they're doing it. Why doesn't Mescher just go to Shorafa? She handles government business."

"I was told Orik killed Falk over Lil. Falk was Cleg's brother. Cleg holds a grudge that he also holds against Saul. Is there anything else you could add to the sordid tale?"

"Yes, well," Tendal frowns, "there's a bit more to it than that. There were rumors that Lil employed alchemical means of ensuring her clients' loyalties. Having met the woman, I certainly wouldn't be surprised; she seemed the sort to use any sort of manipulation or coercion to her own ends. And Cleg's brother Falk was an alchemist."

"At any rate, there were both among her gentleman callers, and one evening in Free-Coin, the pair of them met up and quarreled. They had both imbibed rather heavily, one thing led to another, steel was drawn, and ... well," he shrugs, "Orik proved the better swordsman. I don't believe he meant to kill the man; the realization that he had sobered him up immediately. There was already bad blood between the two families, and he feared Cleg or one of his thugs would be out looking for retribution so he fled the city."

"Lil Scarlet, also, had overreached. Fear of Cleg's anger drove her back under Shorafa Pamodae's wing for protection, and she became very cautious about being seen around Riddleport without either a disguise or a powerful escort. I," he frowns again, "had the unfortunate displeasure of being one of the last people to speak to her before the attack she orchestrated on the Gold Goblin during its opening night. Since then, we've learned she slipped away on a pirate ship called The Teeth of Araska to avoid any fallout from her shameless act of sabotage."

Gristav wrote:

"Ask the child for the keys!", he shouted.

"No, no, they're mine! The tall man said!"

Her wails carry up from the ground floor, followed by a man shouting, "Ow! You little brat! You'll pay for that! Hold her still!" Cassey's continued struggles end in a howl of despair, and Graves walks up the staircase carrying her little bundle of keys. "All right," he grins. "Which door do we open first?"

"The thugs and murderers never harmed her. Should she remember the first, a Gendarme?", Gristav asks rhetorically, raising and lowering a punctuating brow, before pointing with his staff to the locked door behind which had been moans. "Moaning. Possibly a victim, but perhaps a hostaged hostelate, and your prey inside. Surely, desparate, if so.", Gris says as they move to the door. Gristav takes up a readied stance, his staff held in only one hand, almost comically casually, to an observer unaware of the peredhel's practiced prowess.

"He said there was a dead woman and a grandson under suspicion. Sounded like a favor for a family. I never suspected this was an official matter." His face is dark. "I don't know if I feel good about helping the Gendarmes. Even when they do something right, they usually find a way to bully the little people while they're doing it. Why doesn't Mescher just go to Shorafa? She handles government business."

"And he was right. It is a favor for a family. And I have no idea about this Shorafa person, so I can't answer you there. But this doesn't have anything to do with the General as far as I know. I think this is one of Gristav's many bright ideas," he says sarcastically. "And if this goes as well as his idea of getting Beltias to help us, we should all be dead before dinner," he deadpans, shrugging.

"So the woman fled. Orin fled as well. You're sure they are not together? Orin would have been a good asset against Cleg, but at least he took one of Cleg's pieces off the board. A trip to the gas works sounds in order."

"Yes, well," Tendal frowns, "there's a bit more to it than that. There were rumors that Lil employed alchemical means of ensuring her clients' loyalties. Having met the woman, I certainly wouldn't be surprised; she seemed the sort to use any sort of manipulation or coercion to her own ends. And Cleg's brother Falk was an alchemist."

"At any rate, there were both among her gentleman callers, and one evening in Free-Coin, the pair of them met up and quarreled. They had both imbibed rather heavily, one thing led to another, steel was drawn, and ... well," he shrugs, "Orik proved the better swordsman. I don't believe he meant to kill the man; the realization that he had sobered him up immediately. There was already bad blood between the two families, and he feared Cleg or one of his thugs would be out looking for retribution so he fled the city."

"Lil Scarlet, also, had overreached. Fear of Cleg's anger drove her back under Shorafa Pamodae's wing for protection, and she became very cautious about being seen around Riddleport without either a disguise or a powerful escort. I," he frowns again, "had the unfortunate displeasure of being one of the last people to speak to her before the attack she orchestrated on the Gold Goblin during its opening night. Since then, we've learned she slipped away on a pirate ship called The Teeth of Araska to avoid any fallout from her shameless act of sabotage."

Braddon wanders aimlessly around, his head full of thoughts as he waits for the priest to show.
He seems in no rush to talk to or befriend the Gendarmes present and mostly keeps to himself.

Graves steps up to the door, unlocks it, readies his cutlass, and quickly kicks it open. At the foot of the bed, Micah is curled in a ball, trembling. "It's true," he moans, as the men enter. "I confess. I deserve it all: pain and irons, her holy wrath." He doesn't resist as the Gendarme advances and jerks him to his feet.

Arnando continues to frown but doesn't ask any more questions as he and Snake make their way up the western bank of the Velashu to the ferry. Grimas sees their approach from his cottage on the opposite side and starts to pole over to meet them before they've arrived on the dock. "Don't often see you away from the Publican this time of day," the ferryman remarks to Arnando with a curious glance as he steadies the flat boat against the piling on the west side.

"Mission of mercy," he replies to Grimas, with a sidelong glance at Snake, "or so I've been told."

"So the woman fled. Orin fled as well. You're sure they are not together? Orin would have been a good asset against Cleg, but at least he took one of Cleg's pieces off the board. A trip to the gas works sounds in order."

"Of course I'm--" Tendal cuts himself off and frowns a moment. "Well, perhaps I'm not sure. I know Orik was in Sandpoint a fortnight ago. I suppose it's possible she's taken that ship of hers somewhere to meet him. No, I can't believe it of Orik. He was genuinely pleased to have a new start. Although...," he frowns again before going on more slowly, "Lil didn't know where Orik was -- no one in Riddleport did -- until last Sunday, just before she disappeared. If she was still holding a grudge against him...," he stands up suddenly, his handkerchief dropping to the verandah floor, forgotten. "You'll excuse me, Mr. Taphodarian; I must see about writing a letter or two." He heads back down the stairs and around the building at a quick pace, his face creased with worry.

Graves steps up to the door, unlocks it, readies his cutlass, and quickly kicks it open. At the foot of the bed, Micah is curled in a ball, trembling. "It's true," he moans, as the men enter. "I confess. I deserve it all: pain and irons, her holy wrath." He doesn't resist as the Gendarme advances and jerks him to his feet.

"Odd, eh? Had he protested innocence, you'd have looked to me.", Gristav observes. "But guilt, you believe. Wrongly." Gris shoos the officer's grasping hands from the crazed cleric.

"Micah, stop that. Indulge your penitence another time; We've need of the stronger and saner you. We all do, you, I, Cassie, Neenah, and Officer Graves, here. Buck UP, man, stand to that duty. In service to Herself." Gristav had laid aside his staff as he stepped to Micah, and straightened and primped the man, what primping might be done, while the halfelf hissed and herded toward heroism. "I beg Your pardon", he hoped at the last, not just to Micah.

Taking up his stave, Gristav walked from the room, to keep the watch in the hall, beckoning the other two, and guestioning Micah when both had appeared, "They weren't yours to watch, but do you know: two of the men we left below, they're gone; did they come in here?"

"We'll talk again soon, Tendal."

Piccolo relaxes saying to himself, "A trip to The Gasworks tomorrow. A visit to the arena tonight."

Piccolo collects himself and makes his way to the arena.

"Of course I'm--" Tendal cuts himself off and frowns a moment. "Well, perhaps I'm not sure. I know Orik was in Sandpoint a fortnight ago. I suppose it's possible she's taken that ship of hers somewhere to meet him. No, I can't believe it of Orik. He was genuinely pleased to have a new start. Although...," he frowns again before going on more slowly, "Lil didn't know where Orik was -- no one in Riddleport did -- until last Sunday, just before she disappeared. If she was still holding a grudge against him...," he stands up suddenly, his handkerchief dropping to the verandah floor, forgotten. "You'll excuse me, Mr. Taphodarian; I must see about writing a letter or two." He heads back down the stairs and around the building at a quick pace, his face creased with worry.

Released by the Gendarme, Micah merely sinks back to his knees, whimpering under his breath about Sarenrae's judgment. Graves seizes him again by the sailcloth and drags him roughly out into the hallway. "We'll see if a night in Shoreleave doesn't loosen your tongue enough to tell us where your accomplices are hiding," he sneers, dropping Cassey's keys into his pocket. "Right, we've got a confession and two witnesses we can hold on charges of illegal tenancy. Anyone else here we need to run in?"

--------------------------

Having crossed the river, Snake and Arnando head up the east side of the Velashu. The streets aren't as bustling as they were, but it seems every second person they meet gives the barkeep a respectful nod; he's obviously well-known in town despite rarely leaving his place of business. As they round the scarp that separates the northernmost block of the city proper from Devil's Fork, Arnando scowls at the buildings set in the draws of the ridgeline. As the pair approaches the guardhouse, they can see Braddon strolling in the training yard in front of the general's residence.

--------------------------

There are two routes, Piccolo knows, to Zincher's Arena: the short way and the way that doesn't pass along the dangerous and seedy back alleys of Wharf District. Opting for the safer way, he first heads north, as if on his way to Velashu Ferry, but then turns east, away from the river, instead of west. Passing the grandiose circular structure that is the Mystery of the Gate, he sees above the other buildings the massive oval stone arena; the flat walls between the multiple entrances are pasted with man-sized broadsides joyfully depicting various imaginative beasts and gladiators graphically maiming each other in lurid colors. There are already several boys and a few men standing around the gates, examining handbills which presumably describe the afternoon's matches, but the iron portcullises are still lowered at present.

As he approaches, he notices a tidy little shop on the north side of the road. Its freshly-washed windows of multiple hand-sized panes of glass on either side of the door display eclectic wares: glass and wooden windchimes, brightly-enameled pottery, necklaces of knotted cord and hand-painted beads, hammered copper bracelets and earrings, tiny stone idols, small carved chests, and gewgaws and knick-knacks of all kinds. A painted wooden placard hanging above the door bears the moniker 'Bazaar of the Seafaring Peddlar.' Impossibly blue waves lap at the bottom corner of the words, and a brightly-colored ship peeks over the horizon of the oversized 'B' of Bazaar.

"Mission of mercy," he replies to Grimas, with a sidelong glance at Snake, "or so I've been told."

Snake shrugs. "I've told you all I know. If there is more to it, then nobody's told me. 'Course, I don't ask because I don't really care."

As Snake notices the ranger seemingly to be walking around aimlessly, "Hey, Braddon!"

Piccolo strolls to the handbills. He studies them, while peripherally studying the other individuals doing the same, noting faces and attire. Once he has taken note of any important details, he will make his way to the shop. He will window-shop for good ten minutes, and then enter.

There are two routes, Piccolo knows, to Zincher's Arena: the short way and the way that doesn't pass along the dangerous and seedy back alleys of Wharf District. Opting for the safer way, he first heads north, as if on his way to Velashu Ferry, but then turns east, away from the river, instead of west. Passing the grandiose circular structure that is the Mystery of the Gate, he sees above the other buildings the massive oval stone arena; the flat walls between the multiple entrances are pasted with man-sized broadsides joyfully depicting various imaginative beasts and gladiators graphically maiming each other in lurid colors. There are already several boys and a few men standing around the gates, examining handbills which presumably describe the afternoon's matches, but the iron portcullises are still lowered at present.

As he approaches, he notices a tidy little shop on the north side of the road. Its freshly-washed windows of multiple hand-sized panes of glass on either side of the door display eclectic wares: glass and wooden windchimes, brightly-enameled pottery, necklaces of knotted cord and hand-painted beads, hammered copper bracelets and earrings, tiny stone idols, small carved chests, and gewgaws and knick-knacks of all kinds. A painted wooden placard hanging above the door bears the moniker 'Bazaar of the Seafaring Peddlar.' Impossibly blue waves lap at the bottom corner of the words, and a brightly-colored ship peeks over the horizon of the oversized 'B' of Bazaar.

As Snake notices the ranger seemingly to be walking around aimlessly, "Hey, Braddon!"

Braddon looks around forlornly.

Released by the Gendarme, Micah merely sinks back to his knees, whimpering under his breath about Sarenrae's judgment. Graves seizes him again by the sailcloth and drags him roughly out into the hallway. "We'll see if a night in Shoreleave doesn't loosen your tongue enough to tell us where your accomplices are hiding," he sneers, dropping Cassey's keys into his pocket. "Right, we've got a confession and two witnesses we can hold on charges of illegal tenancy. Anyone else here we need to run in?"

"You haven't found anyone needs be run in yet. Neither suspects nor witnesses. You had three witnesses to the events here, already. One of us lunches with the General, even now. This man, the females below, and the deafened drunkard, are not of interest to you, unless you're the sort of fisher who fills his creel with turtle, snake, bird, and the occasional coney? Let him go; you'll want that hand free, if we find the real villains. If they were here when we arrived, they've been driven up in the house by our presence. Now let him go, we'll finish this floor quickly, and head up."

"Believe me, I'm as anxious to be quit of this as you."

He half smiles at Arnando.

"Thanks very much for coming. Remember I was asking about Gramma. Well, she's been found. Dead. Pretty sure it was Lil, but want to ask her a few questions. Gristav's idea."

"They think you killed her?" Arnando's face twists in puzzlement. "And you think Lil killed her? What's going on?"

"Mr. Rolf," the Gendarme at the gatehouse interrupts firmly, "I'm to show you into the general's quarters right away. Come with me, please." He leads the three men across the yard to the residence, gesturing to another soldier to take his place by the road. Walking in the front door, he addresses the first man he sees. "The general's guest has arrived. He asked to be informed immediately. If you'll wait here, Mr. Rolf, the general will be with you shortly." As one Gendarme heads up the stairs toward the general's office and the guard turns to go back outside, the other soldiers inside approach just near enough to make it clear that the visitors aren't free to make themselves at home.

-----------------------------

Piccolo crosses the street to the arena, casting his eye over the larger-than-life-sized broadsides. Most depict two humanoid figures eviscerating each other as depicted by someone with a somewhat unhealthy obsession with interior anatomy; in others, two exotic beasts tear each other apart; and in some, a gladiator faces off against a monster, the humanoid invariably getting the worse of the battle. In one, a man is being torn apart by the lobster-like claws of some sort of oversized crustacean; in another, a gladiator is being overrun by dog-sized cockroaches; in a third, a pair of kicking humanoid legs protrude from the fang-lined mouth of an elongated man-sized fish-creature.

The men waiting by the gates pay no attention to the lurid illustrations, instead bowing their heads over the papers in their hands. The boys, who ostensibly haven't the funds to place bets, have climbed onto the iron portcullis barring the entrance and are peering to the end of the shady corridor where bright sunlight and a glimpse of tiered benches are visible. A bored-looking thug standing by the gate has a sheaf of papers in his hand like the ones the men are perusing; seeing Piccolo's approach, he thrusts a copy into the gnome's hands. It lists a series of matches scheduled for the afternoon; the listed names mean nothing to Piccolo, but the waiting audience members are discussing the odds of particular pairings.

If you want, you can spend some time eavesdropping and/or discussing the matches with the waiting men to learn something about the gladiators by rolling Perception or Diplomacy.

Folding the program for later use, Piccolo crosses the street back to the Bazaar of the Seafaring Peddlar and peers through the windows. The wares on display are eclectic, the only common thread among them being that they appear to be of little practical use. Some appear to be of foreign manufacture, patterned and painted in exotic and unfamiliar fashions, while some he recognizes as traditional Varisian handicrafts. Focusing his vision farther into the shop past the goods on display, the rest of the store seems to be as cluttered and varied as the windows, a veritable riot of colors, shapes, and textures.

He is about to enter the Bazaar when his attention is attracted by member of his own race walking down the street in the direction of the arena. Although it's difficult to tell a gnome's age, his bristling beard and burgeoning belly, along with his confident stride, seem to indicate he's nearer a patriarch than a spring chicken.

Enter the shop or approach the gnome?

Piccolo does his best to hear a few important details that might be use. Gladiator names and any conflicts that might be on interest.

Perception:1d20 + 8 ⇒ (2) + 8 = 10

***

Piccolo cannot pass up a chance to associate with is own. He will approach in a forthright manner greeting them in Gnomish with wide, warm smile, [spoiler=Gnome]"By the stars of Desna, what do I see here. Some of my fine gnome brethren wandering the streets of Riddleport. Good day to all of you and well met."

Snake looks to Arnando, "I told you it was Gristav's idea." Turning back to Braddon, "No, he wasn't. He went back to Rag's End." He ponders that a moment before, "Though now that I think about it, I'm not sure why. There's really no point."

Looking curious at the barman as he mentions Braddon being linked to the death of his grandmother, "Who thinks Braddon killed her?"

"You haven't found anyone needs be run in yet. Neither suspects nor witnesses. You had three witnesses to the events here, already. One of us lunches with the General, even now. This man, the females below, and the deafened drunkard, are not of interest to you, unless you're the sort of fisher who fills his creel with turtle, snake, bird, and the occasional coney? Let him go; you'll want that hand free, if we find the real villains. If they were here when we arrived, they've been driven up in the house by our presence. Now let him go, we'll finish this floor quickly, and head up."

"Believe me, I'm as anxious to be quit of this as you."

Graves shoves the whimpering Micah over to the staircase and then roughly down the stairs to his waiting men. "Hold this one with the others! I'll not have him skulking around at our backs! You," he goes on under his breath as he stalks back toward Gristav, "are here to give me advice, not orders. If you can't keep a respectful tongue in your head, I'll have you detained downstairs with the brat, the whore, and the madman."

Gristav and the Gendarme check each room on the second floor. All but Padraig's are locked and prove empty and unchanged since the last time Gristav saw them. Apart from the pigeonkeeper's room, the only other door without a lock leads into the lower bell tower. The panel which hid Beltias's treasure stash was never replaced, so niche is open, and the noonday sun provides enough filtered light clearly to show the priest's bloodstains on the unfinished floorboards beneath the ladder.

"Who thinks Braddon killed her?"

Arnando shrugs. "Gristav said there was a grandson being held and the dead woman answering some questions would set him free." He speaks in an undertone, clearly uncomfortable under the Gendarmes' scrutiny. "Then we show up here, and Braddon's pacing in the prison yard...."

"No, no, it's not me. I can come and go as I please. See." Braddon holds up his guard's badge proudly.
"I got it for saving the General's daughter. See, last Sunday night, Lil disguised herself as Gramma, the housekeeper of the General's daughter. She knocked on their door, magicked Gramma and then tossed her over the Windward Cliffs. She then disguised herself as Gramma, drugged the General's daughter with poison tea and sent her out into Riddleport after dark, where I saved her from being molested. Meanwhile, alone in their house, Lil looted the place for a special necklace then fled Riddleport."
Braddon puts the badge away.
"I worked it all out myself. Well... Malkith helped. We interviewed the tea shop across the road from the flat that saw an old Varisian woman visit Gramma on Sunday afternoon. Ananda (the General's daughter) said she felt funny after Gramma (the fake Gramma) gave her some strange tea and sent her off. Bringing Ananda back on Moonday morning I found the place looted. She said Gramma (the real Gramma) knew where the necklace was so she wouldn't have had to loot the place so it must have been the fake Gramma. When we found Lil's hideout there were Varisian scarves and vials of poison and a bird perch for her magi creature so we know she does magic and Ananda's flat had the same smell as Lil's perfume too. We questioned one of Lil's lackeys at her hideout and he told us where she was. Kinda. He tried to send her a secret note but Dayn and I got it."
Braddon puts his pointed up fingers next to his ears to indicate Daynadrian the elf, an odd effect considering Braddon's own heritage.
"What Gristav was talking about was that Gramma was working for the General because her grandon was in shoreleave and she was working off his crimes and now it seems that debt is well and truly cleared so he said the General should let him go and I reckon he will."
Braddon nods.
"So, everything clear now?"

Gristav wrote:

"Believe me, I'm as anxious to be quit of this as you."

Graves shoves the whimpering Micah over to the staircase and then roughly down the stairs to his waiting men. "Hold this one with the others! I'll not have him skulking around at our backs! You," he goes on under his breath as he stalks back toward Gristav, "are here to give me advice, not orders. If you can't keep a respectful tongue in your head, I'll have you detained downstairs with the brat, the whore, and the madman."

"Would you, wield the staff, then? That laid them low originally? You should know, I was sent with you after expressing concern for the innocents here, which indicated to me that such concern should be shared. You've heard no orders, only advice from deductive certainty, for an ear and mind both presumed open, and allied. But I thank you, for disabusing me of the misconception, that you actually respected my witness. Do we remain allies?" Gristav's voice was also lowered, but leveled. One brow rose at an inquisitive angle.

Gristav and the Gendarme check each room on the second floor. All but Padraig's are locked and prove empty and unchanged since the last time Gristav saw them. Apart from the pigeonkeeper's room, the only other door without a lock leads into the lower bell tower. The panel which hid Beltias's treasure stash was never replaced, so niche is open, and the noonday sun provides enough filtered light clearly to show the priest's bloodstains on the unfinished floorboards beneath the ladder.

Standing near the ladder, Gristav makes plain in his attitude that he is listening above, though he looks to Graves for timing and direction. The same brow rises...

"So, everything clear now?"

Arnando looks, if possible, even more confused than he was before Braddon's explanation, but he doesn't have time to respond, as General Mescher comes down the staircase. "Ah, Mr. Rolf," he smirks. "Thank you for joining us."

"General," Arnando greets him noncommittally. "I'm a little surprised to be summoned here. Isn't this something that would usually be in Shorafa's wheelhouse?"

"She's busy," Mescher lies effortlessly, "and there's a bit of a rush to get the matter settled. The body wasn't found immediately, you see, and is getting a little ripe. Don't worry; you'll be compensated for your time and trouble."

He leads the way to the small closet from which the stairs descend to the basement and passes around the bowl of scented pomanders to counter the ripening stench of the decomposing corpse. Arnando idly takes one, while frowning at the manacles and instruments of torture hanging on the wall. When everyone has been furnished with a pomander, the general takes up a lantern to light the way down into the dark subterranean space. Mistress Vishki is still waiting on the wooden table, looking rather worse than she did the night before.

"Your subject, Mr. Rolf, and our victim," Mescher says briskly, as he sets the lantern near her discolored face, pressing the pomander to his nose. "Is there anything you need? How long will this take?"

"Do we remain allies?"

Graves pointedly glances down at Gristav's clothing. "If you're not in uniform, you're not my ally," he replies coolly.

In the bell tower, he frowns at the ladder, then backs into the hallway and calls out, "I need a rigger! Send up Bartleby!" A moment later, a slender, young Gendarme, light on his feet, comes running up the stairs, and Graves points him to the ladder. "Keep a weather eye out. Might be two men up there looking to cut your throat and throw you out of the tower."

The younger soldier only grins and darts up the ladder, moving as quickly as if he were merely running up a gentle incline. At the top, he disappears above the catwalk around the bell. A few seconds later, he calls down, "All clear, sir! No hands on this deck!"

-----------------------------

Piccolo does his best to hear a few important details that might be use. Gladiator names and any conflicts that might be of interest.

The greatest interest seems to be in Allardyce and Dogger, due to make their gladiatorial debut for Cleg Zincher's stable this afternoon. There is a great deal of bloodthirsty anticipation of their being thoroughly outmatched and possibly dying on the sand, although cooler heads point out that most Fireday matches aren't fought to the death; if the new hands turn out to be incompetent, Zincher will almost certainly wait to offer them up to be brutalized for the larger Starday crowds. Still, the men are hopeful that seeing how the pair fight today will give them a better idea how to bet tomorrow.

Gristav wrote:

"Do we remain allies?"

Graves pointedly glances down at Gristav's clothing. "If you're not in uniform, you're not my ally," he replies coolly.

In the bell tower, he frowns at the ladder, then backs into the hallway and calls out, "I need a rigger! Send up Bartleby!" A moment later, a slender, young Gendarme, light on his feet, comes running up the stairs, and Graves points him to the ladder. "Keep a weather eye out. Might be two men up there looking to cut your throat and throw you out of the tower."

The younger soldier only grins and darts up the ladder, moving as quickly as if he were merely running up a gentle incline. At the top, he disappears above the catwalk around the bell. A few seconds later, he calls down, "All clear, sir! No hands on this deck!"

"There is a tree, within reach.", Gristav offers softly, for Graves' echo, before turning to leave, careless of the outcome.

"Ask her if Lil did it," Braddon puts in helpfully.
"And ask her if Lil told her why she wanted the necklace."
"And tell her that Ananda is fine. And that I'm sorry I didn't save her. But that I'll avenge her."
Braddon's face is quite serious.

"There is a tree, within reach.", Gristav offers softly, for Graves' echo, before turning to leave, careless of the outcome.

"And my men at the bottom of it," Graves points out, "where they've been since we arrived. Looks like your 'duty and diligence' haven't done anything but waste my time!"

He shouts the last words after Gris, as he exits the belfry and returns to the front hallway, with its broken-out window and staircase. In the large, open room that makes up most of the ground floor, the Gendarmes have Finnie and Micah manacled; the cuffs are too large to constrain Cassie, who is being personally restrained by a soldier, her mouth stuffed with a cloth to stifle her cries of outrage. A Gendarme on the front stoop has just finished sweeping the shards of glass to one side of the steps.

"Is there anything you need? How long will this take?"

Arnando winces with disgust and pity as he looks down at the old woman's remains. "I'll just need some quiet while I'm casting the spell," he replies irritably without looking up at the general, "and I'll only be able to get a couple of answers out of her. You really should have Shorafa doing this; if I ask her your questions and you don't get the information you need, it'll be at least a week before you can question her further."

General Mescher shrugs. "Be that as it may," he replies. "We'll just have to try to work around your ... insufficiencies. We'll leave you be. Alert me when you're ready for me to feed you the questions." He gestures to the others to gather at the foot of the stairs to give the cleric space to prepare. "Inconvenient that he's so limited. Have you any suggestions how to word the questions? We must be exact; we've no margin for error if anything is less than clear."

"And tell her that Ananda is fine. And that I'm sorry I didn't save her. But that I'll avenge her."

Braddon's face is quite serious.

"It's not really her," Arnando explains sympathetically before he begins his preparations. "I can't tell her anything, only get at the information she had at the time she died."

Gristav does not slow, seeming perhaps to gather steam as he sees the shackled residents, and comes to the bottom of the stairs. "Those all are innocent.", he says aloud, adding as he leaves, "The live prey had left before we arrived."

Heading for Shore Leave.

Piccolo cannot pass up a chance to associate with his own. He will approach in a forthright manner greeting them in Gnomish with a wide, warm smile, "By the stars of Desna, what do I see here. Some of my fine gnome brethren wandering the streets of Riddleport. Good day to all of you and well met."

The bearded gnome stops, hooking his thumbs beneath the straps of his suspenders and peering at Piccolo from beneath graying blue brows. "What's this then?" he snaps. "Haven't seen you before. Where'd you come from?"

Piccolo grins, "Mo mháthair, ach ní mór dúinn go léir."

"Beagán faoi má gceist agat nuair a raibh mé wander i ó" He pauses, "Pleanáil leat chun freastal ar na cluichí?"

I'm going with Irish for Gnome. The translation tool adds an element of authenticity. But it sure slows down role-playing for long conversations.

The bearded gnome stops, hooking his thumbs beneath the straps of his suspenders and peering at Piccolo from beneath graying blue brows. "What's this then?" he snaps. "Haven't seen you before. Where'd you come from?"

The gnome grunts non-committally. "Tá mé gnó ar an réimse." He slowly untangles one hand from his suspenders and slides the open palm toward Piccolo. "Williplunnet Swevenforey," he introduces himself, and Piccolo recognizes the name. An artist, auntie Ambrosia has told him, though from her tone he infers she disapproves of Swevenforey for some reason. It wouldn't have to be a good reason; Ambrosia disapproves of a lot of people.