On the topic of Daynadrian's fatalistic plight he presses on Serpe's diagnosis "If it's a curse then Shorafa's not the only one that could likely lift it... for my sanity at least could we at least entertain that as near fact?" before addressing the young elf directly "And unless Serpe is adamant, I still think it worth another opinion..." stressing again the implication that Arnando could be visited... but resolving to let that topic rest thereafter.
Snake shrugs. "Whatever works for the kid. Doesn't matter to me."
The thought of displaying himself in his present condition to anyone more than he has to clearly doesn't sit well with Daynadrian; he blushes a girlish pink but nods grudgingly. "I suppose a priest can be trusted to keep a confidence," he mutters, "and not bandy it all around town. If the pair of you don't have any other pressing appointments," he addresses Braddon and Snake, "perhaps you could approach him quietly for me? I could meet him at the back door, and he could have a look at me in the kitchen, avoid any scrutiny."
Looking to Braddon and shrugging, he turns back to Dayn, "Sure, kid. Hopefully he can help you so we can get this over with."
Almost as if he knew no one wanted to be listening, Gristav was off at the length of his legs toward the Goblin.The towering edifice of the Mystery of the Gate already visible in the next block from Flask & Stubb's, it takes Gristav little time to lope past the Cyphermages' inn, cut down the alley behind the Gold Goblin, and let himself in the back door.
Gristav glances at Larur's office as he passes through the casino, nods -pauses to nod, he surprises himself- at Desna, and gives another glance at Thuvalia's door, but proceeds to his room. Inside, he takes up the mapcase momentarily, but remembers a melancholic musing of a Moonday mooring. "I can't swear we'll be back before Moonday", she had said. And even if the ship was back, it wouldn't be ready, and if ready, they weren't, and Malkith, brave and alone, but respected for that, had sent no word.
He left the maps behind with the bundle of sinister trophies, locked his door, nodded, slowing, at Desna again, then pondered Thuvalia's door.
Then knocked on Larur's.
The key was a gesture away.
"Perhaps you could approach him quietly for me? I could meet him at the back door, and he could have a look at me in the kitchen, avoid any scrutiny."
"What, now?
Braddon pauses and looks towards the docks and then across towards the ferry."I guess. If you think so. We can be back at the docks within the hour. Phil?"
For clarity Phil repeated "You want me to see to what ships and what cost, yes?"
As Gristav pushes through the kitchen doors on his way to his own room, he notices that the double doors of the front entrance are propped wide open and the morning sunlight is spilling in. From the courtyard outside, voices can be heard, as well as the sound of heavy things being carried, set down, and shifted; it would appear that the outside performance area is being arranged.
The half-elf knocks at the door of Larur's office, already anticipating that he will receive no answer. Letting himself in by his key, he finds the interior seemingly unchanged from the last time he saw it; it doesn't appear that anyone has been in the room since he left it earlier.
For clarity Phil repeated "You want me to see to what ships and what cost, yes?"
"Um, sure," Braddon responds, not sounding very sure himself. Planning and organising don't seem to be some of his greatest strengths.
"And where is the Teeth of Araska? Where did it go? Is it back yet? Maybe it's just out in the bay and we can have this done by dinner. I would ask the harbourmaster but since Dayn and I knocked off his letters and I already asked him once about something I don't want to bother him again."
Phillip gives Braddon a nod, and clasps his shoulder to show some degree of support before moving away. He heads in a relatively direct fashion for the shipyard of Cas - keeping his eyes open for any faces recognized from his dalliances at temple.
The surest way to the shipyard seems to be around the Mystery of the Gate and past the front entrance of the Gold Goblin, so Phillip heads in that direction. As he approaches the casino, he can hear activity coming from the cobblestoned courtyard; a handful of Varisians are pacing the dimensions and pointing in various directions, under the supervision of Tendal, Thuvalia, and the gnome Piccolo. The relative positions of the dancing floor and of the band seem to be under discussion. Saul and Bojasc are watching from the steps up to the verandah. The double doors at the top are propped open, letting sunlight and what breeze there is to be had off the harbor in onto the casino floor.
----------------------------
Gristav approaches the double doors across the new carpet to peer out into the courtyard. A handful of Varisians are involved in rearranging the planks which will make up the dancing surface tomorrow night, while a few others are talking animatedly with Thuvalia and Piccolo, pointing alternately to the edge of the cobblestones or up to the verandah. Saul and Bojasc are watching the activity from the sunlight at the foot of the short flight of stairs, their backs to the casino and Gristav. Larur is nowhere to be seen.
-----------------------------
Eyes flittered over the accumulated persons within the courtyard of the Goblin, but nothing strikes his attention as worth of diverging his path. A twinge of memory draws a smile as he thinks of what is likely still slumbering in his bed, but a quick breath and refocus puts paid to the mental diversion.
Phillip gives Braddon a nod, and clasps his shoulder to show some degree of support before moving away.
"Uh...thanks," Braddon mutters awkwardly, before turning away. He never seemed to have trouble exchanging emotions with women.
"Let's head," he gestures to Snake and Dayn and makes his way towards the Publican. His usual effusiveness is absent and he listens and watches as he makes his way across the river with his companions.
Gristav approaches the double doors across the new carpet to peer out into the courtyard. A handful of Varisians are involved in rearranging the planks which will make up the dancing surface tomorrow night, while a few others are talking animatedly with Thuvalia and Piccolo, pointing alternately to the edge of the cobblestones or up to the verandah. Saul and Bojasc are watching the activity from the sunlight at the foot of the short flight of stairs, their backs to the casino and Gristav. Larur is nowhere to be seen.
Taking a moment to wonder about Thuvalia's wellbeing, Gristav otherwise doesn't delay, nor delve downstairs for the Shroedingering dwarf. Instead, he's shortly on his way to the shore - well, the docks - silent in his solitude, unless one was, as he was, between his ears.
Braddon, Snake, and Daynadrian follow the road west to Velashu Ferry. The working day is underway by now, so the streets are fairly quiet and there is no one waiting at the dock other than Grimas, sitting at the doorway of his cottage with the brim of a hat pulled low over his eyes to shade them from the morning sun. He eyes the two men strolling along with the nervous-looking boy rather dubiously.
"Crossing to the west bank?" he asks, as they approach.
Phillip continues down the road toward the harbor, peeling off near the mouth of the river to follow the well-trodden path up to Casamen Cazynsik's ship repair yard. The sound of pounding hammers and echoing voices announce that the workmen are already at their jobs even before Phil reaches the yawning entrance on the river side. The table of halfling workers is easily singled out from the taller employees.
------------------------------
A short time later, Gristav follows the same road southward from the Gold Goblin, bypassing the shipyard and instead heading directly for the wharf. The boardwalk is thick with sailors and stevedores, coming and going from ships all along the waterfront.
"Crossing to the west bank?" he asks, as they approach.
"Yup."
Braddon waits quietly.As they cross the river a thought occurs to him.
"I thought you only crossed the river. What if we didn't want to cross to the west bank? Where else do you go? What else do you do? How much does it cost?"
He shrugs, as he poles the flatboat across. "I can deliver you to any of the docks on the west side of the Velashu: straight to the Publican or up to Free-Coin or anywhere in between. East side, too, if you're that lazy, from the harbormaster's office to Devil's Fork. The fare depends on the distance traveled. Most people are content to take the shortest fare across and walk; only costs them their shoe-leather. That's excepting the Windward folk. I can take you straight to the river taxi stand at the mouth of the harbor, but they'll charge you an extra fee to disembark if you're not a local. Pretty rare the Windward folk get desperate enough to take my ferry, though; they have their own boats they can hire. I can take you to Maskyr's Island, too ... only they won't let you set foot on the place unless you've been sent for by the Overlord. Then I can charge you to take you back," he smirks. "Hey," he goes on with a more genuine smile, "good news about the redhead, huh? She sure seemed excited this morning."
Shifting to the entrance, Phillip lets his eyes attempt to seek out two parties - first to see if Casamen is in attendance... and secondly if Marce is in sight.
"...good news about the redhead, huh? She sure seemed excited this morning."
Braddon nods distractedly. "Yeah, great news. She's really happy." Braddon's voice fails to carry the required enthusiasm.
"Can you drop us off behind the Publican? We... um... I've got new boots. Gottem Wealday afternoon."Braddon lifts a foot to show them off and avoids glancing at Daynadrian.
Phillip pauses at the entrance and lets his eyes adjust to the dimmer light to which they are more accustomed. Within the barn-like structure, he spies both Marce, whom he was hoping to see, and the owner of the business, whom he might rather not. They aren't together, but he's not entirely sure he can slip in to speak to Marce without being spotted by Cazynsik, from whom he last parted on less than friendly terms.
"Can you drop us off behind the Publican? We... um... I've got new boots. Gottem Wealday afternoon."
Braddon lifts a foot to show them off and avoids glancing at Daynadrian.
Grimas stares at Braddon for a moment, frozen in the act of punting, then pointedly lifts his pole from the mud at the bottom of the river and lets the current begin to carry the flatboat downstream toward the Publican House.
A short time later, Gristav follows the same road southward from the Gold Goblin, bypassing the shipyard and instead heading directly for the wharf. The boardwalk is thick with sailors and stevedores, coming and going from ships all along the waterfront.
Preoccupied, Gristav still manages to recall where the Flying Cloud was last tied up, and to find some vantage of the place. If it were, he hoped to bring them more luck. If it weren't, he'd take his leave...
Where might a dwarf draft a contract?, he thought as he walked.
With a deep breath, Phil moves into the shipyard and makes a beeline straight for Cas... seeking to engage the bull by the horns. When noticed he raises a hand in rudimentary greeting and speaks "Top of the morning... I've a need to speak to Marce, could I borrow him for a few minutes?" businesslike of tone, and showing no shiftiness or attempt to obfuscate or conceal.
The shipwright's displeasure at the uninvited guest is clear in the scowl on his face, but he stares at Phillip for a few moments before lifting his chin in the direction of the halflings' table. "You're on the clock, Marce!" he calls over without taking his eyes off of Phil. "This takes more than 'a few minutes,' and it's coming out of your lunch." Cas's glance lingers on Phillip for a moment before he deliberately strolls to the other end of the building, where the halflings' conversatioin will be out of earshot but clearly not out of his sight.
-----------------------------
The Gas Forges have a full dwarven office staff, complete with scribes and legal oversight ... but aware of the distance imposed between Larur and his former place of employment, Gristav is unsure whether the dwarf would have used his own kinsmen to draft the documentation for his new investment. Still, if he did, Gravin Goldhammer could undoubtedly point him to the right dwarf outside of office hours.
Alternately, there's Nathanael Weatherby, who seems to have handled most of the contract work in Leeward District, although Larur had betrayed no familiarity with him, nor had they found any record of Weatherby doing any work for him when they'd searched the scribe's office.
Gristav would imagine that each of the bosses would have their own stable of specialists, but as far as he knows, Larur hasn't any particular affinity with any of them. It's possible that Saul has his own connections from his glory days, perhaps someone retired who might do work off the books for an old associate.
The berth in which he last saw the Flying Cloud is occupied by an older and less reputable-looking ship; the faded and peeling letters on her escutcheon, only just legible, read The Coral Cutlass. It's not clear, however, whether ships have regular berths or if the more desirable positions are first-come-first-served....
Dwarves in their dwellings... particular... so where Larur had been, likely another, and the landlord, likely knows others. And Gravin guards the second copy, so any change, he'd know of. But he's the night shift, and long now let out... You could find him, you might disturb him... but if they're framing phrasing, in Dwarvish... Leave them to it?
Gristav stood still, decided... then doubtful. Then, stepping out of the path of a burdened stevedore, Gristav let the momentum carry him further away from the wharves.
Braddon, Daynadrian and Snake float comfortably down the Velashu, Grimas utilizing his pole only to keep them in the middle of the river and their head downstream. This is certainly a less strenuous passage for the ferryman, though it's obvious that he'll earn the extra fare struggling back upstream to his wonted dock. The bay riverfront window of the Publican House soon comes into view, and Grimas edges them gently out of the current until they bump to a stop against the tavern's private jetty. The door, as usual, is propped open to catch any breeze that may chance to pass.
"Thanks."
Braddon hands over the fare and turns to Dayn.
"You wanna wait here? Snake and I will be back in no time. I'll send Arnando out as soon as possible."
Braddon waits for assent and then heads into the Publican.
Giving Cas a small nod of acknowledgement, Phil considers flicking a coin t'wards the dour man... but based on his jaundiced recollection of their last meeting reconsidered. In his mind he'd left it clear and even, and the bugger wasn't out of coin at any rate... easier to make recompense with Marce if needed.
When the other halfling draws near, Phil runs his hand through his hair and gives a curt nod of thanks for coming over. Businesslike and direct he asks "Marce. Thanks for the ear, I've a need to pick your mind if I can. Colleague of mine's in need of a steer on the comings and goings of the bay... your ear's right to bend? - or can you point me another's way?" demeanour hopefully showing that he's not engaged in skulduggery or subterfuge, but actually legitimately looking for assistance.
"Depends what you're looking to learn," Marce answers a little warily. "We tend to know who's in port due to who's hiring us to make repairs ... but if you're wanting an invitation to the captains' tables, they don't know me from Aroden's grandnephew and wouldn't consider an acquaintance with the carpenter's men a very presitigious connection."
"You wanna wait here? Snake and I will be back in no time. I'll send Arnando out as soon as possible."
"Here?" Daynadrian squeaks, looking around self-consciously. The closest ship traffic, save for the ferryman punting determinedly upstream, is a few dories near the mouth of the river, but the elf still seems to feel exposed between the tavern's bay window, the expanse of flowing water, and the far bank of the Velashu. "I'll wait down there," he points to the southern end of the Publican House, "just at the corner, in case anyone else shows up."
Braddon finds the interior of the Publican House much as he's seen it the other mornings he's visited: the main room freshly mopped, its tables and chairs pushed against the walls to let the morning sun streaming through the window dry the well-worn planks, and what mild activity there is in the tavern this time of day relegated to the smaller morning room on the road side rather than the river. Today seems even slower than his previous visits: Neither dwarves nor sailors are sampling the bar's custom, only a few idlers who look as if they're seeking the remedy of the hair of the dog that bit them to their Fireday evening revelries. Arnando is behind the short bar in what Eulalie has taken to calling her "tea room."
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The dwarven community of Riddleport is both small and subject to high turnover, limited almost exclusively to temporary workers doing their decade's stint at the Gas Forges and the few long-term employees like Tromard Roldheim. As such, the company has found it worthwhile to own its own boarding house near the smoke-belching structure, for its employees' convenience, if not their health or aesthetics. The flats are both inexpensive and tailored to dwarven tastes, a pair of considerations which might be considered redundant. Larur's simple room had been in this building, and his neighbors had all been his fellow employees. To an outsider the shuttered windows and ashy layers of grime which collect on every jut and knob like filthy snow might be off-putting, but Gristav knows that the interior of the tenement is quite clean, if austere.
A wry smile "Hah, no... just comings and goings and who's likely to head where is good enough." pausing a moment before elaborating "Whatever you know of the movements of a Teeth of Araska and which ship might be quickest to get a few men to Roderic's Cove is the sum of it."
Braddon strides in confidently and waves at Arnando.
"Hi there. I'll bet you're glad to see me again so soon?"
Braddon flashes a cheeky grin.
"Yes, I've come looking for yet another favour. This one won't take more than a few minutes. I just need you to look at a friend. I'm sorry to keep doing this. I'll pay you for your time. He's just out back. I promise this is the last time."
The dwarven community of Riddleport is both small and subject to high turnover, limited almost exclusively to temporary workers doing their decade's stint at the Gas Forges and the few long-term employees like Tromard Roldheim. As such, the company has found it worthwhile to own its own boarding house near the smoke-belching structure, for its employees' convenience, if not their health or aesthetics. The flats are both inexpensive and tailored to dwarven tastes, a pair of considerations which might be considered redundant. Larur's simple room had been in this building, and his neighbors had all been his fellow employees. To an outsider the shuttered windows and ashy layers of grime which collect on every jut and knob like filthy snow might be off-putting, but Gristav knows that the interior of the tenement is quite clean, if austere.
Will you knock at every door, boy?, the imagined image asked.
Will you taunt at every task, witch?
Hmmph.
But yes, I think I might..
"Part Elf, part Wolf, part Man...", Gristav began singing, in a voice not nearly elfen, not overly practiced, and, he hoped, not unpleasant, yet sufficiently piercing...
"The forest-bred Sharan, did bide, her early years, among wolves dire..."
He walked the dwarven way, singing his song he knew a certain dwarf might remember, in a voice he knew that dwarf would know....
"And, a-hunt wi' her pack, made up where she'd lack..."
If the dwarf heard it.
"With magics, blood-gift, of her sire..."
And if not, well, it was a pretty enough song.
Gris wondered if he'd remember, all sixty stanzas.
Snake remains quiet, a bit curious if this guy is actually gonna buy that last bit that Braddon threw at him.
"Whatever you know of the movements of a Teeth of Araska and which ship might be quickest to get a few men to Roderic's Cove is the sum of it."
Marce's wariness turns into a scowl. "The Teeth of Araska carries a dangerous crew, if rumors are to be believed. They don't care for their ship, that's for certain: a dirty rig, and they let repairs go as long as they can keep her afloat without them. They've no regular cargo, which means they're almost certainly smugglers or pirates."
"I heard they sailed into the harbor on Oathday and left again almost immediately, just staying long enough to take on fresh water. To me, that says they had something aboard they didn't want seen."
"As to passage to the Cove, there's no passenger ships in Riddleport Harbor, but just about any captain sailing that direction won't say no to a little extra coin. I wouldn't trust the Teeth of Araska, though. They might decide they'd rather have all the coin in your pockets."
"Yes, I've come looking for yet another favour. This one won't take more than a few minutes. I just need you to look at a friend. I'm sorry to keep doing this. I'll pay you for your time. He's just out back. I promise this is the last time."
Arnando raises a dubious eyebrow. "You do find trouble, don't you? You go hunting for it, or do hard-luck cases just turn up on your doorstep?" He pauses. "This isn't more Gendarme business, is it?" His gaze wanders to include Snake in the question.
As the slightest sound of what might be a chuckle escapes, "Hm. You don't miss much, do you, bub? To your first questions: Absolutely and both. To the last one: No."
Gristav enters the dark tenement, remembering to duck at the lintel: Dwarves don't waste time carving higher ceilings out of solid stone than they have to in their subterranean complexes; just because they were working aboveground, the architects of the company housing didn't see any reason to alter their base assumptions. The corridor is dark -- dwarves don't need light to navigate -- but Gristav knows where to feel along the wall for sconces; a twist of a knob gives enough gaslight to find his way and leave a trail of glowing breadcrumbs back to the door behind him.
He has not gone far before his song draws a welcome. A door along the hallway opens, and an unfamiliar dwarf peers out incredulously. "What are you doing?" he demands. "Don't you know there's men here just worked the night shift and trying to get some rest? What's your business here?"
As the slightest sound of what might be a chuckle escapes, "Hm. You don't miss much, do you, bub? To your first questions: Absolutely and both. To the last one: No."
Braddon smirks.
"What he said."His face drops but his voice remains steady.
"And don't think I've forgotten about what you did for Gramma. I owe you. If you've got trouble you want dealt with, send for me I'll be in it in no time."
Phil nods to show that he follows along with and understands Marce's words "Do you know of someone that might broker that passage on my behalf? - we've a need and desire that would best be kept from the Whoremistress..."
Gristav enters the dark tenement, remembering to duck at the lintel: Dwarves don't waste time carving higher ceilings out of solid stone than they have to in their subterranean complexes; just because they were working aboveground, the architects of the company housing didn't see any reason to alter their base assumptions. The corridor is dark -- dwarves don't need light to navigate -- but Gristav knows where to feel along the wall for sconces; a twist of a knob gives enough gaslight to find his way and leave a trail of glowing breadcrumbs back to the door behind him.
He has not gone far before his song draws a welcome. A door along the hallway opens, and an unfamiliar dwarf peers out incredulously. "What are you doing?" he demands. "Don't you know there's men here just worked the night shift and trying to get some rest? What's your business here?"
Chuckling, Gristav logics softly, "If I can't hear a dwarf snoring, he can't hear me singing. But you're right, rude of me, sing in your hall. Door was open, thought it was an arch and went through, I'd be out of the sun for a bit. I'd bet you know all your neighbors... Is there a Goldhammer, about?"
Phil nods to show that he follows along with and understands Marce's words "Do you know of someone that might broker that passage on my behalf? - we've a need and desire that would best be kept from the Whoremistress..."
"The only way I know to keep a secret from Shorafa in this town is to stay beneath her notice," Marce warns. "If she already has her eye on you, she'll find out your secrets eventually. Still, that may not be until you've been to the Cove and back. You are coming back?" He glances down the workshop to where his employer is still pointedly watching the conversation. "Won't be able to do anything about it until lunch. When, and how many?"
"And don't think I've forgotten about what you did for Gramma. I owe you. If you've got trouble you want dealt with, send for me I'll be in it in no time."
Arnando snorts, waving off the offer. "You've trouble enough on your own. Dead women, murder cults, spider bites, tidal waves ... and you've only been in town, what? A week?" He gives Braddon a quizzical look, as if suddenly realizing how much out of the ordinary has happened since the half-elf first turned up in his tavern. "And now this new 'friend,'" he goes on. "What's his problem?"
"If I can't hear a dwarf snoring, he can't hear me singing. But you're right, rude of me, sing in your hall. Door was open, thought it was an arch and went through, I'd be out of the sun for a bit. I'd bet you know all your neighbors... Is there a Goldhammer, about?"
The dwarf looks a little surly, but his native sense of duty kicks in. "Gravin Goldhammer, you're meaning? Aye, he's night shift. Will have just had a bite and a tipple and climbed into bed for a well-deserved rest." He fixes Gristav with a challenging gaze. "If it's not urgent, a considerate fellow would come back in the afternoon."
Arnando snorts, waving off the offer. "You've trouble enough on your own. Dead women, murder cults, spider bites, tidal waves ... and you've only been in town, what? A week?" He gives Braddon a quizzical look, as if suddenly realizing how much out of the ordinary has happened since the half-elf first turned up in his tavern. "And now this new 'friend,'" he goes on. "What's his problem?"
Snake glances around a moment and then leans in a bit. "He's a kid. Was an adult before he pissed off the wrong person. Next thing he knows, he finds himself on the wrong side of some bad magic that needs removing," he tells him, leaning back out.
Phil nods gamely, though his eyes and the corner of his mouth retain an impish sparkle and curl "Aye, eventually sure... but if it's out her eyes for the near term all the better." doing some mental calculations before confirming "As many as four men, and as soon as is able... coin isn't infinite, but is available. Where should you have word?" looking to confirm where he should rejoin Marce during lunch... before nodding.
Phil then makes a show of passing a visible silver coin to Marce, while less obviously palming a gold as well. That was if Cas were to take overt offence, he'd only have the lesser coin to take as tribute. A tug of his imaginary hat then sees Phillip conclude his discussions.
"If I can't hear a dwarf snoring, he can't hear me singing. But you're right, rude of me, sing in your hall. Door was open, thought it was an arch and went through, I'd be out of the sun for a bit. I'd bet you know all your neighbors... Is there a Goldhammer, about?"The dwarf looks a little surly, but his native sense of duty kicks in. "Gravin Goldhammer, you're meaning? Aye, he's night shift. Will have just had a bite and a tipple and climbed into bed for a well-deserved rest." He fixes Gristav with a challenging gaze. "If it's not urgent, a considerate fellow would come back in the afternoon."
"You'll agree, that would depend what he's considering. I delight in your people's sense of duty. Try to sense it in me, now. I've a friend gone missing, he was upset last eve, last I saw him. Not in his home, not in his office, last night, this morn, and an hour ago. And what I think he was doing, he'd have gone to Goldhammer, first or last." The half-elf paused, then asked, "A friend, missing, in Riddleport. What's a considerate fellow to do? Knock on every door? Or sing in the hall?"
Snake glances around a moment and then leans in a bit. "He's a kid. Was an adult before he pissed off the wrong person. Next thing he knows, he finds himself on the wrong side of some bad magic that needs removing," he tells him, leaning back out.
Braddon nods in agreement.
"Bad magic. Yeah, it has been a busy week. I got turned green in the boneyard on Wealday night but I got better. We wanna know if... if he will. He's out back."Braddon gestures outside and heads towards Dayn.
Snake looks to the bartender curiously, wondering if he has any interest in the matter and waits to see if he follows Braddon out.