Malkith shakes his head at the mention of the Krufts as he accepts the offered drink. It is a name he doesn't recognize. The harrower's expression changes again at the mention of the ferryman, "That's a good point. It would probably be easier to catch up to Scarlet at the crossing - if she is moving back and forth across the river." He takes a drink as he ponders the situation for a moment. Finally he nods, "If you think you can avoid any distractions, then coming back here in the morning is probably a good bet."
Malkith takes a long pull from his mug before handing it back to Braddon, "I don't think there's much to do until then. I'll let Saul know what's up. You can stay here and enjoy the rest of the evening if you want." He gives the half-elf a genuine smile.
Braddon looks over at the warm lights of the Publican House and hears the laughter and the revelry spilling out.
"Nah," he sighs. "I'll come back too. I'm getting paid a fortune and the Publican House will still be there later."
Braddon walks quietly with Malkith for a moment then asks, "So, what brings you to Riddleport?"
Tendal nods quietly, no words being needed for his agreement.
"I will see to it as time and circumstance allow. But it is time for me to retire or I will be to groggy to attend to my studies in the morning." Tendal says, setting the now empty glass on Saul's desk.
"Goodnight."
Tendal makes his way back to his room and after casting mending and cleaning cantrips on his clothes and person, says a few quick prayers to Irori and collapses into a dreamless sleep.
The sailor who had gone below returns to report all well and undisturbed. "Right, lads," Quincy announces to the others grimly. "Anyone hails us, only one man answers, and the rest stand ready to deliver him a sound whack with a belaying pin if needed. We'd all have been better off sleeping," he mutters to you. "The set of the grapnel would have woken us as it did you." Shaking his head in disgust, he and the other men return to the quarterdeck, chastened. Casey leans to pick up the dice they had been tossing to pass the time and pockets them; the sailors are in no mood for further games.
From the level of activity in the wharf-front taverns and the position of the moon in the sky, you gather that the night is not far advanced; you should still be able to get a full enough night's sleep, barring further interruptions. You should be able to prepare spells in the morning, assuming that you retrieve your spellbook from the Varisian redhead -- and that you come through your meeting with Zincher's organization unscathed.
As you pass through the waiting room, you can see the dwarf still seated at the table in the next room. He gives you a cordial nod goodnight. Downstairs, you make your way to your room without meeting anyone else; you presume that Samaritha, like you, is seeing that she gets her rest. If Daynadrian and the impostor-actress are about, they aren't evident. Pleased to see that the cleaning crew seems to have swept and dusted your room today, you prepare yourself for bed and are quickly asleep.
As they stroll back to the Golden Goblin, Malkith looks at Braddon, trying to discern the sincerity of his question. Finally he shrugs, "My people are wanderers; the open road is more home to us than any settlement. My own path has lead me here to Riddleport even while my caravan travels east. To what end my presence here serves, I am not yet sure, but when it has been fulfilled I shall move on."
Braddon nods.
"I dunno what Desna has in store for me." He shrugs. "Maybe that's for the best. I should probably try not to screw up this time."
He grins and raises his mug in a toast to Malkith.
"To the road ahead."
As they reach the river to cross, Braddon turns to Malkith.
"You wanna ask about Lil?"
There is already a knot of people waiting for the ferry at the dock; by the time it arrives, the knot has swelled into a herd which files onto the flat-bottomed boat packing it almost to the railings. Malkith can easily tell that this would be a poor time to make unobtrusive inquiries; besides, the man poling the ferry isn't Grimas but a stranger, one of the men hired on to help with the busy nighttime hours. He resolves instead to return in the morning when there aren't so many potential witnesses to his inquiries.
Returning to the Gold Goblin's back-alley door, Malkith uses the key entrusted to him by Tendal to let the pair into the quiet casino.
Upon seeing the crowd gathered at the river crossing, Malkith shakes his head. "Too many people." He rides the skiff in silence, still unaccustomed to the intrusive feeling of so many people in such a small space. As they disembark on the far side, the Varisian looks to his companion, "Screw what up, exactly?"
Braddon looks skeptically at Malkith, then looks around over each shoulder and leans in.
"I've run away from Cheliax. I was bounty hunting and renegged on a contract. They're a bit... strict about those things." Braddon shudders.
"Don't worry. They'll never find me here," he says, the smile returning to his face.
The occupants of the Gold Goblin once again wake up at what should be dawn and are once again thrown by Riddleport's delayed sunrise. Wondering how long it will take them to acclimate to the abbreviated hours of sunlight between the ridgelines, they begin their day.
...the sound of feet on a wooden deck and the bustle of shipboard activity wake you. The harbor is still dark, but out past the semicircle of the Cyphergate, you can see the reflection of a lightening eastern horizon across the surface of the Varisian Gulf. Captain Creesy is standing near your hammock, the only man on deck not moving or coiling or hauling something, and grins down at you as you awake. "I understand I owe Arnando thanks for pawning you off on me last night," he greets you.
"Then we both owe him thanks. Me for the rest, and the acquaintance, and the opportunity to defend the Graces trespassed last night. And you... that's up to you, but let's be agreed: Arnando has us in his debt."
"We're readying to weigh anchor, but I'll see you off safely first. The alleys of Wharf District are still dark, and early morning is a prime opportunity for press gangs looking to fill their crew rosters just ahead of the tide. Where are you headed?"
"Would that I had a better idea. I'll start with the Gas Forges, where I was told I'm not a reliable courier, and do my best to make them wrong. From there, to the man who decided I was unreliable, and to my best to change his mind or share some of mine. I expect the latter; his unseen judgment of me derives from his factoring to control such couriership. And then, that business done, I've found in my dreams a verse I'd share with a lass I'd shared chapter with already, in hopes she'll find any of that worthy of continued attentions." Gristav realized he'd spoken as he'd thought, and remembered that was unclear at times. He translated into sailor, "She has... amazing eyes. Intelligent eyes."
"I'd favor whatever you might tell me of those with interest in your boat's... methodology. It might be better I were informed of them more, against any future meeting, with their strongest not laboring up a rope. If there's more you might offer?"
"And, if I were approached regarding what I know, when I knew it, why I was here... How shall I shade the truth? With me mendicant? Or mercenary? Sheltered, and suddenly serving, or summoned, and steadfast and strong? Would you have them think you had prepared for them, and I was that preparation, or part of it? I don't like to lie, but I've made a study of shadowing the truth."
Stalking through the casino with the silent pads of a halflings feet Phil makes for the kitchen, hoping for an ease of finding both Larur's coffee pot and some heat to brew with.
"I'd favor whatever you might tell me of those with interest in your boat's... methodology. It might be better I were informed of them more, against any future meeting, with their strongest not laboring up a rope. If there's more you might offer?"
"And, if I were approached regarding what I know, when I knew it, why I was here... How shall I shade the truth? With me mendicant? Or mercenary? Sheltered, and suddenly serving, or summoned, and steadfast and strong? Would you have them think you had prepared for them, and I was that preparation, or part of it? I don't like to lie, but I've made a study of shadowing the truth."
The captain rubs his chin thoughtfully. "The local shipwright has made increasingly less-subtle inquiries... but I wouldn't think he'd send a woman. Cas wouldn't be above getting one of the crew drunk and hoping they'd spill all or getting one of his halflings to sneak aboard and have a look around if he could get away with it," he explains with a grin. "That's all fair and aboveboard in his book. But Garundi witches...," he shakes his head. "That's another ship. Pirates, most like, or smugglers; those with an interest in increasing their speed either to catch or not be caught and no compunctions about how they manage it. Good news for us is that if we meet them in another port, we ought to recognize her at least: Garundi woman-sailors aren't a dime a dozen in Varisia."
"As for ... if you're recognized?" Captain Creesy ponders thoughtfully. "Best advice I'd give you is stay out of the wharves. Of course, I'd give you that advice whether there'd been trouble last night or not. Not a safe place for lubbers." He shrugs. "Not a safe place for sailors, either, but at least they know the business when they find themselves aboard a new ship serving a new captain." His grin fades as he returns to considering the question. "If you should meet your bearded trespasser or his oarsman again... I should say you'd be best off telling the truth, that it was a chance meeting and you've nothing to do with the Cloud. Otherwise, they might think you can tell them what they want to know, if you're working for me."
He assigns two sailors, Quincy Dawkins and another man, to walk with you to the edge of the Wharf District. "Look sober and formidable," he advises with a smile. "And Gristav," he offers a firm handshake, "if ever you're in need of swift passage, think of the Flying Cloud."
The sailors keep a watchful eye and their hands at their swordhilts, and the three of you make a daunting enough appearance to make it through the wharves unscathed. You are left at the steps of the Gas Forges with dawn about to break and the night shift primed to be released.
He assigns two sailors, Quincy Dawkins and another man, to walk with you to the edge of the Wharf District. "Look sober and formidable," he advises with a smile. "And Gristav," he offers a firm handshake, "if ever you're in need of swift passage, think of the Flying Cloud."
"I expect, even without such need, I shall think of the Flying Cloud.", Gristav says, smiling. "Fondly."
The sailors keep a watchful eye and their hands at their swordhilts, and the three of you make a daunting enough appearance to make it through the wharves unscathed. You are left at the steps of the Gas Forges with dawn about to break and the night shift primed to be released.
"Thank you, gentlemen. Remember, if it's worth any watch, it's worth two separate watches."
Letting them go, Gristav sets path for the office he knows from the past, framing his approach as he travels. "I am Gristav. A courier. Am I to understand that I am unwelcome or considered unworthy to convey orders and goods?"
It was direct. It would translate well to Dwarven.
Braddon awakens to find himself curled in a tiny ball under the covers.
"Damn, this place is cold. Who would have thought moving from the south of Cheliax to the north of Varisia would make such a difference. It's not like this is Irrisen."
Gingerly he stretches out a foot and drags his backpack from where he dumped it the previous day over to the bed. He shoves an arm deep inside it, pulls out his winter blanket from the bottom, and shakes it out over himself, before curling back up in his warm spot and trying to get back to sleep.
Slipping into the kitchen, you find it still empty and abandoned. Larur's somewhat battered coffee pot is in evidence, however, and lifting the cover on the basin by the door, you find enough clean drinking water remaining without having to go outside to the pump. There is still kindling in the stove that is easily lit to heat it. You manage to get the water boiling and coffee brewed before anyone else comes through the kitchen. Pouring your own, you bank the flames to keep the coffee warm on the stovetop before returning to your room.
Ethel is out of bed, the sheet wrapped around and trailing behind her for an attempt at modesty, picking up some of the remains of your late-night picnic and balancing them back on the ottoman.
One arm around Miss Braum, he spends a few moments to bathe in the brew's aroma. Then in between sips of the dark and pungeont fluid that sharpens his mind towards the day, he continues where she had left off "The early morn and late eve are where the honest rest and those of more creative means are most active. Though I find a healthy afternoon siesta helps keep one energised." turning to see if Ethel is enjoying or manfully struggling with her beverage.
Draining another slug of bitter stimulant "I'll needs be headed to a meeting upstairs soon after the sun rises to see what my employer has planned for the day..." trailing off to leave a silence where Ethel might chime in with any skerrick of a thought she has towards what her plans might entail this day.
When you pause significantly, she hesitates. "I think...," she begins, "I should go to Betta's. Not because I'm turning back or having second thoughts!" she hastens to assure you. "It's just ... there's nothing I can do to help you now; not yet. You said even after you knew the Varisian in Magnimar was manipulating you, you chose to stay to serve your own purposes. Until I can learn to do something useful," she sighs, "I can at least earn some coin to contribute. I don't want to sit around and be your 'kept woman.' Besides," she goes on, tossing her hair defiantly, "Maddy and Almah know who I'm with and what I've been doing. If I don't go back like a normal morning, they'll think I'm afraid to face them because I'm ashamed of myself. And I'm not," she concludes fiercely.
Gristav sits on the stoop at the foot of the Gas Forge steps and waits for sunrise, keeping his staff in evidence and at the ready in case anyone should judge him an easy mark, half-passed-out on his early-morning stagger home from the taverns. Out in the harbor, visible above the rooftops, the apex of the Cyphergate, the communal timepiece for every Riddleport denizen, suddenly flares in the sky; the sun hasn't yet climbed above the eastern ridgeline, but its rays have reached the highest point in Riddleport.
As if on cue, only a few moments later, the side door of the Gas Forges swings open, and the night-shift trudges out, looking grimy and fatigued, Gravin Goldhammer at their head. When he sees the half-elf on the stoop, he looks startled and then frowns. Turning to mutter something to the rest of the dwarves, who glance in Gristav's direction and then continue on their way, he approaches, looks around a bit nervously, and mutters, "Don't tell me you've been here all night, lad."
He finishes off his cup and rests a minute or two more in comforted embrace before stretching and making to rise. "Best make myself a little more presentable before the tete a tete..." slipping outside again to fetch some water for a quick freshen up and hair comb. He leaves his grooming kit out in case Miss Braum wished to avail herself and fishes back on his boots and jacket. "Do you need rush across town to meet Betta's schedule or can you wait for me to be finished with the meeting and escort you?"
"I've been where you'd expect, and then not there, but where and when exactly I'd rather not say until I've heard more on this 'unreliable courier' brush I'm to be tarred with. Not to add to your burdens, but I'm of the understanding I'm to leave an order, and to return the good. It seems to me that lightly accepting cause to do less is just the sort of fripperish frivolity my lack of which earned me the mission of this missive.", Gristav said, waving momentarily the build order he'd spent the previous day bringing to the Forges. "Cost me my hat to get it here, I suppose I'll bear whatever insult to deliver it. But not lightly.", Gristav said, tucking the letter away. "No, Not lightly."
"How do I speak to this policy? At where and to whom? And shall I mention you as an ally or an abusee of mine, or not at all? That I ask, I know, betrays my lack of trust in the process, but that I see I ought to ask might lend confidence I can serve your wishes well, if I might know them."
The dwarf is on the verge of answering when the sound of approaching footsteps distracts him. Looking up, Gristav sees a dwarf approaching the front steps with a jingling keyring at his belt. "What's all this?" he complains. "Goldhammer, you're off duty. Why are you still here? Have a complaint to make? Any injury on the night shift? And who's this?" He peers at Gristav distrustfully.
Gravin scowls and shuffles his feet. "No problems on the night shift, Roldheim," he answers flatly. "Lad's here with a commission. He's worked with us before, many a time," he glares somewhat defensively. Gristav realizes that this must be Tromard Roldheim, the manager of the Gas Forges.
"Oh, aye," Roldheim's manner grows more conciliatory. "Not gotten his badge yet then, has he? Follow me, sir," he invites Gris as he continues up the stairs and fishes at his belt to unlock the door. "I'll take your commission and explain to you our new system and how it benefits you."
"I think you have the order reversed, and you've left out explanation. When I rode out with this order, I was a reliable courier, same as any other trip, despite slippery shadowers, clinging dust, high sun, and low branch. But I arrived here to find I was deemed unreliable. I'm curious at this new magic; stroke of a pen, and a man's unmade? Unhorsed? Unhistoried? Now that is a curse worth study. If a man means to deem me unworthy, I would expect the grace of such said to my face. Now, I've been bent doubled as I slept and turned round as I rose, and likely I'm not at my most charitable, so I'll hush now, and let you walk your practiced path at this."
"Now, now," Roldheim responds placatingly, albeit with a glare over his shoulder at Gravin, "you've just had things explained to you poorly, sir. These forge grunts, they can't wrap their thick skulls around the fine details."
He pushes open the heavy door and enters the front office, beckoning Gristav to follow. "A moment, and I'll light the lamp." Doing so as a concession to his guest's lack of darkvision, he gestures him to a chair across a wooden desk in a rather bare room, its walls decorated by sample weaponry produced at the Forges. Seating himself behind the desk, he goes on, "We value our couriers here at the Riddleport Gas Forges. It's to protect your own livelihood that we've instituted these changes. You get a badge that says you're an officially licensed courier with the Gas Forges, and customers know that you're not some fly-by-night opportunist who'll take their money and not deliver their commission -- or worse, abscond with their finished product. Not a thing changes, except that you're carrying one of our badges -- and you've got a little less competition from every yokel upstart with a mulecart, eh?" He grins and pulls a sheet of creamy parchment and a quill from a drawer on his side of the desk. "Now, what we'll do is, I'll write you a nice recommendation attesting that you're a trusted courier that we've worked with many times in the past, and you take it to Cleg Zincher's tenement where they'll issue you a badge."
Presenting them he adds "This is a little sharper than your worn cutter... and some diversion if needed." bringing his two hands together and with swift dexterous motion making the chit disappear into the hollowed pommel of the blade...
...and raising an eyebrow in silent challenge and offering the dagger to her.
Once all preparation is done and Miss Braum is ready to depart, Phil escorts her with linked arms to the door asking as they walk "I'll see you for lunch if I can - and mayhap even surprise you after work if I'm lucky."
At their parting Phil bends to kiss her hand in a courtly fashion before pulling her into close embrace and whispering into her ear "Be safe milady." before releasing her into a Riddleport dawn and watching her go.
"Now, now," Roldheim responds placatingly, albeit with a glare over his shoulder at Gravin, "you've just had things explained to you poorly, sir. These forge grunts, they can't wrap their thick skulls around the fine details."
"I'd wager we'd all prefer they keep their skulls in proper shape to wrap around their fine steels, rather than your fine details. And don't fault Gravin; He explained nothing, I've had the whole night to wander, ponder, deliver my other missives after missing this delivery, and hear all any would say and see the holes where any said naught."
He pushes open the heavy door and enters the front office, beckoning Gristav to follow. "A moment, and I'll light the lamp." Doing so as a concession to his guest's lack of darkvision, he gestures him to a chair across a wooden desk in a rather bare room, its walls decorated by sample weaponry produced at the Forges. Seating himself behind the desk, he goes on, "We value our couriers here at the Riddleport Gas Forges. It's to protect your own livelihood that we've instituted these changes. You get a badge that says you're an officially licensed courier with the Gas Forges, and customers know that you're not some fly-by-night opportunist who'll take their money and not deliver their commission -- or worse, abscond with their finished product. Not a thing changes, except that you're carrying one of our badges -- and you've got a little less competition from every yokel upstart with a mulecart, eh?" He grins and pulls a sheet of creamy parchment and a quill from a drawer on his side of the desk. "Now, what we'll do is, I'll write you a nice recommendation attesting that you're a trusted courier that we've worked with many times in the past, and you take it to Cleg Zincher's tenement where they'll issue you a badge."
[/b]"I don't fault your business"[/b], Gristav said watching his recommendation be writ, "Nor the cleverness of positioning yourselves to observe urgent merchant traffic. I'm not overly bothered by your setting yourselves above and in addition to the lawful limits on transit and travel; those who'd submit deserve to be lorded upon. But I cannot in good humour welcome you as a partner to all my transits, nor as an organized competitor whose first offering is that you are simply declaring yourselves as better than me. You'll have to explain at greater length. I expect my skull can wrap around the fineness of the detail, or the sharpness of the deal. Is that your desk, or Mister Zincher's, before which such might be had?"
The dwarf sighs, annoyance evident, but manages with an effort to keep his tone and demeanor polite. "Sir, all we're doing is providing you with a means to show your customers that you are better, better than your competition: that you're trusted and officially licensed by the Gas Forges to carry their commissions. From our point of view, if we lose the business of a distant customer through the criminal behavior of a courier, well, that hurts our bottom line; from our customers' point of view, if they're robbed by an unreliable courier, that's money out of their pcokets; and from your point of view, an official Riddleport Gas Forges courier badge can only heighten your reputation and help you distinguish yourself from unlicensed and inexperienced competitors. No one loses here. But if you're still unconvinced," he slides the completed letter of recommendation across the desk to you, "by all means, feel free to request further explanation from Mr. Zincher's people; he's your representative in this matter, after all."
By the time the pair of you are dressed and ready and you walk her through the kitchen to the back door, the sun has crept above the eastern ridge; the alley between the buildings is still in shadow, but morning light is slanting down the main road to the north. She stops and squints as she steps into the light at the end of the road, turns back toward you, shades her face with one hand and gives a small wave with the other, smiling, before heading east into Leeward District.
Moving back through the kitchen, you note that the coffee pot you placed on the stove earlier is missing. You've seen nor heard nothing of the rest of the crew yet this morning but head upstairs to the breakfast meeting.
The wizards are undoubtedly preparing spells, the Varisian perhaps reading his Harrow for the day, the elf and half-captive/half-ally bard not evident, and Braddon is trying to go back to sleep on the philosophical premise that if the sun rises on the other side of a ridge and no one sees it, it doesn't make a morning. Phillip is the first of the newcomers to climb the stairs to Saul's suite.
The co-owners and Bojasc are seated at the table in the dining room, a much larger basket of bread and pastries in evidence than the day before. Saul is smiling with a large cup of coffee steaming next to a plate containing half a muffin, but the dwarf is scowling ominously.
"I'm telling you, we don't know where it came from! If you didn't make it, and I didn't make it -- and we all know your lump of muscle over there didn't make it -- it could be poisoned, or drugged, or bewitched!"
"Don't be ridiculous, Larur," Saul replies airily. "It's excellent coffee. I mean, a bit of a change of pace from your usual brew, I admit. Ah! Master Hargreaves!" he smiles at Phil. "Good morning! I trust you had a restful night?"
Phillip casually moves into the room with nodded greetings and furnishes himself with both a muffin and a bread roll (as well as a bolster for his seat) though turns down any proffered coffee "Already had a cup this morning. And aye, sleep was restful after a most diverting evening - I was across at the Free-Coin seeing what the Watercress had to offer... I've a thought to head back this evening and see what diversions your other competitors offer."
However he also keeps eyes on the lump of muscle trying to gauge whether there's a mind hiding under the gruff and silent exterior...
Sense Motive:
"The Watercress, eh?" Saul asks with interest. "That was Cromarcky's first. Not really up to his later standards, but it was his toe in the water, testing out what kind of success he might be able to hope for without putting too much money down up front. Renovated an empty warehouse on the cheap. Rather like us in the Goblin, really."
"You call this cheap?" the dwarf snaps at Saul before turning to Phil. "Wait a moment: You've had the coffee? Was it you that brewed it?"
Braddon is up and on his feet in a remarkably short amount of time, the warm blankets tossed carelessly aside as he whisks on his shirt and pants from the floor where they fell. He shoves his feet into his boots and staggers forward, catching the door with his shoulder as he tries to fasten his belt. He almost tumbles into the hallway, only just stopping himself from falling over by grabbing the door frame.
"Good morning," he winces. Once steady on his feet, he removes a boot, shakes out the offending dagger and returns his boot to his foot and then slides the dagger gently back into the boot. He stands, looks about casually and smiles.
"Breakfast?"
Phil breaks a bun in half and munches on one portion as he makes conversation "Fair crowd for the small of stature though... and aye, I brewed when I rolled out of bed afore dawn. Give it a try... if you prefer to grimace with each choked swallow I can always buy a second pot and brew separate from your particular vintage." tone and canter even as though he'd done nothing wrong, though he slips Saul a sly wink as he potentially stirs the pot of dwarven umbrage.
"Oh, aye," Saul nods. "That was another stroke of fine business sense on his part. After he'd built his other two casinos -- flashier, more elegant -- he might well have put his own Watercress out of business, but he kept all the skiffs set-ups there, invested in some small-sized furniture, and ensured that the halflings, at least, would continue to patronize it, no matter that it's older and has fewer amenities. One wonders where an old pirate gets that kind of savvy; he must have spent all his years robbing ships and ransoming captives daydreaming of being a captain of industry." He takes another sip of coffee. "You think we can afford to go after that kind of niche? We haven't the space nor the multiple locations, but I suppose we could do up one of the private sitting rooms with miniature furniture, if you think we could draw a Small crowd."
Larur still looks suspicious of the unfamiliar brew but gingerly pours himself a cup.
Samaritha looks startled, then amused as Braddon comes stumbling out his door and almost barrels into her. "Good morning," she replies, tucking a stray curl behind her ear. "You have more trouble with sharp things in your boots, don't you?" She waits for Braddon to recover his balance and fall in beside her before continuing down the hall. "I was just going to make another pot of tea for the morning. You want to carry the tray upstairs for me again?"
Gristav reviews the persuasiveness of the profered parchment, before putting it safely away.* "My representative? To whom?", he asks, but waves the question away. "Why, to you, I suppose. Well, it heartens me that you find your interests well-looked-after. I've a different opinion just for now, with paperworks battlemented against my usual delivery, and a night spent in the dark of Riddleport's streets, reduced from a man at his work to an unwelcome presence at your forge, my other deliveries delayed and hazarded by whatever coins that badge will I'm sure displace in my purse. And this isn't the first you've heard such, or it won't be the last; couriers are keen-eyed for highwaymen of any stripe. This may well be the best offer I've ever had, surely the best offer I'll get. If you've done your fractions right, it'll be the worst offer I'll dare not refuse. But don't let's pretend either of us walks the moral high ground to get to it. I've had well enough of this, from your Gravin being singularly unhelpful, to your Larur even less, time and trial both wasted, and me finding myself at the Publican, unfed, un-abed, and unwilling to be thankful for the excellent representation I'd received in the matter. For all you're a part of it, I thank you quite clearly. For all you are not, I thank you, sincerely. I'll make for this Zincher now, and have word with him."
Phil mulls a moment before shrugging "Depends if you want steady business or a richer take... can't say that I saw too many high rolling spenders at the 'Cress... least not amongst the small folk. Some touches here or there might be appreciated, but I wouldn't change overmuch." munching on another bit of bread before a small lightbulb moment "A couple of small sized tables and chairs, tucked in a corner gives a nod the right direction without sacrificing much of the floor. Might be worth making sure the liquor cabinets have got some acquired tastes at a reasonable mark-up as well... I'd be more than happy to look over the bottle stock and arrange with a carpenter?" letting the opportunity float upon the air and see if Saul grasps for it. Two tables, twenty chairs, a new bed, writing desk...
Tendal rises with the ease of a gentleman of leisure, quickly twisting out a cantrip and tapping the shade of the small oil lantern set on the desk. The shade immediately illuminates with the magic glow, shedding its soft light across the room. Tendal sits down and begins to study his spellbook.
After an hour, he closes his book and sits back, stretching his arms over his head to unkink his muscles.
Well, time to be about it I think. I should see if there is any food then talk to the others about the neighborhood. Then...there might be a young lady that I can look up. he thinks, a small smile playing across his lips.
A few quick cantrips later, Tendal has dressed and proceeds to the dining room. As he opens the door with his usual hauteur he is arrested by a powerful smell that stabs right into the pleasure centers of his brain. "By all the goodly gods, that smells heavenly!" Tendal exclaims, as he nearly floats across the room to the carafe on the counter and pours himself a cup.
After a loving sip, he turns around and realizes that others have already beat him into the room.
"Ah, good morning. Mr. Vankaskerkin, Mr. Felden, Mr. Hargreaves, I had not noticed you." he says thoughtlessly as he moves over to the table.
Phillip raises an eyebrow before pointedly casting a glance to the other inhabitant of the room that Tendal had clearly forgotten to mention... Bojasc. Mentally quashing his sudden urge to verbally spar, Phillip settles for a circuitous response "A morning it is Mr Tendal, well noticed and confirmed... and it has indeed been good.. thus far." voice calm and genial enough.