The Calistrian gives Daynadrian an arch look, from the tips of his ears to the toes of his boots and back. "Long way from the forest, aren't you? Take a wrong turn on your way to grandmother's house? Looking for somewhere you can feel at home?"
Laughing genuinely, Dayn allows slightly more of his true nature to show through as he steps closer and says roguishly "Maybe I'm not lost, maybe I'm the big, bad, wolf looking for his little red? If you're not afraid, maybe we can head somewhere a bit more quiet where we can chat and get to know each other a little better?"
Although his gaze is direct, he does not stare lustily, nor makes any kind of physical advance. At this point he is still much more so attempting to judge her character, to see if she's the right girl he's looking for. If the priestess seems willing, and the price not too extravagant, he'll agree to go with her wherever she suggests.
She eyes him appraisingly. "Two gold," she proposes. "You, me, and a private room. We'll start with 'what big ears you have' and see how far we get, hm?"
If Dayn agrees, she'll give one of the black-armored security men a nod and lead the elf through the diaphanous curtain into the temple itself, through the well-appointed lobby and down a hallway until she opens a door on a private room. A round bed with a yellow canopy is the main feature; the room also contains a chaise longue and a mirrored dressing table with a cushioned stool.
Phil pays only idle attention to the bout on the sand, his gaze truly turned on the pair of Varisians lounging in the shade. Unlike the halfling, they are blatant about their lack of interest in the action in the arena, instead practicing quick draws with their knives. One has a butterfly knife and the other, a switchblade. These men are obviously counting on speed rather than size; grinning, they twirl the knives dexterously between their fingers, causing the blades to disappear and reappear with startling speed.
Phillip is just about satisfied that he has the two Varisian faces memorized when the clean-shaven ex-pirate takes an awkward swing at his opponent, his overreach leaving his guard down for a crucial moment. The bearded one takes his opportunity to thwack his dummy-sword upside the other man's head, and he drops down on his hands and knees in the sand, looking dazed. Akron steps between the two, grabbing the end of the victor's wooden blade in his hand. "You're not fighting aboard-ship anymore," he chides Beardy. "Go for the arm or hand to disarm, or for the thigh to disable. If this were steel, you'd have taken his head off. You're not looking to kill your opponent, just to best him. The crowd likes blood, yes, but flesh wounds spurt nicely and don't cost us for a priest -- or a funeral." He pulls the practice weapon from his student's hand. "Drag him to the water tank and give him a dunking until he's seeing straight again."
Beardy grins and hooks his arms around his erstwhile opponent's shoulders to pull him to his feet. Half-supporting, half-dragging him, he heads for an open gate at the end of the arena, leading beneath the stands. Akron turns his attention to the men waiting beneath the canopy, ready to call down another pair for practice and notices Phil's presence for the first time. "Here now, what are you doing in here?"
To Ranef as an aside Phil mentions "You were right Ranef, the coin did decide the bout" winking before flipping the silver coin that foretold the future to the man before they were noticed by Akron.
Arms held wide and non-threatening Phil replies "Following my word... I said yesterday that I'd come back to see if it was ok for me to observe and here I am. Should I leave or stay?" weight already unconsciously adjusting to his back leg in case he needs to quickly pivot and flee.
"Yes, Mistress Vishki. She's missing and we... fear for her safety. Did you know her? Has anyone unusual been hanging around here recently? We need to find her quickly before... anything happens." Braddon keeps his voice quiet and low, but isn't sure why.
"I don't know her," the tea-room girl answers, pulling up a chair and sitting down at their table. "She came in on occasion to buy a box of pastries. Never tea, just cakes. I assumed it was," she glances at Malkith and blushes a little, "well, because she was Varisian. I mean, your people are known for their tea, right? I figured she brewed her own."
"Unusual? No, not until all the Gendarmes showed up yesterday. I never see anyone going in and out over there, except Mistress Vishki and people making deliveries. She's missing? Since when? What about the girl who lives there? The one she keeps house for? Is she missing, too? I hardly ever see her, but there's a man who visits a few times a week. I only ever see her leave the house with him."
"Would it be unwelcome to have remnant against future damage? I've still not gained an understanding of the rarity of this stock, of how difficult it would be to match. But still, remnant roll for runners or repairs, reason requires... rationing." Gris smiled at Larur with an aren't-I-clever flap of his brows. "Nine. Oh, alright, Eight. I'll be here on watch until they're at it. And after, I've promised tea and hinted at ale with lunch. Felt I owed them, for the lashes of Tuvalia's brow and tongue. How much are you going to charge me, to keep the letter and spirit of my matinee' maneuverings?"
"Tea?" Larur scowls. "Had enough of that with that wizardess around. I suppose you mean that cold concoction of yours? I've told you before, it's dangerous to drink a cold drink on a hot day. You unbalance your insides from your outside, you'll get sick." He considers a moment. "Suppose I could draw off some ales; there ought to be a keg behind the bar from Sunday. But one mug, and it's back to work! You'll be having me making them sandwiches next." Grumbling, he leaves Gris to guard the carpet roll as he goes back inside the casino to see about the drinks.
Arms held wide and non-threatening Phil replies "Following my word... I said yesterday that I'd come back to see if it was ok for me to observe and here I am. Should I leave or stay?" weight already unconsciously adjusting to his back leg in case he needs to quickly pivot and flee.
Akron looks at him sternly. "No one brought me word you got permission from Zincher."
"From boss, pfah! He got permission from me. Is my friend, Fillif," Ranef butchers the halfling's name. "He comes to watch me fight."
Sensing both the stern concern of Akron and the seeming ill-met adoption of himself by Ranef, Phillip licks his lips as he senses a potential for tension in the air. Arms remaining wide Phillip tenses as he attempts to barter a solution that might leave him in the favor of both... and hopefully still alive...
"I must have misconstrued our discussion yesterday... and accept the fault of that. I had thought that the words with Zincher would be exchanged without my presence... but now see the error in that presumption." slowly taking one hand from it's outward position to run it through his hair to calm his nerves. A weak smile forms "Perhaps I can provide some humor for your men, and a reason for my presence... such that no more need be made of this beyond these walls."
Raising his voice a little so that it carries beyond Zincher and Ranef to be o'erheard by the lounging gladiators if they cared to eavesdrop "I Fillif, do come to watch Ranef fight... with me. I was the champion rabbit wrangler of my village, and I think I've got his measure. What say you sir? - can I join the stable if I win?" clapping his new found friend on the back of his thighs before making a pitiful show of his muscles with a faux-ironman pose.
My dignity and lasting headache offered in exchange for overlooking the slight I have offered you.
"She came in on occasion to buy a box of pastries. Never tea, just cakes. I assumed it was," she glances at Malkith and blushes a little, "well, because she was Varisian. I mean, your people are known for their tea, right? I figured she brewed her own."
Malkith sips the Jasmine tea that he had ordered and nods politely to the young girl, indicating no offense is taken.
"Unusual? No, not until all the Gendarmes showed up yesterday. I never see anyone going in and out over there, except Mistress Vishki and people making deliveries. She's missing? Since when? What about the girl who lives there? The one she keeps house for? Is she missing, too? I hardly ever see her, but there's a man who visits a few times a week. I only ever see her leave the house with him."
"This man," Malkith finally speaks, "Can you describe him?"
As the tea-room girl sits down and talks, Braddon takes up the beautiful tea pot and pours tea into his flowery cup. He takes a sip from it, makes a face, then presents it to the tea girl while listening intently to her.
"This man," Malkith finally speaks, "Can you describe him?"
"Wouldn't that be her father?" interrupts Braddon.
"Did you notice her leaving the day before yesterday? In the late afternoon? A delivery maybe? The girl is doing okay. The poor thing was robbed and assaulted, but she's worried about Mistress Vishki. She's vanished, but we don't think she's responsible. We fear she may have met with foul play. You didn't notice a commotion at the front door? Or a stranger in here watching her house?"
Braddon watches the tea-room girl closely, partly looking for a reaction but also enjoying her pleasant visage.
"I don't suppose you can tell us which is the Krufts household? The tanners? We have to speak to them too."
"Her father?" the shop girl answers as if she hadn't considered the possibility before. "Well, he's old enough to be. I assumed he was... Well, an older man and a young girl hiding out in an expensive flat, it certainly wouldn't be the only door with that kind of secret behind it up here. He's -- I don't know -- middle-aged, maybe forty? Dark hair with some gray in it, wears a hat. Dresses more like a laborer than a gentleman, although that's a trick I've seen before, too."
"Two days ago?" she asks dubiously. "I don't think so. I know the man didn't visit then. Oh wait! There was something a little unusual. There was a woman who came to the door, I thought to deliver something, but Mistress Vishki smiled and asked her in. Usually, they'll just deliver whatever they have at the door and not go inside. And she never smiled. I thought maybe it was a relative of hers or something dropping by for a visit. She had dark hair and was dressed like a Varisian -- I mean," she clarifies for Malkith, "a scarf wrapped around her head and another around her shoulders, like Mistress Vishki wore. I hope she's all right. She always seemed lonely up here. I thought it must have been nice for her to have a personal guest to chat with for a while."
"The Krufts?" she frowns. "I don't know anyone by that name. Do you mean the Krumps? I think they run the tannery." She is able to give them directions to one of the residences out on the bluff at the mouth of the harbor.
Raising his voice a little so that it carries beyond Zincher and Ranef to be o'erheard by the lounging gladiators if they cared to eavesdrop "I Fillif, do come to watch Ranef fight... with me. I was the champion rabbit wrangler of my village, and I think I've got his measure. What say you sir? - can I join the stable if I win?" clapping his new found friend on the back of his thighs before making a pitiful show of his muscles with a faux-ironman pose.
Phillip's challenge draws chuckles from the gladiators beneath the canopy -- even the Varisians put away their knives to watch with interest -- but none laugh more uproariously than Ranef himself. He shouts what sounds like an exuberant interjection in his native language. "Excellent, Fillif! We fight, yes?" He rushes to the edge of the stands and hops over; Phil notices that large crates and cages have been stacked against the wall to provide rough access to and from the sand.
Akron nods thoughtfully. "If you win, I guarantee Zincher would pay you to fight for him," he replies with a hint of a smile. "Do you favor a shield?"
Phillip is beset with a growing sense of dread even as he forces a brash smile upon his face. He sheds his overcoat and with great ceremony lays aside his dagger and Ethel's worn knife - setting them atop his coat. Patting them with one hand as he winks towards the other gladiators "Wouldn't want to hurt him." he moves to inspect the wooden weaponry, pausing momentarily by Akron to offer a brief nod of acknowledgement of his seeming acceptance of Phillips terms.
Inspecting the selection of weaponry on display Phillip selects two of the smallest wooden blades available, tucking one into his trousers in lieu of sheath and holding the other in his right hand critically and performing a few clumsy practice swipes. Nodding satisfaction, he moves to struggle over the crates and descend onto the sand and arena.
The walls close around him as though a tomb and Fillif is left with no place to hide and nowhere that he could flee. Setting eyes upon Ranef he gives a salute with his wooden toothpick before offering one last wager "Ranef... if I manage to slap your arse, you owe me a drink."
"My friend," the big man replies in a wounded tone, "we drink together afterward regardless." He has armed himself with a pair of wooden swords, which he holds ready a bit gracelessly in either hand.
Phil can hear the other gladiators up in the stands making bets amongst themselves, not on the outcome of the match but on how long it will last. The pair of pirates reappears in the far gate to watch with interest, the loser leaning rather heavily against the stone archway and still seeming to have a hard time focusing his vision. Akron takes up a supervisory position between the two combatants. "Practice match now, men," he says with a tone of warning in his voice. "We don't want any lasting harm done. Either man calls for quarter, it's given, and if I step in, it's weapons down. You both ready? Fight!"
Phil strains his ears to see if he can pick up what is being said in the stands as far as betting and odds go...
Perception:
...calling out over sand without turning his head muttering a prayer to the savored sting under his breath and hoping that he won't be departing poor as well as bludgeoned and bloodied.
Round 1:
When Akron calls for the fray to begin, Phillip reacts with the startled jump of a frightened rabbit. While his right hand brandishes his club in wobbly circles of threat, his left is busy at his side. Fingers tracing a design upon his thigh as he mumbles "Eu preferiría criterio de valor" striking an exaggerated fencers pose when he finishes and he feels his muscles tense with nascent power, club sword held forward and left hand held floppily raised in a novice's en garde with a wink to the burly man he beckons "Tally ho Ranef, have at."
Tendal thinks for a moment. Before motioning for the lady to follow him.
"I think that I have a place to tuck you that will be out of the way and comfortable. Please follow me." he says and offers his arm.
He leads Madame Krump back downstairs and around the corner to the bar area. Instead of stopping at the bar, he leads her back to the small table in tucked in the back, where it is out of sight from the main floor.
He pulls out a chair at the table and waits for her to sit before moving back to the bar. After a moment's rummaging, he returns with a bottle and and a wineglass.
"Here we are. This is a nice vintage too. Its rather newish, but the winery is near Sandpoint, and I have to say, the gnome who runs the place knows his grapes. I say, give him a hundred years and he may be turning out some splendid varietals." he says pouring her a glass with a flourish.
"I will return momentarily Madame Krump." he says, then takes his leave and returns upstairs, where he passes back through the sitting room and into Saul's office.
"Mr. Vankaskerkin, may I speak with you a moment?" he asks quietly, so as not to disturb whomever is busily scratching out a description at the desk.
"The Krufts?" she frowns. "I don't know anyone by that name. Do you mean the Krumps? I think they run the tannery." She is able to give them directions to one of the residences out on the bluff at the mouth of the harbor.
"The Krumps, yes. Sorry. Thank you. Thank you so very much."
Braddon smiles fondly at the tea-room girl and watches her leave as he waits for Malkith to finish his tea.As they leave the tea shop heading towards the Krump's residence, Braddon starts chatting to Malkith once more. It would appear that Braddon is the type of philosopher who can only think aloud.
"A woman? She must have been working for Bott. So, we know the woman went in but we have no evidence Mistress Vishki left. And there's nowhere in there for her to hide. She must have... OH GODS!"
Braddon starts running back to Ananda's house, shouting back over his shoulder to Malkith as he does.
"I think I know where Mistress Vishki is!"
As the pair returns to the street, Malkith begins incorporating the tea-girl's information with what he already knows. He is only half listening to Braddon as the half-elf gives voice to his inner dialog, so when his companion suddenly takes off running back the way they had come, it takes Malkith a half dozen paces more to realize it. He immediately rushes to follow. As they approach Ananda's house for the second time, Malkith finally has the opportunity to ask, "What is going on?"
Braddon rushes though the front door of the rowhouse where Malkith had conducted his reading earlier but doesn't stop. Instead he continues down the hall to the back door and slows as he reaches it. He opens it and very carefully makes his way forwards, examining every inch of ground as he does. He makes his way across the terrace and very cautiously peers over the nearest edge of the cliff.
"The impostor had to get rid of the real Mistress Vishki. She had to do it fast, before Ananda noticed anything. And there's a cliff just outside..." Braddon explains sadly.
As the two men stand on the terrace peering over the edge, Braddon suddenly feels he is being watched. Glancing back over his shoulder, he sees a tall, middle-aged man in uniform standing in the hallway of the flat, between them and the exit; behind him, a knot of Gendarmes can be seen clustered around the front door, crossbows at the ready. "Would you gentlemen care to tell me," the man in the hall asks calmly, his hand on the sword at his belt, "what you're doing in my daughter's recently-burgled residence?"
Malkith hesitates to abruptly enter the home uninvited, despite their previous intrusion. However, as Braddon dashes through the front door, the Harrower recognizes the foolishness of his hesitation. The half-elf's footfalls are easy enough to follow through the house and Malkith quickly finds him out back, peering over the cliff.
Malkith slowly approaches, dreading what he might find below. Staring solemnly into the void before them, he says, "We should notify the Gendarmes."
Malkith spins towards the house upon hearing the voice of another. Instantly recognizing the delicate predicament Braddon and he are in, the Varisian quickly opens his mouth in hopes of keeping's his companion's shut. "Herr Mescher, my name is Malkith Deraythen. My associate and I are investigating the disappearance of the Mistress Vishki. I apologize for our unannounced presence at your daughter's residence; Herr Hurst," he gestures to Braddon, "can be rather hasty and rash when a genuine thought comes to him. They so rarely do." He holds his hands out to the side to indicate he is not armed.
"Indeed?" he quirks an eyebrow. "An associate of Mistress Vishki's? Then I'm most interested to speak with you. Lubbertown has proved singularly uncooperative. The question becomes, do we speak here like civilized people, or must I take you into custody and haul you to Devil's Fork for our conversation to take place?" He takes note of Malkith's empty hands and turns his gaze questioningly toward Braddon to see if he intends to be belligerent.
"Mistress Vishki's disappearance is of an interest to me," Malkith nods. Although he does not look at Braddon, it's clear that the edge in his voice is directed at him, "There is no need for physical altercations. I believe the men at your disposal would be better served at another task."
Malkith calmly returns to the house. With an inviting expression, he politely gestures for Herr Mescher to join him in the room where he had conducted his harrow reading earlier. "If Herr Hurst's conclusion is correct, your efforts with my kin are likely wasted as it is doubtful anyone in Lubbertown knows of Mistress Vishki's whereabouts."
Braddon's eye passes quickly over the man and the crossbowmen and he shows no signs of hostility whatsoever.
"I think she was pushed over the cliff," he says glumly to the leader. "Did your guards check the cliff when they trashed this place yesterday?"
He follows Malkith into the house, ignoring the guards.
"We need to get some tea too if they've left us any."
Many voices clamor from the gallery to take Phil up on his bets, although he finds himself dependent on the gladiators' sense of honor to pay up should he win, as he doesn't take his attention away from his opponent to verify who has agreed to what.
Ranef starts to move forward with a cry of satisfaction that quickly turns into a grunt of confusion as Phillip speeds away. "Fillif, you are supposed to be chasing the rabbit; the rabbit is not supposed to be chasing you!" Despite his size, the big man somewhat surprisingly manages to keep up with the halfling, but with his magically-enhanced speed Phil is ready by the time Ranef has drawn within range, Akron jogging alongside with a frown.
Merda, he's a quick one... can't stand still as I'll end up getting pasted. Phillip's hair flies unkempt around his face as he whirls and spins in the sand eyes flitting around for some means to hope he can survive another fifteen seconds before Ranef has means to crush his skull. A glance southward to the crates gives him a life bouy of hope and plan, which he clings to like a drowning man.
Feigning a lunge forward, Phil instead pushes off his front foot and launches his small form backwards spinning as he runs a short circle around and close to Akron before speeding southwards towards the crates. Upon the run south he hops from one foot to another in a zig-zagging manner evocative of a hare on the run from a wolf. Puffing as even the short amount of exercise begins to tighten his lungs he banters "Must think like rabbit to catch one Ranef, or run like gypsy hound"
Arriving at the Southern wall of the arena Fillif seeks to put the bulk of the makeshift stairs between himself and Ranef - so as to block the latter's ability to come straight at him with murderous intent.
General Mescher points to two of his Gendarmes and sends them to peer over the terrace; two remain at the front entrance; and two wait for him to follow Malkith and Braddon into Mistress Vishki's room and then take up watchful posts at either side of the door. He turns up one of the overturned chairs, whisks the tails of his uniform coat out of the way with practiced precision, and sits down, motioning to the other two to follow suit.
"Over the cliff, eh? Haven't had any reports of a body being found from the traffic on the road down to the docks, but it's always possible she fell where she couldn't be seen from the road. I'll have it looked into. Now," he fixes a piercing gaze first on Malkith, then on Braddon, "you gentlemen seem to know a great deal about what went on here on Sunday. Suppose you tell me why that is and what your connection is to Mistress Vishki?"
Meanwhile, back at the Gold Goblin, Tendal is pleased to see, as he escorts Madame Krump to a more genteel waiting area that progress is being made at putting the casino floor back into an operable state. Only the south end near the cashier's cage and Larur's office yet remains uncarpeted.
Outside, Gris whiles away several hot minutes, increasingly wishing he had not lost his wide-brimmed hat as the sun beats down and glints off the gilded goblin at the center of the courtyard. He is relieved when Sam and another of the carpet layers emerge from the casino and head down the veranda steps. "Ready to carry the carpet in, sir," Sam calls cheerfully. "Then we'll go pick up some lunch and eat on your porch, sir; the gentleman dwarf says you'll be providing ale, thank you kindly. Should be done and have your furnishings back in place well before sunset; you saved us some time by helping to retrieve the last roll of carpet early, sir."
Between the two journeymen, the roll is easily lifted onto their two sets of shoulders. Gristav walks alongside to steady the roll up the stairs but isn't really needed. Coming into the shaded interior, he spies Larur over near the bar, still glowering protectively over the proceedings. The dwarf nods him over to his side. "Be glad when the work's done," he mutters hoarsely. "I'm all on edge waiting for something bad to happen."
"Mr. Vankaskerkin, may I speak with you a moment?" he asks quietly, so as not to disturb whomever is busily scratching out a description at the desk.
Bojasc glares a little at Tendal's intrusion, but Saul looks up mildly from his desk. "Of course. You'll excuse me a moment, Mr. Stubbs." He gets up and crosses the room to join Tendal by the door. "What is it, lad?" he murmurs. "Can we talk here, or does the matter require more privacy?"
"Then I won't point out how much more effective it would be to let the work be finished before playing a next card.", Gristav smirks at Larur. "They'll be out to get their lunch. Then expected done before sunset. What's next? And when's?", the half-elf asks, clearly enough for the wit behind Larur's wince.
The dwarf shoots Gristav a look that lets him know how unwelcome his musings are. "What's next indeed? I told the halfling: Dwarves don't belong in the revenge business. Someone blacks your eye, you black his and get back to business. This whole revenge angle is elven any way you look at it: months and years of tunneling around a vein before you choose to strike it. Waste of damned time. Suppose you want an ale too while I'm drawing mugs?" Although his tone sounds a little belligerent, Gris knows it to be Larur's version of a friendly invitation.
In Zincher's Arena, Phil darts behind the crates and barrels by which he climbed down into the arena and enjoys a brief moment to grab a few breaths before having to put his game face back on as Ranef comes around the makeshift stairs, Akron jogging behind him and looking a little grim. The gladiators above in the stands cheer on their stablemate, thinking that the halfling is at last cornered before they're out some gold.
"And what does the rabbit do when it is trapped? It turns on its pursuer with teeth and claws!" Ranef urges with more encouragement than accuracy of metaphor. "Come, Fillif, we fight as friends; strike a blow!" He holds his wooden blades wide, exposing his massive torso to serve as the halfing's target.
Feigning resignation for just a moment Fillif winks at Ranef before briefly touching his left hand to where his holy symbol is hidden beneath cloth. "Preguiza" and Ranef is briefly distracted as his thoughts are cluttered with wisps of Calistrian diversion that cause his focus to grow momentarily indistinct.
With a smirk and grin, Phillip lunges forward - though instead of striking, he ducks straight through Ranef's planted legs and out the other side. Laughing as he does so and cheers "Through the rabbit hole and out again Ranef, you should pay more attention to what you let betwixt your legs" slapping the big man on the arse as he speeds through and away again. He wheels to the right and uses the helpful crates once more as shield against a straight attack against him.
Stopping at a short distance, he plants his own feet and beckons with left hand, right held low and ready. Counting out the his fingers as he extends them he speaks clearly "One, two, three and now four is the count. I've played enough... I'll not run again." smiling as he thinks he's done enough for the first wager... and readies himself for hopefully making good on the second.
When Ranef rounds the crates, Phillip brings his right arm forward underarm and releases the makeshift sword underarm as a missile. Calling upon a last skerrick of halfling fortune he focuses on aim more than force, knowing that all he needs is a touch...
Ranged Throw: for
"It would be simple enough for me to say that I go where the Fates send me. My path, in this case, seems to have intertwined with that of your daughter's for the moment." Malkith gives a knowing smile, "But that is not sufficient for a man such as yourself, is it?
"We believe that an individual involved in Mistress Vishki's disappearance is also connected to a separate matter that Herr Hurst and myself are currently attempting to resolve. Since our primary investigations are yielding little in the way of progress, we had hoped that finding Mistress Vishki would bear more fruit."
"I'm her grandson. Nobody's meant to know." Braddon points at his ears.
"I arrived from Magnimar a few days ago and came to visit, but the door was ajar and the place was empty. Someone had been through Ananda's stuff and stolen her necklace. It wasn't Gramma because she knew where it was and wouldn't have had to tear the place apart searching." Braddon glares accusingly at a guard before continuing.
"So someone impersonated Gramma and poisoned Ananda. Since Gramma isn't here, it makes sense that she was gotten rid of, no doubt as soon as the impostor entered the house. To avoid Ananda noticing, that would need to be done quickly and quietly. Gag her and toss her over the cliff. Then come back, brew the poisoned tea and take it up to Ananda. Gramma didn't buy her tea from the tea room across the road, so maybe the impostor brought their own. By getting a sample, we may be able to track it down. One witness saw a figure suspiciously like Lil Scarlett being let into the place by Gramma. Gramma wouldn't do that unless she was enchanted or bewitched. No one has seen her since."
Braddon chokes back a sob. "She's just a little old lady. She shouldn't be hurt just because someone wants to send you a message."
"If you want them brought to justice, I'm only too happy to help you, sir," Braddon finishes fiercely.
The dwarf shoots Gristav a look that lets him know how unwelcome his musings are. "What's next indeed? I told the halfling: Dwarves don't belong in the revenge business. Someone blacks your eye, you black his and get back to business. This whole revenge angle is elven any way you look at it: months and years of tunneling around a vein before you choose to strike it. Waste of damned time. Suppose you want an ale too while I'm drawing mugs?" Although his tone sounds a little belligerent, Gris knows it to be Larur's version of a friendly invitation.
"My friend", Gristav begins formatically, but is caught by the words, and continues with more moist-eyed heart than the dwarf would want, but sufficient steel in the half-whispered half-elven voice, "My dear friend. When other eyes are as black as yours, when they cough contracts to sift silver for their survivors, that will be eye for eye. I aim we strike our blows more swiftly than they struck theirs, but only when we are ready. Sometimes, I'm reliably informed by a certain dwarf, the vein is the brace, and taking it soonest leaves nothing at all. One oughtn't argue with a dwarf over mining. Nor a witchling over wiles." Gristav steadied, and smiled, marking his scored point with a raised brow, and stilled Larur's hand at the tap with his own, laid upon it. And spoke again, finally and clearly, "Nor with the Garund, about what to do with a hot day. I'll be icing tea with lunch."
"What can I bring you from the kitchen?"
As Ranef rounds the stack of crates, Phil releases his faux-dagger. The weight is a little off from what he's used to -- he has the feeling that if it were his own steel blade, he could have buried it deeply in the big man's flesh -- but it flies true and rebounds off his opponent's bicep with a satisfying thwack, leaving a red welt behind. Akron circles around to the side to get a better view on the proceedings.
"Aha, Fillif!" Ranef grins broadly, seemingly as pleased with Phil's throw as the halfling himself is. "Now we are fighting!" Shaking off the hit, he steps forward but doesn't immediately swing his wooden sword. "Come, you are unarmed. Draw your second weapon, yes? I will wait."
Larur sighs, resigned to the iced tea. "Bakers brought some bread this morning, and there should be some cold meat and pickled vegetables left in the larder. Makes a fine enough meal for a bachelor, eh?" he grins, filling a frothy mug for himself as well as enough for the carpeters.
Larur sighs, resigned to the iced tea. "Bakers brought some bread this morning, and there should be some cold meat and pickled vegetables left in the larder. Makes a fine enough meal for a bachelor, eh?" he grins, filling a frothy mug for himself as well as enough for the carpeters.
"Since footfall in Riddleport, I've had a stein of fish stew, and a muffin. I'll not be settling for the rights of a bachelor.", Gristav grinned. "But I'll not tax your larder overmuch; I've a week of trail food that will not keep. Two cheeses... (love a good cheese), small breads, jams, - I've some of that blueberry, remember? - two dozens, less three, of the cheroot-like sausage, though, they would keep. And a brace of sausage-like..." Gristav stumbled in his dancing diction, "...che...".
Suddenly somber, Gristav left the taproom, bound for his room, where the paired bags and the discussed contents waited. {Damn fool! Damn, Damn, Fool!}, he raged at himself, a silent striping in the hag's voice that did not even distract from the sense of Larur's loss. Of the loss of Larur. By inches. By breaths!
His vision becoming unclear, Gristav stumbled again, over a scrap of carpet that had every right to be where it was, hastily hurried aside for the incoming new roll, which he stumbled into.
It was too much, and his staff came into his hand, the left, and his right met the staff as the left circled, and the innocent carpet and the casino greatroom resounded with the of the ashen staff's slapping impact. And again. And again. And, again. And... again.
It was not enough. It was only something. Instead of nothing, to be done.
His exertions having cleared much of his vision, though little of his gloom, Gristav proceeded to his room.
The general's eyes flicker from Malkith to Braddon and back again. "Either of those stories might be true," he concedes, "but you cannot both be looking into a separate incident and seeking justice for his dear little old grandmother." His eyes swivel suddenly back to Braddon. "Who is no older than I, at that. Biologically possible, I suppose, given hot blood and low morals. I'm far more interested in the fact that you know exactly what was stolen and what left, not to mention what element of my daughter's meal was drugged. Now why is that?" He glances back at Malkith, his gaze not as steely as the one with which he pinioned the half-elf. "And this other incident, it was here in Riddleport or on the road? What makes you think the two are connected?"
"Have you ever hired Lil?"
"Lil Scarlet. Tiefling in the employ of Shorafa Pamodae at her house of worship. Played an unfortunate role in absentia in a very public murder in the streets of Free-Coin some time ago. I have not." He lingers over the firm denial. "Feel free to question Shorafa; she will tell you I have never been in her place of business on anything other than official business. Now, if you will answer my question about your intimate knowledge of the crime and further explain what Lil Scarlet has to do with Mistress Vishki and my daughter?"
Top of Round 4:
Satisfied that the showing has been sufficient, Phil is true to his word and plants his feet. Drawing his second blade Phillip is true to his word and doesn't seek to move or run any further. With a deep breath he thrusts forward...
Short-club: for
...and does about as well as could be expected. With a slight shrug of the shoulders he quips "Time for the wolf's lunge?" and readies himself for the expected blow. He faces it with serious demeanor and does not flinch, despite the disparity of skill evident.
Phillip steels himself for a blow that doesn't come. Instead, he feels the swish of air resulting from twin swings that utterly fail to make contact as they fly over his head. Perhaps Ranef is unused to fighting such a Small opponent. The grumbling from the gallery resulting from the gladiators losing their bets turns into laughter, hoots, and catcalls as their stablemate whiffs. Akron winces in disgust.
Ranef seems untroubled by his failure to swat the troublesome gnat. "Come, Fillif!" he goads the halfling with a grin. "The fight is not yet complete, no?"
Phillip suspects that his opponent's lack of success might be intentional...
Sense Motive:
...but regardless his suspicion, lashes out with his pitifully small wooden weapon...
Short-club: for
...his form making a similar mockery of the sand in the arena as he speaks low enough for Akron and Ranef, but not loud enough to carry to the gallery "No need to be gentle Ranef..."