Meanwhile, Braddon takes off northward. Until he gets past the piers on the east side of the river, the road is too crowded for him to move very quickly, as he has to sidestep pedestrians and handcarts, drawing imprecations from those he jostles along the way. The Gold Goblin is not far, however; by the time he has enough open street in his sight to run, the brass dome of the casino is gleaming straight ahead of him. As he reaches the courtyard, he sees that the main entrance is still closed; rather than waste time climbing the stairs to the veranda, he jogs around to the alley and lets himself in the back way. No one is immediately evident in the kitchen area.
Phillip takes his goods and gives a nod and smile "Two Moondays, of course" as he tucks the crystal vials into his coat pocket. He looks up at Gristav and beckons him to follow outside before asking "Are you headed t'wards or away from the Goblin?"
"Hello? Anyone?"
Braddon darts straight across to the rooms and starts knocking on doors in order, making a conscious effort to not go straight to Samaritha's door.
Phillip takes his goods and gives a nod and smile "Two Moondays, of course" as he tucks the crystal vials into his coat pocket. He looks up at Gristav and beckons him to follow outside before asking "Are you headed t'wards or away from the Goblin?"
"I expect the Varisi has made report. So I am at liberty. Did you wish to coach my lunchtime loquations, or is the truth, or the shadow of it where you were confused, sufficient? We might in fact do well to return, and review. If Larur doesn't trust you, you likely have enough... What would one call it to flatter? Art? You likely have enough Art in you, to reason well from the night's report, best delivered where we can speak freely."
With a casual diffidence "If I truly thought that coaching would render a result that could be relied upon then I would be for it... but I doubt that structure would be of much use here. All I ask is that you don't lie by telling the truth... that should be simple enough yes?" flashing a neutral face and wan smile towards Gristav.
Phillip puts his feet to use and begins to wander to the South and West - which could be construed as being towards the Goblin as he continues to ask "What of the night has to do with me? I was neither party to nor wish to be entangled in your shadowed fumblings." letting Gristav's statements as to trust and art pass by un-noticed and un-mentioned.
"I actually don't understand the request. When I lie, I do it with the truth; a habit of a haunted household. But I don't propose to lie to the craftsman. I intend to explain, I believe you were confused as to my... Salinity. I would go from there to the events aboard, explaining by that account my lack of transferable insight on matters of shipwrightery. What changes would you desire in that approach?"
"If that is what you intend to say..." Phillip sighs and shrugs his shoulders in resignation "Then it would be more useful for you to not come at all. Perhaps it would be best if I reverted on price and Larur's purse became a little lighter." running his left hand through his hair and following by pursing lips and smoothing his mustache.
Allowing a couple of steps to pass in silence Phillip sighs again and continues in an almost fatherly teaching tone "There is little Art to what I do... merely the understanding of impulse and desire. Your mind is as Larur's... far too concerned with what should be said and less with what is. So I'll do you a favor for free... feel not obliged to come... I can handle Cas upon my own."
"If that is what you intend to say..." Phillip sighs and shrugs his shoulders in resignation "Then it would be more useful for you to not come at all. Perhaps it would be best if I reverted on price and Larur's purse became a little lighter." running his left hand through his hair and following by pursing lips and smoothing his mustache.
Allowing a couple of steps to pass in silence Phillip sighs again and continues in an almost fatherly teaching tone "There is little Art to what I do... merely the understanding of impulse and desire. Your mind is as Larur's... far too concerned with what should be said and less with what is. So I'll do you a favor for free... feel not obliged to come... I can handle Cas upon my own."
"No, I think I'll have to refuse that kindness, out of fear of your further misrepresenting your previous misrepresentation of me. I predict the truth to be more flattering, to us all, all we four. And I can shade it, dress it as innocent confusion, to keep your artfulness veiled, for confusion is what it was. You made a natural mistake, that a heavier purse is more worthy, you couldn't know that Larur favors his purse unstained, if not unbloodied. You then measured me perhaps unfairly, as a man willing to trade future commerce and the moral high ground for some small coin. You may trust me on this: neither I nor Larur wish it so. So, it will not be."
"You were mistaken, confused. Because that's closer to the truth than that I was ever a sailor. If you find that unflattering... well..."
"Please hear this gently, as I intend it. We've each of us had our choices taken by the other. You took my choice, involving and misrepresenting me to an innocent. And I took your choice, by refusing to become was-but-now-not-involved. We're both in earnest, working toward Larur's interest. I hope you'll trust my interpretation of his interest to be correct. Because you won't convince me that he'd prefer either grease or blood on his gold. However much you may save him."
"We can disagree on whether or not that's foolishness, so long as we agree that it's fact."
Malkith reaches up to touch Sam's cheek. Holding her face in his hand for a moment, he says, "You have nothing to fear. The night was very uneventful." Stepping back, he stifles a yawn. "We didn't find Little Scarlet, but did discover another associate of hers. The elves are keeping an eye on him, hoping to salvage what they can of the confrontation Gristav ruined for me. Since he knew my face, there wasn't much more I could do, so I figured I'd come back here.
"Gristav?" Samaritha smiles a little dryly. "I'm sure he was trying to 'help.' What did he do?"
As soon as Braddon reaches Desna's atrium, he sees Malkith and Samaritha standing in the open door of her room.
Braddon rushes forward.
"He's at the..." His voice trails off as he sees Malkith and Samaritha standing close and talking quietly. His face goes a little red, maybe from the running.
"Sorry... am I interrupting something?"
"Braddon," she smiles a welcome, "Malkith was just telling me about your night. When you weren't here this morning, I was worried. He says Lil has another accomplice? How many men can she have on a string at one time?"
"Four?" Braddon raises an eyebrow.
He glances suspiciously at Malkith, but goes on.
"Well, there was the thug leader, the scribe, us guys last night, she's not even up to a dozen yet. And maybe the harbour master."
Braddon turns to Malkith.
"I left Daynadrian watching the harbour master's office. The scribe went in there for something. I figure after he leaves, someone should go in and ask what he was there for. Someone who speaks Varisian, looks like a sailor or who can be sut... not obvious. Someone who isn't me." He grins.
"I'll help."
"Please hear this gently, as I intend it. We've each of us had our choices taken by the other. You took my choice, involving and misrepresenting me to an innocent. And I took your choice, by refusing to become was-but-now-not-involved. We're both in earnest, working toward Larur's interest."
Phillip stops walking as Gristav opens up with his diatribe of assumption and looks upon him with impassive face. Though nothing is said, nor little offered until Gristav has fully divested himself of his opinion, the magus may have noticed that while Phillip's face shows little emotion... his eyes are not as easily entombed in numbness. The pupils are narrowed and the muscles around his eyes tighten as a fire burns within them.
Pausing expectantly at the end to ensure that he does not interrupt, Phillip first runs his left hand through his hair before finally opening his mouth.... to spit upon the ground at his side. Turning back to Gristav he allows the edge of his mouth to curl into a slight smirk... though the flavor of it is more cruel than mirthful "Please hear this however you wish... as it is intended. I give not a sh1t for either your opinion nor Larur's interest at this point. I will deal with the shipwright, and my dealing of it shall not besmirch your satin white opinion of yourself or Larur... nor the shipwrights of yours."
"Walk on... I'll not be walking beside you." waiting patiently with outstretched arm towards the Goblin... and pausing for Gristav to act.
"Oh, you've taken offense? So, when you imagine that I will lie, to support your own, it is a boon you grant me? Yet when I imagine you will lie, it is an insult? I don't think we will work well on such a slope, you and I. I'm to trust of and in you, but you won't trust me? Is that your cost? And then you declare yourself uncaring of Larur's interest? Are you are so easily swayed? But don't think I imagine myself better than you. I'm better than no man, except, hopefully, the man I was previously." Looking at Philip's outstretched arm, Gristav shook his head. "You go ahead, I've just realized I have duties elsewhere."
Gristav walks off, with a glance at the Cyphergate, and a quickening step.
Phillip adds no further words, nor action to suggest that any of Gristav's words were even heard or had any emotive impact. He watches Gristav part from sight before stretching slightly, sighing and shaking his head "Oft the rope is run merely to see another hung rather than make use."
Phil then sets off towards the shipwright's, intent on seeing and talking to two if plausible.
Phillip has just discovered to his displeasure that, while intending to part ways, Gristav's steps seem to be wending in the same direction as his own when a wrenching metallic screech erupts concurrently from rooftops all around them. A quick glance around reveals that, despite an evident fetid breeze off the river to their west, every weathervane in sight is straining out toward the Cyphergate as if a gale were blowing directly out into the harbor.
They have barely noted this strange fact when they hear a sudden outcry from the wharves, men simultaneously calling out in alarm. Ahead of them on the road, sailors who had been milling about with varying senses of purpose all immediately break into a run for the piers.
"Stay here, Braddon tells Samaritha. "We'll check it out. We need to get back to Dayn anyway."
Braddon races back out to the street and starts heading for Daynadrian.
Gristav casts Detect Magic, and then follows the running sailors.
Phillip is driven to pause by the screech and his immediate reaction is to surge to the side of the street and take cover. Watching as the mass of people charge past him he waits for the street to be safe for those that stand lower than the eyeline of most before risking the cobbles. Why is it the impulse of all to run headlong towards strangeness and danger... Nevertheless, he maintains his heading towards the wharf district after the initial rush has dissipated.
Braddon exits the Goblin and heads back to the south toward the harbormaster's office. As he runs, he notices knots of people standing outside buildings pointing and staring up at the roofs, which draws his attention to the misaligned weathervanes. As he gets in sight of the corner where he left Daynadrian, the elf looks relieved to see his return. "Kio okazas?!" he shouts.
Gristav rushes southward down another road, his active arcane sense swimming a bit giddily as his boots pound the cobblestones. He emerges onto the boardwalk from between two clapboard buildings, expecting to see ... what exactly? A monster emerging from the sea? The harbor in flames? Black sails on the horizon? Instead, to his lubber's eyes, he sees nothing out of the ordinary at all, although every sailor in sight is running for his ship. Those already aboard are loosing ropes or lining up along the rails with long poles. The boardwalk is emptying quickly as sailors gain their ships; he notices landside observers leaning anxiously out of the upper windows of the buildings at his back. To the east, where the shoreline curls outward along the foot of the rocky ridge, he spies a familiar-looking ship, the Flying Cloud.
Phillip patters along at a more leisurely pace, having let those who would rush past him do so. Ahead he sees the long open workshop of Cas Cazynsik's place of business and, past it, the harbor itself, the docks themselves near abandoned but every ship bristling with ready crewmen.
Phillip continues to warily approach Cazynsik's workshop, with eye alert to danger... though as yet he cannot ken anything that could be construed as such.
Gristav sprints for the familiar ship. Approaching, he shouts, "Ahoy, the Cloud! A hand offered if you'll have it! All for an explanation!"
As he gets in sight of the corner where he left Daynadrian, the elf looks relieved to see his return. "Kio okazas?!" he shouts.
Braddon starts at the Elvish cry.
"Ne estis fato mi!" he shouts automatically. He looks around guiltily, but his mother is nowhere to be seen.He frowns at Daynadrian and slips back into common.
"I don't know. We heard the noise and came running. Are you okay?"
Braddon peers over at the nearby tower. "Has anyone come out of the Harbourmaster's office?"
Suddenly a smile appears on Braddon's face. "Hey, now's a great time to check it out."
"Has anyone come out of the Harbourmaster's office?"
Suddenly a smile appears on Braddon's face. "Hey, now's a great time to check it out."
Dayn shakes his head. "I think I saw some movement on the roof a few moments after the shouting started. Maybe they've gone up to get a better view?" At Braddon's suggestion, he shrugs with a grin. "I'm game if you are. If anyone's in there, we're tourists asking what all the excitement's about?"
No one pays them any mind as they approach the tower. The door opens easily, revealing a single round room lit by an oil lamp in a wall sconce. A large desk sits near the center with a battered but comfortable-looking chair behind it and two roughly-hewn stools set before it. A cabinet rather similar to the one in Larur's office which holds the keys to the Goblin's rooms hangs between two of the small windows. Behind the desk, a rope ladder climbs the wall to a wooden trap door in the stone ceiling. The room is unoccupied and the surface of the desk clear save for an unlit candlestick and a few ratty ink quills.
Gristav sprints for the familiar ship. Approaching, he shouts, "Ahoy, the Cloud! A hand offered if you'll have it! All for an explanation!"
As Gristav nears the familiar ship, some familiar faces glance up from their tasks, startled by his hail. "It's the lubber." "What's he doing here?" "Get him off the pier!"
A woman appears among the men along the railing. "We've shipped the gangway," she calls to Gristav. "Can you climb a rope?"
Phillip continues to warily approach Cazynsik's workshop, with eye alert to danger... though as yet he cannot ken anything that could be construed as such.
Phil sees no activity around the shipyard as he approaches, so he heads for the long workshop itself. Stopping just inside the threshold of the large open doors, he surveys the interior. The place looks abandoned, but then a shout comes from far above his head. "Phil!" He looks up sharply and sees Olin and Ewart along with some human carpenters sitting on a high catwalk that runs around the interior of the structure near the roof. Olin waves him toward a switchbacking staircase at the far end of the building. "Climb up! Hurry!"
Phil's brow furrows in confusion, before he shrugs and moves to comply with the request made. Moving with a steady yet unhurried pace he ascends the staircase and makes for Olin and Ewart. When he arrives he queries "What's the need for height?"
"Shouldn't there be like, books and notes and stuff?" Braddon is whispering but not too sure why.
He makes his way straight to the comfortable chair behind the table and sits down in it. Taking a moment to settle in the position, he starts searching round for drawers, notes, quills and items, under and around the desk, within easy reach. He then makes for the cabinet, looking up to see if the height of the roof inside, matches that outside, or if there's another floor or two.
As Gristav nears the familiar ship, some familiar faces glance up from their tasks, startled by his hail. "It's the lubber." "What's he doing here?" "Get him off the pier!"
A woman appears among the men along the railing. "We've shipped the gangway," she calls to Gristav. "Can you climb a rope?"
"Appears I'd best try!?", Gristav reasons aloud, the ribald thought of the inverse of her question bringing a cavalier grin to his face. Gristav wastes no time, moving as close to the ship as the pier allows, and tossing his staff onto the deck. By the time a rope's been readied, he's sheltered the wrapped Qadiriennes in one removed boot, and thrown it and it's mate across, as well.
"A kiss for luck, I'd take, as tradition!", Gristav goofed, readying for the rope. Her expression wordlessly called him a fool, across the yards between them. "Your credit's good!", he grinned, and, catching and tauting the rope around his arm, leaped and set to climbing...
"Shouldn't there be like, books and notes and stuff?" Braddon is whispering but not too sure why.
Daynadrian shrugs. "Check the drawers," he suggests, leaving the door just ajar and taking up a position where he can peer out and give advance warning if anyone else is about to join them in the office.
Braddon judges that the trap door leads to a floor above, the one with arrow slits, and assumes that a similar trap door in that level would allow access to the crenellated rooftop. The drawers of the desk reveal nothing that seems relevant to the search for Lil Scarlet: some half-dried-up vials of ink, a pouch of chewing tobacco and one full of some sort of roasted nut, a brass knife, a handful of used quills, and some inexpert erotic scrimshaw. A large bottom drawer on one side of the desk is locked, as is the cabinet between the small tinted panes of glass that serve as windows.
Gristav wastes no time, moving as close to the ship as the pier allows, and tossing his staff onto the deck. By the time a rope's been readied, he's sheltered the wrapped Qadiriennes in one removed boot, and thrown it and it's mate across, as well.
"A kiss for luck, I'd take, as tradition!", Gristav goofed, readying for the rope. Her expression wordlessly called him a fool, across the yards between them. "Your credit's good!", he grinned, and, catching and tauting the rope around his arm, leaped and set to climbing...
As Gristav's stockinged feet leave the surface of the pier, he briefly harbors an adolescent fear of looking foolish and dropping unceremoniously into the drink like the bearded trespasser; the next moment, his weight is swinging at the end of the rope and he is clambering up like a born sailor -- or at least not like a lubber. As he nears the scuppers, rope-calloused hands reach down to seize his forearms and lift him over the railing onto the deck.
By the time he has retrieved his staff and boots, the woman sailor has already recoiled her rope and is halfway into the rigging. "Hold onto the mast, and stay out of the way," she calls down. "And keep a weather eye out for anyone swept out into the harbor after the run up."
Moving with a steady yet unhurried pace he ascends the staircase and makes for Olin and Ewart. When he arrives he queries "What's the need for height?"
"Maybe none," Ewart shrugs as Phil arrives at the top of the stairs, "but better safe than swimming, eh?" The pair of halflings move back to the harbor side of the structure, where the workmen are gathered around an open ventilation window at the height of the catwalk. Their tools are stacked near them, and the general air is one of eager anticipation. Olin and Ewart sit, letting their legs dangle off the edge of the catwalk, and motion for Phil to join them. The window offers a panoramic view of the eastern side of Riddleport Harbor; the activity on-board the ships in port contrasts with the usually-busy wharves, now deserted. Phil can see other spectators peering nervously out the second-story windows of the harborfront taverns.
Phil deigns not to sit, but stands and watches... curious enough to hold his tongue for now.
By the time he has retrieved his staff and boots, the woman sailor has already recoiled her rope and is halfway into the rigging. "Hold onto the mast, and stay out of the way," she calls down. "And keep a weather eye out for anyone swept out into the harbor after the run up."
Gristav nodded, to confirm he'd heard, and complied while he set to understanding. Something drew the vanes... And the sea? And so it would sweep in? A memory of a Tienish woodcut, and the continued waver in the weft of the world, added factors to his math, but he'd really have preferred an explanation. Or at least, that kiss.
He smirked, and settled into lubber's watch against the mast. His expression closed as he opened all his senses...
From Phil's high vantage point, he has an excellent view. The sea is sitting at low tide, as is evident from the exposed striation on the rock of the eastern shore. As he watches, the water level begins visibly to rise; within moments, the waterline has regained the high-tide mark and keeps rising.
Aboard the Flying Cloud, the woman in the rigging cries, "Here it comes, mates!" The next moment, the ship rolls, the stern lifting first and drifting landward, then the bow rising as well. The sailors along the railings set their poles and boarding pikes against the piers and pilings, their muscles straining against the swell of the sea to prevent the ship from being ground against the wharves. Gristav waits for the concomitant ebb, but the water just keeps rising. In a moment, it is hissing up between the planks of the pier he just leaped from; in another few moments, the pier is submerged, and the unbound sea streams across the boardwalk and foams through the doors of the shops and taverns on the waterfront.
Inside the harbormaster's office, Braddon has just finished sifting through the contents of the open desk drawers when, at the door, Daynadrian's eyes widen. "Braddon!" he shouts in a sharp warning, before taking one wide stride toward the desk and another up onto its surface. Behind him, saltwater begins to spill into the tower beneath the door and surges across the stone floor.
Braddon notices the water spilling in and pays it no mind. "Did somebody break a water barrel?"
"While you're up there, can you open this cabinet?" he asks Daynadrian. "I was hoping to find a record of booked passage or something. Maybe in that lower draw?"
As he looks down at the lower draw he notices the water still rising and stands up on the chair, then steps onto the desk beside Daynadrian.
"Where's it coming from? Did we set off a trap?" Braddon glances at the doorway and windows, assessing which would break easier, then realises the door was left ajar.
"Tidal wave?" he asks confused.
"If it get's too high, I'm swimming outside and holding onto the edge of the building. I don't fancy being trapped inside if this doesn't stop."
He pulls his rope from his backpack and ties one end around himself, giving the other end to Daynadrian.
"We can tie ourselves to something if needs be."
...the woman in the rigging cries, "Here it comes, mates!" The next moment, the ship rolls, the stern lifting first and drifting landward, then the bow rising as well. The sailors along the railings set their poles and boarding pikes against the piers and pilings, their muscles straining against the swell of the sea to prevent the ship from being ground against the wharves. Gristav waits for the concomitant ebb, but the water just keeps rising. In a moment, it is hissing up between the planks of the pier he just leaped from; in another few moments, the pier is submerged, and the unbound sea streams across the boardwalk and foams through the doors of the shops and taverns on the waterfront.
It wasn't here, but they knew what it would do, so it's happened before. It will subside... But how suddenly?
Gristav, at the mast, did what he could to secure himself against a sudden drop of the deck beneath him. If he was to help in the aftermath, he had to not become another of the swept away.
Dayn gives the half-elf a withering glance. "You're asking me to pick a lock in a room that's filling up with water?" he asks, tying the other end of the rope around his own waist before extracting the thieves' tools from his backpack. "Fine, but you'd best decide what you want to do if I can't manage it in time: smash the cabinet and to hell with subtlety, or forget whatever might be in there and swim for it." He glances down at the water level, still slowly rising; one of the wooden chairs is beginning to float. "Can you swim?" he asks a little anxiously as he stands on the edge of the desk and begins to probe the lock.
From his perch on the catwalk, Phil watches as the sailors below try to prevent their ships from scraping the wharves or ramming into each other as the wave pushes them toward the shore. The shipwright's men watch their struggle with the air of men sitting in the stands at the arena while men fight for their lives on the sand. "There's the Strumpet caught her stern against the pier. That'll be some hull work." "Aye, the Strumpet's undermanned. Half her crew's 'worshipping' at the Calistrian temple and the other half sleeping off last night's tavern-going." "Captain Milton's never a one to keep discipline in a crew on shore leave, and it's going to cost him dear this time." Phillip is perhaps more interested in the rising waterline which has lapped almost to the door of the workshop beneath them.
"Don't ease off, mates," the woman in the rigging of the Cloud calls down to the rest of the crew. "It'll run up farther before it draws back." Gristav notices that she is now directing her gaze inland rather than seaward, watching to see how high the water will climb before the ebb begins. Having little else to do at the moment but keep his feet and observe, he sees John Casey and a few other familiar faces from his night aboard, but neither Quincy Dawkins nor Captain Creesy are in evidence on the ship. Apart from the woman in the rigging and a halfling doing his part along the railing, the dozen or so crew aboard seem to be human men.
Phil finds it slightly alarming that Olin and Ewart are concerned more with banality of the flesh than the fact that the sea itself is rising up to swallow them. He keeps his eyes downward... wondering how high indeed the waters might rise...
Braddon looks back to Daynadrian and rolls his eyes. "Can I swim? My father was a sailor. My mother's great aunt was a water elf. I'm half fish, you know."
Braddon looks uncertainly at the rising water, then at the nearby door.
"Look, if you can't pick it then don't worry about it. If it looks like we've done the place over already, that'll just make it harder if we have to talk to the harbour master guy. He's a sailor, a few gold should have him talking up a storm. I wonder if Saul will let us claim bribes as expenses?"
Braddon eyes the rising waters. "Besides, we don't have to swim, just float and hang on to the building. Though I don't want to float to the top of the building and meet the harbour master and the scribe. Still, there are worse ways to meet the harbour master. I don't think the scribe saw me. But just the same, best to hold ourselves back in reserve and let Malkith and Gristav harass him until they're out of options. Then we can come in and beat him up. Maybe pretend to represent another crime lord so he runs to them for help. Play good guard, bad guard. What about you? Can you swim?"
"What about you? Can you swim?"
"I've swum in a pond," Dayn replies, eyeing the water lapping against the desk a little nervously. "Never in the sea. Certainly not in a tower." He mutters an oath under his breath as his lockpick clatters and skids out of the keyhole on the cabinet. "Could we not chat right now?" he asks a bit tensely, refocusing his attention on the lock.
While the carpenters admire the amount of business they can expect out in the harbor, Phillip's gaze is drawn to the floor far beneath his feet. The sea hesitates at the doorstep, as if struck by a sudden attack of manners, then, emboldened, spills over onto the wooden planking. It quickly spreads out to explore to every corner of the workshop and then finds its way to the door on the opposite side of the building to cascade down to the river. It would seem that the entire spit of land on the east side of the mouth of the Velashu is on its way to being submerged.
On board the Flying Cloud, the men shift positions along the railing as the sea continues to push the boat toward the waterfront. Gristav can virtually look the men in the second floor of the tavern across the flooded pier in the eye. One wag has extended a fishing pole out the window and is sitting blithely waiting for a nibble. "Steady, mates," the woman in the rigging encourages the rest of the crew. "Can't last much longer. Lubber!" she calls down to Gristav sharply. "When the sea draws back, it'll take whatever it can with it. The men will be busy looking after the ship; you watch for anyone getting swept out into the harbor. If you see someone, shout or throw a rope; don't try to be a hero. No point in two men drowning."
Inside the harbormaster's office, the water has risen over the top of the desk and is lapping at the soles of the men's boots when Daynadrian gives a cry of triumph. "Koro!" Tossing his lockpicks quickly back into his pack, he opens the cabinet and frowns. "Letters?" He splashes to one side, so Braddon can see pigeon-holes, a half-dozen of which sport folded and sealed papers. The encroaching sea is about three feet deep in the room now; approximately half the doorway is underwater.
"Letters? Maybe the scribe is trying to contact his whore."
Braddon pulls out a handful of papers and hands them to Daynadrian. "Check these."
Braddon grabs a handful himself and sifts through them. "The scribe may have his own hole. Return the others. Actually, Lil may have one too. Maybe under another name. Maybe not if the harbourmaster is the only one who uses this. It'd probably only cost her a night of pleasure. A hole for a hole." Braddon's snigger ends with a piglike snort.
"If you get a likely looking one, wet the seal and try and open it so it looks like water damage. If we strike gold, we should probably take it as evidence. One or two missing letters won't be noticed for a while."
He glances down at the rising water. "Check the bottom ones first."
On board the Flying Cloud, ...the men shift positions along the railing as the sea continues to push the boat toward the waterfront. Gristav can virtually look the men in the second floor of the tavern across the flooded pier in the eye. One wag has extended a fishing pole out the window and is sitting blithely waiting for a nibble. "Steady, mates," the woman in the rigging encourages the rest of the crew. "Can't last much longer. Lubber!" she calls down to Gristav sharply. "When the sea draws back, it'll take whatever it can with it. The men will be busy looking after the ship; you watch for anyone getting swept out into the harbor. If you see someone, shout or throw a rope; don't try to be a hero. No point in two men drowning."
"Acknowledged, Mistress Bosun. Watchful, Cautious. And by the way, I am Gristav."
While the carpenters admire the amount of business they can expect out in the harbor, Phillip's gaze is drawn to the floor far beneath his feet. The sea hesitates at the doorstep, as if struck by a sudden attack of manners, then, emboldened, spills over onto the wooden planking. It quickly spreads out to explore to every corner of the workshop and then finds its way to the door on the opposite side of the building to cascade down to the river. It would seem that the entire spit of land on the east side of the mouth of the Velashu is on its way to being submerged.
Phil looks up and around with focused alarm, making sure that he kens the easiest way to a window or out from the eaves just in case. Other than that, as far as he is able he maneuvers himself nearer to the stairs and watches the water. Thinking to himself If the waters recede... who knows what they might drag out...
Furrowing his brow, he racks his brain to think of whether he knows of a jeweler or merchant of valuables nearby...
Knowledge Local:
Malkith glances at Samaritha and then to Braddon. As the half-elf dashes towards the doors, the Varisian turns back to Sam, "Wait here." He rushes to follow Braddon out of the casino.
As Braddon continues to run into the streets of Riddleport, Malkith pauses outside the building's doors. He looks about for any immediate danger or signs of trouble. By the time he's sure the Golden Goblin isn't in imminent danger, the harrower has lost sight of Braddon. With a last thorough survey of the area, he returns to Samaritha.
"I haven't got a clue as to what that was," he says, "I lost track of Braddon on the street. Only the Fates know where he may be running off to now." He puts his hand on her arm reassuringly, "I'm sure he'll be capable of handling whatever it is he's chasing. Otherwise, I'm sure he'll forget what he was running after soon enough and wander on back."
She laughs obligingly, but it doesn't chase the worry from her eyes. "Last night, Braddon asked if Riddleport is always this exciting. Something's different since you all arrived ... or perhaps it was already underway, and I just wasn't moving in the right circles to be aware of it. Still," she pauses, "the Fates sent you here for a reason, Malkith. There's definitely something portentous going on here."
Thankful that the sconce holding the oil lamp is high on the wall, Braddon and Daynadrian fumble quickly through the folded papers in the cubbyholes. Some seem to be outgoing letters waiting for a ship headed in the right direction: Kalsgard, Nisroch, Corentyn. A few bear a name and the designation Riddleport, having arrived by ship and now waiting for the addressee to come claim them. One stands out, however, due to both the cleanliness of the paper and the crispness of its folds; it has neither traveled from hand to dirty hand nor sat long in the damp air of the stone tower. Sealed with a gobbet of wax still slightly warm to the touch, it is addressed to Lyle Vermeil, Teeth of Araska.
The sea is now pooling above their ankles as they stand atop the submerged desk, and Braddon is discovering uncomfortably that his new boots are not watertight, when the wooden stools that have been clunking arrhythmically against each other on the top of the tide make a sudden swerve toward the open door. The same moment, both Braddon and Daynadrian feel a sudden tugging against their lower legs; the water is starting to rush out of the tower but seems intent on upsetting their footing and taking them with it back into the harbor.
Daynadrian, unprepared for the abrupt reversal of the tide, loses his footing and falls off the desk into the retreating water.
"Acknowledged, Mistress Bosun. Watchful, Cautious. And by the way, I am Gristav."
She spares a moment to look down at him with a faint smirk. "Suppose it's an improvement on 'lubber,'" she admits. "All right, Gristav, I'm Jill. Now hold on tight and don't make me regret not lashing you to the mast."
As she speaks, the ship tilts sternward. Most of the men lining the railing drop their poles and weapons and rush to uncoil ropes and man the capstan as the ship slides backward along the length of the reappearing pier. A few silver fish are stranded atop the boards, flipping themselves frenetically into the air, but Gristav is more concerned with objects that belong on the land being dragged into the sea. The water around him is full of crates, handcarts, and barstools swept out of the alleys and taverns, along with less identifiable detritus. One dark, roiling mass on the surface turns out to be a swarm of rats, all of them fighting fiercely to climb atop the others. Among the floating debris, he catches sight of something moving with more intention than the tide: the head and shoulders of a man struggling to stay above water.
Phillip, meanwhile, has a more academic view on the retreating wave than his fellow Gold Goblin employees and can spare a thought for how one man's misfortune might turn to his profit. Unfortunately, rack his brain as he might, he is unaware of any business in the Wharf District which might offer richer pickings than cheap liquor and the contents of a sailor's pockets. If he is to loot, he'll have to trust to luck and chance along the shoreline. The foot or so of water on the floor of the shipwright's workshop recedes, leaving behind a layer of silt, thicker in the corners. A long workbench is dragged across the floor toward the harbor-side door and is stranded, half in and half out of the building.
"Let's check this... whoa..."
Braddon's first impulse is to grip the letter, his next to grip the rope holding Daynadrian. Neither serves to support his legs as they are dragged out from under him.
Phillip, meanwhile, has a more academic view on the retreating wave than his fellow Gold Goblin employees and can spare a thought for how one man's misfortune might turn to his profit. Unfortunately, rack his brain as he might, he is unaware of any business in the Wharf District which might offer richer pickings than cheap liquor and the contents of a sailor's pockets. If he is to loot, he'll have to trust to luck and chance along the shoreline. The foot or so of water on the floor of the shipwright's workshop recedes, leaving behind a layer of silt, thicker in the corners. A long workbench is dragged across the floor toward the harbor-side door and is stranded, half in and half out of the building.
With pursed lips and a lack of recollection, Phillip weighs his options and decides that remaining in aid of Olin and Ewart would likely weigh more heavily in his favor than otherwise. Moving back over to the other halflings he ventures "Well that was exciting enough... did you happen to see what was the cause of it?... and now I think about it, is Cas about?"
She spares a moment to look down at him with a faint smirk. "Suppose it's an improvement on 'lubber,'" she admits. "All right, Gristav, I'm Jill. Now hold on tight and don't make me regret not lashing you to the mast."
"Acknowledged, Mistress Bosun. Watchful, Cautious. And by the way, I am Gristav."
"Jill, I hardly know...", Gristav begins, but...
As she speaks, the ship tilts sternward. Most of the men lining the railing drop their poles and weapons and rush to uncoil ropes and man the capstan as the ship slides backward along the length of the reappearing pier. A few silver fish are stranded atop the boards, flipping themselves frenetically into the air, but Gristav is more concerned with objects that belong on the land being dragged into the sea. The water around him is full of crates, handcarts, and barstools swept out of the alleys and taverns, along with less identifiable detritus. One dark, roiling mass on the surface turns out to be a swarm of rats, all of them fighting fiercely to climb atop the others. Among the floating debris, he catches sight of something moving with more intention than the tide: the head and shoulders of a man struggling to stay above water.
"THERE!", Gristav calls out, "On the line of my staff!" He gestures, with arm and shoulder and the ashen staff as well, while looking about the deck for a ready line...
With a grim smile he reflects on the mental image of Little Scarlet aboard that infernal vessel and agrees, "Yes, the Fates have been clear that something has been put into motion; something that goes beyond a simple Scarnzi robbery. I suspect Little Scarlet is the catalyst for whatever is going to transpire, but I fear she is only the beginning."
He leads Samaritha to the bar, where he helps himself to a pair of shot glasses and a bottle from the bottom shelf. Pouring them each a glass, he continues, "The Fates have something in store for me; they've been calling to me for some time now. It would seem that Braddon and the others have also answered that call - although I doubt they'd admit to that." He smiles again, warmly this time, and passes a glass to Samaritha. "Only time will tell us what it is exactly that we've gotten ourselves into."
Braddon and Daynadrian scramble for footing, but the tug of the receding tide is pulling them toward the door faster then their boots can find purchase on the slippery stone floor. Daynadrian tries to grab at the desk for stability, but its heavy bulk is also shifting toward the door, caught up in the undertow. "Now what?" the elf calls hoarsely. Looking over his shoulder, Braddon can see that it ought to be relatively simple to grab hold and brace themselves against the doorway until the water drains out of the tower, but the desk is likely to batter them as the tide tries to pull it out as well. Alternatively, they could let the water pull them out the door and safely away from the heavy furniture, but the odds of them finding something outside to grab onto to avoid being swept into the harbor themselves will be less favorable.
"THERE!", Gristav calls out, "On the line of my staff!" He gestures, with arm and shoulder and the ashen staff as well, while looking about the deck for a ready line...
There is no shortage of rope aboard the ship, most of it already handily coiled around something secure at one end. Gristav has no difficulty finding a lifeline, but the bobbing figure is some distance from the ship, periodically disappearing behind floating debris.
Moving back over to the other halflings he ventures "Well that was exciting enough... did you happen to see what was the cause of it?... and now I think about it, is Cas about?"
Olin shrugs. "Tide dropped in the harbor of a sudden. We all know what's coming then. As to what caused it, who knows? Landslide on an island somewhere, or a storm so far out you can't see the clouds?" He peers out past the Cyphergate. "Eh, a bit of a cloud, maybe. Probably never know, unless a ship comes in that saw it. Means extra business for us, though, and bonus pay. Ships and piers and buildings all are made of wood and will need repair."
"Aye," Ewart puts in, "but it means the shop has to be mucked out, too." He looks down at the mud spread across the floor in whorls and scallops with distaste.
"Eh," Olin replies consolingly, "who knows but we'll find a coin or two in the mud? Stirs up the bottom of the harbor, it does. Pharasma herself knows how many unfortunates slid off a knife into the water over the years; some of them have to have had something in their pockets. Cas?" he returns his attention to Phillip's question. "He was out to see about a job in town this morning. Hope he hasn't agreed to terms yet; he can quote a higher price after the wave than before."
"Reminds me, Phil," Ewart adds with a frown. "This'll push back the work he was doing for you at the Goblin. Tables and benches are good as done, and I shouldn't doubt you'll have those on time, but the rest of the furniture will have to wait until after shipwork's done."
[ooc]LOL. No time now to properly comment. Gris will keep trying.[ooc/]