Looking over her with no lascivious intent and purely mechanical consideration "Come to think she looks to be about the same size as your lovely assistant. Might we not be able to use her as a form guide of some kind? I know it might not be perfect, but I think that could work."
"Hm," Betta scowls thoughtfully for a moment, while Ethel holds her arms out helpfully to show off her figure to greater advantage. "Very well," she gives in gracelessly at long last, able to come up with no legitimate reason to deny the request. "Malthus," she jerks her head at the dog which grudgingly retreats, giving Phillip a last hungry growl. It climbs into a cushioned basket, turns itself around nose after tail a few times, and lies down, hanging its head over the edge and staring unblinkingly at the halfling.
"Now, then," Betta goes on in a businesslike manner, whipping a ribbon-like tape measure out of a skirt pocket and preparing to take Ethel's measurements, "what sort of garment are you looking for? Something practical, I presume?"
Jaelle lets Gristav's flood of words flow around her like the Cloud weathering the swell in the harbor. "There's a quarter hour's worth of conversation covered in two minutes," she remarks, unperturbed. "Now that you've asked and answered all the questions I might have thought of, must we sit in silence until our lunch is done? Or should we ask to have it boxed to take it away with us?"
"I had thought some similar from you, but I could ask as we walked... where? We would lose the option of our eyes meeting across the table, the shared subtle smile, the silent service of a salt-cellar or peppermill, or other familial familiarizations. But if it were the Goblin, and that old friend, you'd have us travel toward, we might lay in a feast, and earn it afterward in dance. Duncish dance, for me, and already earned, for you. Let it be your choice; are you yet too fond of me to gladly share?", he asked with a smile.
"Would you ask the same questions you asked of yourself for me?" she asks. "My name you've heard; if I'm like to spill the Cloud's secrets, it's the Captain's problem and not yours. That leaves only if I've designs on you." She takes a sip of honey mead, and the mistress of the Duck emerges from the kitchen, steaming saucers of stew in her hands. Jaelle's eyes smile at Gristav as the arrival of their meal interrupts the conversation.
"what sort of garment are you looking for? Something practical, I presume?"
Leaning back onto his haunches Phillip taps a finger to lips while his face turns pensive and reflective "Practial, aye... that it will need to be... made well and comfortable, colors that are demure and befitting a lady." pausing a moment and allowing wist to cloud his eyes "But my lady also has a fire within that warms those allowed to bask in its radiance... that must not be quelled. And the dress needs have a flow to allow her to dance... is this within or without ability?"
"Daynadrian has a point," the Varisian agrees, "Herr Weatherby is likely to recognize me and although Samaritha has spent more time in this city that any of us, I doubt she has spent much of it on the docks."
Malkith draws a slow breath as he considers the situation. His hand absently reaches beneath his scarves, touching the harrow kept there. "It is not for us to send Sam home now. We have accepted her decision to accompany us here; it is her choice whether or not continue to the docks - although I'll concede that her efforts may be better spent at the Cypher Lodge.
"As for myself, my hood should provide a decent measure of disguise. As long as I travel apart from you, but still within sight, Herr Weatherby should not have any reason to take note of either of you."
Malkith looks at the desk as he pulls forth the deck of cards. "If you think we have a few moments, perhaps I can get an idea of the scribe's intentions."
"Would you ask the same questions you asked of yourself for me?" she asks. "My name you've heard; if I'm like to spill the Cloud's secrets, it's the Captain's problem and not yours. That leaves only if I've designs on you." She takes a sip of honey mead, and the mistress of the Duck emerges from the kitchen, steaming saucers of stew in her hands. Jaelle's eyes smile at Gristav as the arrival of their meal interrupts the conversation.
Gristav's eyes smile back, before feigning an instant of concern his smile belies, asking the hostess, "Should I worry, she's dismissed the sanity clause? Or celebrate?" Aware the lady would have no context, he dismissed his own question with another. "Quinta, is it? Do I have it right? I am Gristav. This is Jaelle." As though struck by the awareness, he said, "This smells wonderful. Jaelle, shall we enjoy this while we ask Quinta to put up a tenfold portion, to bear to the Goblin?"
Malkith has a seat at the scribe's own desk and shuffles his deck. He turns up the top card and arches an eyebrow: the Dance. He is certainly leading them on a merry one. Returning the card to the deck, he shuffles again and deals.
First, the past. It doesn't much concern them, but it is encouraging to see the cards confirm their understanding of the situation: the Mute Hag, the Marriage, the Liar. He and Lil were obviously allied, the tiefling twisting the other's loyalty and devotion to her own ends. He briefly considers the possibility that it is Weatherby who is using Lil rather than the other way around before moving on to the more relevant present.
Into the center column, he deals out the Cyclone, the Survivor, and the Idiot. The scribe is facing trial and ordeal -- most likely in the form of the Gold Goblin employees uncovering his secrets -- but is looking to land on his feet and make a new life for himself in Roderic's Cove. The Idiot is a telling liability: If he is to be tripped up, it will be via his overconfidence or greed.
The final three cards look to the future: the Paladin, the Snakebite, the Tangled Briar. The Paladin warns that Weatherby will not readily crumble if he is caught and questioned. He is deeply insinuated into a web of poisonous powers and ideas, including some ancient manipulations of which he is perhaps even cognizant. Malkith wonders if the scribe is truly a spider or merely a deluded moth not yet aware of the danger it has blundered into.
"Didn't know my sanity was in question," Jaelle smirks, "although I did agree to spend a few hours of the afternoon in your company. Is that enough to mark me as suspect?"
pausing a moment and allowing wist to cloud his eyes "But my lady also has a fire within that warms those allowed to bask in its radiance... that must not be quelled. And the dress needs have a flow to allow her to dance... is this within or without ability?"
Betta's lips tighten into a thin line, as if Phil had just suggested that the dress should be suitable for conducting virgin sacrifices beneath a full moon. "'Dance!' Well, I never. What foolishness," she grumbles. "In my experience, any dress loose enough for light housework ought to permit enough freedom of movement for a woman to dance respectably." She peers at Phillip, daring him to suggest anything more risqué than a sedate box-step at a wedding.
"If Madame would permit," Ethel interjects decorously, "a fitted bodice with a gathered skirt is practical for many uses."
"It's a waste of good fabric to devote too many yards on a skirt," Betta grumps back, "just so a man can encourage a woman to twirl in it and show off too much leg."
"On the contrary, madame," Ethel responds quickly, "an ample skirt allows the dress to be tucked up so the hems don't trail if it's damp or muddy. And bare arms...."
"Bare arms!" The human woman rolls her eyes skyward in protest.
"Bare arms," Ethel goes on unperturbedly, "are a great time-saver when one is doing the washing up, as one doesn't have to stop and roll up one's sleeves first. I grew up on a farm, you know, so I've a great deal of experience with practical clothing."
"Didn't know my sanity was in question," Jaelle smirks, "although I did agree to spend a few hours of the afternoon in your company. Is that enough to mark me as suspect?"
"As prospect.", Gristav corrects, smiling.
, Gristav called to Quinta, on her way to her kitchen.
"Suspect? I suppose. I am a man only last night with his hand out for a hammock. I might seem a poor prospect, myself. Though the hammock was a ruse. Not against your ship... against that morning's errands. A happy accident that I was already aboard when others tried to be. Say, how are you aboard? No, rather, how are you a-sea? It's not a usual trade, for a lady...?
"I won't ask, 'how you are ashore'.", Gristav said with a smile not quite hidden by a spoonful of stew.
Phillip's eyes betray enjoyment while his face is the picture of engagement as he vacillates between thoughtful consideration of Betta's objection before thankful wonderment at Ethel's explanations. Clasping hands "Excellent... what luck you have in such a knowledgeable assistant." now addressing Ethel a little more directly "What might your thoughts be to the décolletage and the line and width across the shoulder?"
If Betta seeks to object or speak over, Phil distracts with an ejaculated query "Fabics, and color! Might I see some drapery... indigos and darker greens and blues are what springs to mind... but I am changeable."
Malkith has a seat at the scribe's own desk and shuffles his deck. He turns up the top card and arches an eyebrow: the Dance. He is certainly leading them on a merry one. Returning the card to the deck, he shuffles again and deals.
"Ooh, the dance! Does that mean he's at a ...?"
Braddon stops carefully."How about I go tell Sam what's happening. Then we can be off."
Braddon leaves Malkith and seeks sweet Samaritha's side.
"The scribe also ran off to the docks to book passage," Braddon explains to Samaritha. He gazes about the street for anyone paying them too much attention, then continues. "So we're heading back to find his boat before it leaves. You want to come too? Or stay here and keep watch for him or someone else to return? Which will be really boring, with the possibility of extreme danger. Or, you know, Cypherlodge? Or anything else that takes your fancy." Braddon winks.
"I've already lost one date to this stupid scribe. May as well lose a few more."
Malkith ignores Braddon's inquiry and doesn't even seem to notice when he leaves. Focusing strictly on the cards, he turns them over with careful precision and care. When the last card is revealed, he stares at them for several long moments more. Finally he speaks, "We need to follow Herr Weatherby. If he hasn't realized that his letter to Little Scarlet was intercepted, then we may be better off letting him lead us to where ever it is at Roderic's Cover he thinks he's meeting her."
The harrower collects his card before standing, then looks around with mild confusion. "Now where did that fool get off to?" With an answer from Daynadrian, the pair exit the shop to regroup with Braddon and Samaritha.
"The scribe also ran off to the docks to book passage," Braddon explains to Samaritha. He gazes about the street for anyone paying them too much attention, then continues. "So we're heading back to find his boat before it leaves. You want to come too? Or stay here and keep watch for him or someone else to return? Which will be really boring, with the possibility of extreme danger. Or, you know, Cypherlodge? Or anything else that takes your fancy." Braddon winks.
"I've already lost one date to this stupid scribe. May as well lose a few more."
"A date?" Samaritha asks, puzzled.
When Malkith and Daynadrian rejoin them, she offers, "Braddon says you're heading back to the wharves. If you like, I could stay here and keep an eye on the place, see if anyone else comes by looking for Mr. Weatherby, or Lil, or...," she trails off. "Or is that not really helpful at all? After all, it could just be someone wanting accounts totaled or a document written."
"Say, how are you aboard? No, rather, how are you a-sea? It's not a usual trade, for a lady...?
"No," she responds, "not usual, to be crew rather than cargo, at least. Most assume I'm the captain's woman or I wouldn't be aboard. Fine with me that they think so; they're more likely to leave me be." She looks at him a moment and gives a half-shrug. "I grew up crossing the land in wagons. I don't see that there's so great a difference in crossing the water in boats. One follows the stars, in either case, and takes her home with her."
"Fabics, and color! Might I see some drapery... indigos and darker greens and blues are what springs to mind... but I am changeable."
Betta snorts. "I'm glad to hear that you're mulling sober colors, at least. An honest woman shouldn't be done up like a painted butterfly." She hesitates, obviously discomfited by Ethel taking the lead in discussing matters of cut and design while she is relegated to fetching and carrying, but the bolts of cloth are clearly too cumbersome for someone of the halfling's height to wrangle. She grudgingly removes herself to the back wall to select some likely candidates for Phil's perusal.
Phillip gives Ethel a playful wink and smirk once Betta's back is turned, but his voice still projects as though they are not known to each other "And your thoughts Miss? Upon the cut and color."
"Thank you," Malkith says, "But I don't think that will be necessary. If the Fates are on our side, we will be able to track down Herr Weatherby and he will lead us to what we need to know." He starts to turn to leave, but stops himself. "Do not worry for us too much, we will all return to the casino as soon as possible."
Malkith allows Braddon and Daynadrian to lead the way to the docks. "I will do my best to keep a safe distance from you two unless you signal me to do otherwise." As they draw closer to their destination, the Varisian pulls the hood of his cloak up and drifts away from the other two. He does his best to keep as much distance between himself and his partners without being in danger of losing sight of them, all the while maintaining vigilance for the scribe.
"Say, how are you aboard? No, rather, how are you a-sea? It's not a usual trade, for a lady...?"No," she responds, "not usual, to be crew rather than cargo, at least. Most assume I'm the captain's woman or I wouldn't be aboard. Fine with me that they think so; they're more likely to leave me be." She looks at him a moment and gives a half-shrug. "I grew up crossing the land in wagons. I don't see that there's so great a difference in crossing the water in boats. One follows the stars, in either case, and takes her home with her."
"I was Caravari a while, I like to think of myself as Caravari, still, though I haven't even the one horse. But I understand, I think, your meaning. Still, at sea, a bit harder to slip off into the brush...", Gristav pauses, as though recalling.
"Leave you be? Should I have left you be? By? Been?", he ponders the grammar, "...alone?", he worried apologetically. "I regret any sense of trespass.", he says, sincerity shading to humor and then flirtation, "Unless... unless I don't."
Sobering for an instant, he says, "I would, regret, any sense of being trespassed upon. And yet...", he adds, sobriety softening, and a fae flame in his eye, "It was a pretty shrug. The curve it made, with your neck...", he says, tracing the curve with his eye and mind, "...asks to be traced with kisses."
"But you had not. Have not. Should I pledge, in proof of my regret, not to kiss you, until you, kiss me? Or would that be it's own cause for regret? I would hate to be regretted."
Braddon, Daynadrian, and Malkith make their way back southward toward the Wharf District. Braddon and Daynadrian can see that its condition has improved since they fled the retreating wave: While the boardwalk is covered with grime and the waterfront businesses are obviously the worse for wear, the seaweed and thickest deposits of mud have been shoveled away from the doors, and broken windows are being boarded up while broken furniture is piled in the alleys. To Malkith's eyes, however, the remnants of the devastation underline the gravity of the situation in which Braddon and Daynadrian found themselves. He separates himself from the two of elven blood, trying to look as if he is walking alone through the district. The recent event has, at least, made the task they've set themselves a little easier, as most sailors are assessing the damage to their ships and most of the taverns are at least temporarily closed for mucking out; the docks themselves are noticeably less crowded than usual, which ought to make it easier to find the one man they are looking for -- if he is here.
"It was a pretty shrug. The curve it made, with your neck...", he says, tracing the curve with his eye and mind, "...asks to be traced with kisses."
"But you had not. Have not. Should I pledge, in proof of my regret, not to kiss you, until you, kiss me? Or would that be it's own cause for regret? I would hate to be regretted."
If his goal was to match the Sarenite priest's acumen in drawing the heat to her skin, Gristav has succeeded. She flushes as she looks away. "Aye, harder to slip into the brush. And the crew ... I have to work with them. Not that there's any of them makes me regret it," she clarifies quickly. "To most other men, I'm the captain's woman ... and the captain does nothing to clear up the confusion; it keeps me from spending my shoreleave fending off boors in dockside taverns. But we're not on the wharves ... and the captain trusts you, so you're not a good-for-nothing lout...."
"And your thoughts Miss? Upon the cut and color."
She glances over her shoulder to be sure Betta's attention is elsewhere. "You had no say in yours," she reminds him under her breath before answering his question in a conversational tone. "Darker colors are for sophisticated women, not innocent young girls. You'd be the best judge, sir, of whether it suits your lady-friend. As to cut, a wide boatneck is fashionable for eveningwear, or a lower square neck with buttons up the front ... if she has a décolletage worth displaying, of course."
"Ethel!" Betta thunders disapprovingly. "That sort of talk is entirely inappropriate in mixed company!" She sets several bolts of dark cloth on a worktable near the mirrored dressing area. "If you'll step back here, please," she instructs Phillip. "I generally offer my lady customers' tea," she goes on grudgingly. "I suppose there's no reason not to offer you some as well." She awaits his response balefully.
Phillip shrugs in confidence and speaks with a degree of honesty "I needed to see a friendly face... besides at this you might even like the choice?" before nodding and pursing lip "A square neck it is... though with covered shoulders and a chemise in contrasting shade... and tea would be welcome, thankyou"
"Fetch the tea, Ethel," Betta directs. "Oh, but first, push your stepladder over here to the table." Ethel quickly fetches the rolling set of stairs so that Phillip can climb high enough to see the options Betta has selected comfortably. "This is a fine black crape; I made a mourning dress for Mistress Bennet of it when her husband died. Here is a sturdy navy wool; it would make a neat suit to keep out the winter chill. This ash-gray gabardine is suitable for half-mourning...."
It seems to Phil that an inordinate amount of the fabrics Betta has in stock are designed for various stages of mourning; indeed, it's as well that he didn't suggest a "painted butterfly" pigment, as the flashes of bright color along the seamstress's back wall are few and far between. Most of the options Betta shows him are unsuitable for his purposes: heavy and concealing and more suitable for a matron than a young woman. There are a few bolts of fabric that intrigue him, however: an indigo silk with an iridescent gleam like dragonflies' wings that shows flashes toward teal and pink depending on how the light catches it, a dark sea-blue chiffon the shade of a sedate peacock, and a bottle-green muslin that reminds him of Mistress Bromathan's robes. Ethel has reappeared with a teapot on a tray which she sets in waiting on the low table in front of the settee before joining them at the worktable.
"To most other men, I'm the captain's woman ... and the captain does nothing to clear up the confusion; it keeps me from spending my shoreleave fending off boors in dockside taverns. But we're not on the wharves ... and the captain trusts you, so you're not a good-for-nothing lout...."
"Your words raise questions. Your blush...", he hesitated, pushing down the obvious sequent, though his eyes flashed as he changed paths. "...answers some of them. But I'll ask. Is there confusion, around the question of the captain? Are you or he confused, or only the onlookers?"
"Secondarily, if the confusion of the boors is useful to you, or to your station... Am I to be secret? Not that I'm anything to be secret, at the moment, but we do seem to be... not talking about it." He smiled warmly at her.
Glancing at the gathering large order at the bar, and the emptying flagons and bowls between them, he added, "And we're going to run out of ways to do that, eventually. At least, I hope so."
"I am not the captain's woman," she clarifies firmly. "He has never... and I have never. A ship is too small for that weight, and I would never ... 'fraternize' with a man who can give me orders. As for you, the captain trusted you not to tamper with the Cloud's secret; I see no reason why you would go down to the wharves and start announcing loudly that I'm not Josper Creesy's common-law bride." She gives him a slight smile. "You want to brag to your friends how you got lucky over a couple of ales, I have no problem with that, as long as they aren't all sailors."
"Harbour masters office? I assume he'll know."
Braddon strides through the streets to the tower, knocks once on the door and opens it without entering.
"I'd say good day, sir, but obviously it isn't. Ships to Roderic's Cove and I'll be out of your way. Thank'e."
"I am not the captain's woman," she clarifies firmly. "He has never... and I have never. A ship is too small for that weight, and I would never ... 'fraternize' with a man who can give me orders. As for you, the captain trusted you not to tamper with the Cloud's secret; I see no reason why you would go down to the wharves and start announcing loudly that I'm not Josper Creesy's common-law bride." She gives him a slight smile. "You want to brag to your friends how you got lucky over a couple of ales, I have no problem with that, as long as they aren't all sailors."
"I don't brag on Luck; you have seen, I hold Her grace seriously. Frivolously. Carelessly. Joyfully. As She seems to prefer it. But I hold it, to be Her grace; and not mine to brag on. I can keep your ruse, for your grace, as Hers, is not mine."
"Also, I would see a crass drunken retelling of what has not yet happened between us, as a dishonor to us both. Though I reserve the right to set you to prose, or verse, or worse... if the Muse calls..." Gristav halted a moment, then beckoned her lean in with a gesture, and spoke in a husky hush...
In scarlet, red, her head was draped
And scarlet lips, below
Too wild, too free, her hair escaped
An ebon river's flow
Down across shoulders tan, and strong
Oe'r broad-laced curves, her hair
Brushed back, and nape, and neck, and throat
He promised kisses there
"Would something like that, be acceptable?", he asked.
"I'd say good day, sir, but obviously it isn't. Ships to Roderic's Cove and I'll be out of your way. Thank'e."
The condition of the tower interior doesn't look much improved from when Braddon left it. The desk has been wrestled back into place, its four legs leaving trails in the mud on the floor, but the high water mark is still clearly visible on the walls, everything beneath it coated with grime.
The office, however, contains a few things it didn't when Braddon last saw it. One is a large leatherbound tome with a lock on it set atop the desk where he and Daynadrian had stood when the sea came in; another is a trio of men standing around the piece of furniture. Two are young and brawny and glare at Braddon; the third is middle-aged and brawny, looking as if time has promoted him from thug to senior thug without putting too much of a dent in his physical prowess. He doesn't glare, however, having apparently delegated that menial task to his inferiors.
"The Cove?" he barks, with a salty accent that betrays a shipboard past himself. "Cargo or passenger? The Red Barnacle and the Pious Bride was intending to leave at evening tide, but there's a few ships taken the opportunity of the receding swell to cast off early; don't know yet if they're among them." The junior thugs chuckle a little, though Braddon has no idea why that's funny. "The Flying Cloud makes the run regular, but she hasn't informed me of her plans yet."
It seems to Phil that an inordinate amount of the fabrics Betta has in stock are designed for various stages of mourning; indeed, it's as well that he didn't suggest a "painted butterfly" pigment, as the flashes of bright color along the seamstress's back wall are few and far between. Most of the options Betta shows him are unsuitable for his purposes: heavy and concealing and more suitable for a matron than a young woman. There are a few bolts of fabric that intrigue him, however: an indigo silk with an iridescent gleam like dragonflies' wings that shows flashes toward teal and pink depending on how the light catches it, a dark sea-blue chiffon the shade of a sedate peacock, and a bottle-green muslin that reminds him of Mistress Bromathan's robes. Ethel has reappeared with a teapot on a tray which she sets in waiting on the low table in front of the settee before joining them at the worktable.
Relying not only on his eyes to appraise the fabrics, Phillip also puts hand upon them so he could feel them against skin and gauge how they would comport in motion. The indigo silk catches his eye in particular and he muses on what it's value might be...
...before the arrival of the tea and subsequently Ethel at the table triggers words be exchanged "Choices, choices... you have a well stocked store Madam, and that which you have selected to put before me do inspire confidence in your discretion..." showing some deference to Betta before continuing "From a shortened list there are a number I would prefer to see draped across and put to movement..."
Phillip then reaches out to select a small range of fabrics from the pile... taking pleasure in sideways glances at Ethel at the onset so as to take some amusement from her eyes and reaction:
A black rough fabric remeniscent of hessian, ash gray gabardine, a hideous darkened fuchsia crimplene, a patterened mockado that looked to be more carpet fabric than dress... and finally the last two fabrics chosen... almost upon a whim and after short delay, the indigo silk and sea-blue chiffon. Making his way from the worktable to the settee, Phillip pours three cups of tea... and awaits his personal fashion show.
"Would something like that, be acceptable?", he asked.
"Sounds like the kind of tale that ends with the girl dying and the man drinking to her memory in some tavern years later," she demurs a bit tartly. "But instead we've a pot of beef stew to deliver, and blueberry pie. The Lay of Gristav and Jill, Provisioners of Victual isn't quite so grand in the telling."
"Your color rewards my Muse. You know, I never thought I would wish on any Varisi, that they not be gifted with prophesy. But I find it so, now. Still, I will not say it. Instead..." Gristav halted again, his eyes fixed and unfocused, then smiled, and rhymed:
"Jack and Jill, cart vict'l
To fill the Goblin's larder
Said best in town, yet Jill did frown
So Jack tried all the harder
...because it would be wrong to only try some of the harder.", Gristav observed with a smirk.
"And give grand time. Consider the path already travelled; from borrowed hammock to boarder's bane, breaker of reverie unrequite... today, a life saved... can we call it that? I think we could. And friends made, at least one", Gristav gestured to Jaelle. "Possibly, three? Five? And more to meet, in some minutes. A plot against the secret, failed. Another interest, stalled, his reasons learned, to share on."
"If it is that you feel the loss of time for such as might cause you to blush, well...", he smiled at her. "If I had said we might otherwise fill an entire afternoon, then, you'd think me bragging."
"Aye, 'twill be either pleasant or swift, I think you said," she answers archly, draining the last of her flagon. "If we've a cargo run to make, let's make it. Duty before shoreleave."
"Aye, 'twill be either pleasant or swift, I think you said," she answers archly, draining the last of her flagon. "If we've a cargo run to make, let's make it. Duty before shoreleave."
Gristav settles up with Quinta or the bartender, or both if chance so offers. "Grimas is right, we'll have to return. If only to bring your crockery home? Say, the gnome here earlier, did he leave an address?"
En route to the Goblin, Gristav silently laments not asking after delivery of the food, regretting the burden of it filling his hands while Jaelle filled his thoughts.
"You're feeling slighted. I'm sorry, I'm a fool, and not very perceptive. But I can deduce, and I do try... Wrong of me to take on a burden of delivering food to the Goblin, in your limited time, in what I hope is still our limited time. I wasn't certain, I certainly didn't feel I should behave certain, of your intent, until after some other wheels were in motion. But it was, is, all true, none of it pretense."
"There is a girl you might teach to dance as the Varisi she is, but cannot dance as. And a harridan you may humble by being a better teacher, if not a better dancer. And if you weren't on your way to my room, that might have brought you closer, or brought you back. There are, some ten folk there, fed on the leavings of retiring street vendors, bought nightly by a pair of aged batchelors. But they are decent folk, good folk, the most of what I've seen of them. And the one old friend I mentioned, he is there. And the mass of them, the any of them, might have drawn more interest than I, I thought, before I knew, that I had your interest. Your intent."
"Your interest, was the point. Is the point. But the other wheels, are still in motion. We'll set the stew down, conceal the pie from predatory interests, introduce who we might, and then..."
"I've a key, to a door, to a room, I have not yet spent an hour in. My intent, is to lock us within it, take down your hair, and kiss you, everywhere it might touch. As a start."
Phillip then reaches out to select a small range of fabrics from the pile... taking pleasure in sideways glances at Ethel at the onset so as to take some amusement from her eyes and reaction:
A black rough fabric reminiscent of hessian, ash gray gabardine, a hideous darkened fuchsia crimplene, a patterned mockado that looked to be more carpet fabric than dress... and finally the last two fabrics chosen... almost upon a whim and after short delay, the indigo silk and sea-blue chiffon. Making his way from the worktable to the settee, Phillip pours three cups of tea... and awaits his personal fashion show.
Phil's teasing is rewarded with outraged glances from Ethel, which quickly turn into a demure, lowered gaze when her employer's eye turns her way. He avails himself of a seat and a teacup as Ethel takes her place at the focus of the trio of mirrors and Betta unrolls enough fabric from the various bolts to drape over her shoulder. "This is a practical fabric," she says of the black hessian, "perhaps more suited to work clothes than frippery."
Ethel grimaces and pulls the exposed flesh of her neck away from the fold of the fabric draped over her shoulder. "Excellent choice if your lady friend is a potato," she murmurs.
The gabardine and crimplene are less texturally offensive to the model. "The gabardine is a fine choice," Betta remarks approvingly. "A nice modest high-necked bodice with a long sleeve and long straight skirt will take you right into autumn and winter and back to spring again. One hardly needs a second outfit. The weight of this other is fine," she goes on of the crimplene, "but I'm not very fond of the color. A bit flashy."
Ethel nearly collapses beneath the weight of the mockado. "I cannot, in good conscience, recommend this fabric for a woman the, er, the size of your people," Betta advises with some dignity. "The pattern is too large; there simply isn't room to repeat in the yardage I should have to cut." Ethel straightens up with some relief as Betta removes the fabric.
Next is the silk. Betta tosses the end of the bolt over Ethel's shoulder, and it settles softly over her almost like water, the shimmering hints of color vanishing and reappearing as the fabric ripples. "The shade is unobjectionable enough," Betta sniffs, "but this is a very impractical fabric. When the summer's past, it will be too light, and you'd have to put a great many petticoats beneath it to make it modest and keep it from clinging to the legs. I'd advise keeping this as an accent, perhaps a smart scarf to tie around the collar of the gray gabardine."
Ethel glances after the silk with some reluctance to see it go before Betta drapes her with the sea-blue chiffon. "Also too light for any but summer wear," she goes on disapprovingly as the fabric floats into place. "Slippery, but not so much so as the silk. It clings less, that's a point in its favor, but it's a bit too sheer to be respectable. You wouldn't want your friend to be mistaken for one of the Calistrians on parade, I don't think."
Ethel suddenly coughs. "Pardon, madame," she manages. "If we're done, might I take a sip of tea? Must be a bit of dust caught in my throat."
"The Cove?" he barks, with a salty accent that betrays a shipboard past himself. "Cargo or passenger? The Red Barnacle and the Pious Bride was intending to leave at evening tide, but there's a few ships taken the opportunity of the receding swell to cast off early; don't know yet if they're among them." The junior thugs chuckle a little, though Braddon has no idea why that's funny. "The Flying Cloud makes the run regular, but she hasn't informed me of her plans yet."
"The Red Barnacle and the Pious Bride? What's with naming ships after things that don't exist?" Braddon tosses a grin and a wink into the room.
"So, where can I find them and which is cheaper?"He listens carefully before nodding good day to the men.
"Many thanks. I'll be on me way."
One of the young thugs puzzles for a moment over Braddon's joke and then breaks into sudden, raucous laughter; the other scowls and elbows him in the ribs to quiet him. The older man gives directions to two berths on opposite ends of the wharf. "As to which is cheaper," he grins, "that'll depend on what you're wanting them for and how badly they think you want it. Price is the captains' business."
Braddon makes his way back to Daynadrian and wanders past Malkith into a small alleyway. When Malkith joins them, he relays the information.
"The Harbour Master (I assume that was the guy in charge) said the Red Barnacle and the Pious Bride. He also reckons some ships left on the retreating tide. If we need more information, he seems the type of guy who'll happily sell out the scribe for a few gold. One of his thugs was so dumb he laughed at my joke. He also mentioned the Flying Cloud but said the others were to leave tonight. Let's go check 'em out."
As they leave Braddon turns to Daynadrian. "Looks like he's so busy cleaning up, he hasn't even noticed the cupboard yet. He probably won't care if he does notice it, as long as no one else finds out. Great job."
Braddon grins his way down towards the first ship, whistling a sea shanty as he does so.
"Grimas is right, we'll have to return. If only to bring your crockery home? Say, the gnome here earlier, did he leave an address?"
"Aye, the gnome with the dog," the bartender chuckles. "Lives in a building up against the ridge in the pinch of Leeward. Opposite side from the half-orcs."
"He might sleep there," his wife interjects, "but he's here for breakfast and lunch every day with that scruffy mongrel of his. You know he used to bring that flea-ridden thing right in here? 'Master Greatreave,' I told him, 'you may feed that dog my griddlecakes if you must, but you'll do it outside.' It's simply not sanitary to have a hairy animal so near a kitchen. We pay the rat catchers good coin every month to keep them away."
"A dog's not a rat, you know," her husband remonstrates gently. "Some dogs catch rats."
"If that animal of his has ever caught anything but a bite of griddlecake out of the air, I'll eat Gaston Cromarcky's hat and swallow the buckle whole," she replies obstinately.
"Grimas is right, we'll have to return. If only to bring your crockery home? Say, the gnome here earlier, did he leave an address?""Aye, the gnome with the dog," the bartender chuckles. "Lives in a building up against the ridge in the pinch of Leeward. Opposite side from the half-orcs."
"He might sleep there," his wife interjects, "but he's here for breakfast and lunch every day with that scruffy mongrel of his. You know he used to bring that flea-ridden thing right in here? 'Master Greatreave,' I told him, 'you may feed that dog my griddlecakes if you must, but you'll do it outside.' It's simply not sanitary to have a hairy animal so near a kitchen. We pay the rat catchers good coin every month to keep them away."
"A dog's not a rat, you know," her husband remonstrates gently. "Some dogs catch rats."
"If that animal of his has ever caught anything but a bite of griddlecake out of the air, I'll eat Gaston Cromarcky's hat and swallow the buckle whole," she replies obstinately.
"Perhaps, a cake, made in image of a hat? You could give it to Gaston, but then eat it.", Gristav says with fae glee, lowering a fairy-logic ladder into the hole Quinta'd jumped in. "That animal... might surprise you. But I couldn't speak to what he'd caught, as an animal... You say, the gnome feeds him griddlecakes, every morning, every noon?", Gristav asked, in tones agreeing with her assessment of the oddness of the matter. "That was his favorite...", Gristav mused softly to himself.
To Jaelle he said in soft Varisi, as though it ought remind her, "Krepe? Goiz eta eguerdi? Ah...?" He nodded his head, and raised a brow at her, before taking up the crock and making for the door. "Printze!", he concluded aloud.
Outside, and away, Gristav caught Jaelle's puzzled eye, and explained. "So that she'll treat him better. I intend to find the gnome and his hound there again, and I'll bow with great dignity, to the hound. I'll arrange with Quinta, treats for the hound, meats, and I will say, '...because griddlecakes might be his favorite, but the- ', and I'll look as though I was about to overstate something, '...but a doggish body, needs meat.' That Quinta, I think that when she imagines her own status increased by it, she'll be good to the creature."
"There is a girl you might teach to dance as the Varisi she is, but cannot dance as. And a harridan you may humble by being a better teacher, if not a better dancer. And if you weren't on your way to my room, that might have brought you closer, or brought you back. There are, some ten folk there, fed on the leavings of retiring street vendors, bought nightly by a pair of aged batchelors. But they are decent folk, good folk, the most of what I've seen of them. And the one old friend I mentioned, he is there. And the mass of them, the any of them, might have drawn more interest than I, I thought, before I knew, that I had your interest. Your intent."
Jaelle is carrying the pie, seeming a little more relaxed now that the two understand each other. She listens to Gristav's description of the inmates at the Gold Goblin with bemusement. "What is this place, another mission like the Rotgut priest's? Two old anchorites taking in strays off the streets and feeding them on charity? They won't mind ... what we're intending on doing under their roof?"
She listens to Gristav's description of the inmates at the Gold Goblin with bemusement. "What is this place, another mission like the Rotgut priest's? Two old anchorites taking in strays off the streets and feeding them on charity? They won't mind ... what we're intending on doing under their roof?"
Gristav laughs in elven notes. "What a delightful misapprehension!", he explains, catching breath before explaining, finding loose threads in the tapestry. "The girl might mind. I'd had a dream and shared it with her; one should always share a dream with a Varisi, if they're in it, yes? She may feel a right to mind, but no such right was exchanged. Still, feelings are what they are. But no other would mind; I expect the hobbit's been at it already. The Harridan will mind whatever elevates her by the complaint. But she's already had one caution..."
He met her eye, and realized he'd explained nothing, not yet. "It's no mission, it's a casino, or it will be. The... acolytes are all the sort to support and secure such a setting, and not the type to be prone to judgement against us on a moral basis. Thugs, blades, rakes, raconteurs, keen eyes and minds, a pretty dancer, a prettier wizard, who, perhaps, you'll teach to dance? And the anchorites are Saul Vankaskerkin, and Larur Felden, my 'friend of some years', who can confirm, that I haven't recently put on 'Gristav', with an eye toward deception."
Ethel suddenly coughs. "Pardon, madame," she manages. "If we're done, might I take a sip of tea? Must be a bit of dust caught in my throat."
Phil takes a modicum of pleasure from Ethel's outrage, though he similarly has to feign interest in the first of the selections that are paraded by Betta. Though as the gabardine is taken away, a fleeting thought passes through his mind and takes root. Smiling slightly, Phillip sips his tea and endures the crimpline and mockado with no real intent before the silk causes him to stand and admire with more interest. As I thought upon the roll... this would be best.
The show completed, Phillip retires to the table and makes banal conversation for a minute or two and regales the ladies with the story of the weathervanes and risen waters at the dock. Once throats are suitably wetted and diverted, Phillip turns to the task at hand "After seeing the fabric given life... I have changed my mind... It is not a single dress that I would request, instead a pair."
"The ashen grey as you suggest in high-neck, long sleeve and a straight skirt - perfect and long wearing. Though that should be second... and the first should be in the silk, square of neck and with the affectations that your assistant so mindfully noted for practicality." sending Ethel a sly wink.
Braddon and Daynadrian start down the wharf, avoiding the piles of smashed furniture and glass piled at random intervals outside buildings. The Red Barnacle proves a disreputable-looking hulk, the painted letters identifying it peeling and flaking, its crew dirty and unshaven. The men bristle with weaponry, and if one were to envision the archetypal pirate ship, one might do worse than to picture the Barnacle.
Further along, after the wharf curves around the lip of the harbor, sits the Pious Bride, a much more shipshape craft, clean and tidy with its paint fresh and its fittings polished. There are only a few crewmembers visible on the deck, including a dapper gnome and a woman with a long, chestnut braid wearing a tricorne and smoking a pipe as she leans against the railing.
Between the two, they pass the Flying Cloud, a neat but relatively undersized ship whose deck and rigging are crowded with crewmen. A halfling is hanging in a sort of rope harness over the edge of the railing applying some pitch.
"It's no mission, it's a casino, or it will be. The... acolytes are all the sort to support and secure such a setting, and not the type to be prone to judgement against us on a moral basis. Thugs, blades, rakes, raconteurs, keen eyes and minds, a pretty dancer, a prettier wizard, who, perhaps, you'll teach to dance? And the anchorites are Saul Vankaskerkin, and Larur Felden, my 'friend of some years', who can confirm, that I haven't recently put on 'Gristav', with an eye toward deception."
"Aye," she points out quickly, "unless he's your accomplice and you've already coached him what to say when asked. A casino?" she gives him an appraising glance. "I could see you in a mission first, wandering the streets, doing good deeds for dogs and old men," she smiles, "kissing women in Desna's name."
"...and Larur Felden, my 'friend of some years', who can confirm, that I haven't recently put on 'Gristav', with an eye toward deception.""Aye," she points out quickly, "unless he's your accomplice and you've already coached him what to say when asked. A casino?" she gives him an appraising glance. "I could see you in a mission first, wandering the streets, doing good deeds for dogs and old men," she smiles, "kissing women in Desna's name."
Gristav slows a moment in his pace, answering Jaelle's smile with softening eyes and halting words. "a... ah... Thank you.", he says softly. "That means... a lot, to me. That you'd see me doing good. Thank you." Resuming his perhaps hurried pace, he returns to his usual snappy patter, "Saying such things, when a man's arms are full.", he complains, smiling.
"When you meet Larur, you'll know, he's neither talent nor patience for subterfuge. Oh... and... what he has, it's not catching. Nor getting any better. That's... that's why, I'm at the casino. To help Larur. Otherwise, I'd have already... well, found something worth more somewhere else, and been a-horse, taking it there. We'd not have met, nor know to lament the loss."
"Thank you.", he says again.
"After seeing the fabric given life... I have changed my mind... It is not a single dress that I would request, instead a pair."
"The ashen grey as you suggest in high-neck, long sleeve and a straight skirt - perfect and long wearing. Though that should be second... and the first should be in the silk, square of neck and with the affectations that your assistant so mindfully noted for practicality." sending Ethel a sly wink.
Betta harrumphs noncommittally as she flips open a small book and jots some measurements with a charcoal. "That will be three gold. Up front." She fixes Phillip with a stern glance. "If you don't pick these up when they're done, I'll have very few options what to do with them. Not a lot of halfling women in town. I'll likely end up having to pass them on to her." She jabs her chin in Ethel's direction. "I trust my reputation is sufficient that you needn't have any qualms about my finishing the work to satisfaction."
"Thank you."
She laughs. "Most men I know would not take being compared to a simple friar as a compliment." The brass dome of the Gold Goblin is glinting in the afternoon sun as they approach the casino.