"Thanks for the help," Braddon calls to Gristav's retreating back, his voice totally lacking in sincerity.
"He's got plenty more to tell us." Braddon jabs a thumb towards Weatherby. "I'm happy to find out what it is."
"We should probably ask around Lubbertown tomorrow and see what we can learn about Gramma. Leave the scribe a day or two and he'll be happy to chat. Head to Lil's flat and get some stuff. Did he have keys? Or will Dayne be letting us in again?"
The four horsemen regain the main road and turn west toward Riddleport. The city's lights are wholly hidden from them by the intervening ridge, and the clouds massing on the horizon blot out the stars, making it appear that they are riding into inky blackness. The dull red glow of a bonfire stands out like a pole star against the rock, somewhere above and to the left of the road ahead, perhaps on the well-rutted path that climbed steeply upward to the south just past the notch through the ridge.
The creaking and scuttling sounds from the swampy shipyard over the cliff are as unsettling as the first time they passed through the Boneyard, but they gradually become aware of another noise as they advance: a kind of tuneless drone, as of a man singing without words. The rhythm is slow and plodding, but Braddon recognizes the basic melody as a popular sea chantey he heard often in the taverns of Ostenso, albeit sung with neither joy nor life. Looking over the edge of the cliff to discover the singer, they spy a body hanging from a noose strung over the yard of a pitched mast and swaying lightly in the night air. Despite the unnatural angle of his head to his body which announces his neck was broken, the dead man is staring mildly up at the road, a slight smile on his bloated face as he keens.
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Meanwhile, east of the junction, Gristav has no trouble locating the stranger afoot once more, still trudging toward the city.
Taking the hand of Ethel that graced the ghoulette table and giving it a kiss, Phillip raises a singular eyebrow and asks "So... where do you think you went wrong?" in a matter of fact tone, but without any malice or true negative reproachment.
Ethel's smile falters, and she sighs. "I thought the hard part would be the sneaking, not the finding you."
Phillip smiles and lifts up her downcast face with a finger "You did well to make the table unseen and touch... that I cannot fault. But as soon as you did, you lost all focus and form. If we were not practicing that would have left you exposed and in danger."
"The other is difficult to learn without repetition and confidence... but while you stalked towards the table your eyes narrowed and you thought only of your task. That can also be dangerous, had you larcenous intent once you reached the table - would you have known if you had one of the gendarme shadowing you at your back?" giving her chin a friendly pinch before putting arm around her again.
"The next is a little easier should you still be willing? A test of eyes, and then of your skillful tongue?"
As he slips his arm around her waist, she leans her head against his shoulder. "I thought I was done when I reached the table," she grouses, "but I guess if it were more than a game, I wouldn't be safe until I was home with the door locked. What next, Phil?"
The traveler adjusts his pack as a tiny creature within moves busily, poking its head out of the top of it. "Alright, Luck, you're gonna have to be still and hide. Looks like we're gettin' close to town and I don't feel like explaining what's in my pack and why. Just too much trouble." He feels the irritation of the request from his tiny friend. "I know you don't like it, but just deal with it for a bit longer. You can get out of there soon enough and run around." Just before the mongoose returns to his disliked hiding place, he nips at the tall man on the shoulder. Narrowing his eyes, he stops. "Alright, Luck, that's enough of that. I told you I'd let you out soon enough."
As he starts back up, he hears another rider heading his way. "Another rider? I'd hate to travel this road during the day," he complains. "Let's hope this one is as friendly as the last one." Noticing it's the same rider, a measure of relief comes over him. "Find who you're lookin' for, bub?"
"Thanks for the help," Braddon calls to Gristav's retreating back, his voice totally lacking in sincerity.
"Good of you to wait!", Gristav shouts back, good humor in his voice, holding aloft his bow in salute, but not turning.
----------
Finding again the stranger, Gristav is struck by wimsy. "Hail, afoot!", he calls again, "Have you seen riders?"
Stopping some yards ahead of the stranger, Gristav dismounts, and transfers his sundry slung equipments from Hellbent to himself, before bowing to the phantom. "Thank you", Gris says. Hellbent dips its head and nickers, fading with the echoes.
"Good night for a walk", Gris says to the stranger, "But not alone."
"Find who you're lookin' for, bub?"
"You, just now.", Gristav evades. "Just do remember, I was still asking, the second time."
"Have you seen riders?"
"Just you, bub," he responds as he then watches him dismount and then observes his horse disappear into nothing. "Nice trick. Handy too, I'll give you that."
"Good night for a walk," Gris says to the stranger,"But not alone."
The traveler nods. "I won't complain to company. Especially when they aren't tryin' to kill me," he states candidly as he starts back toward town. "So what kind of place is this 'Gold Goblin'? You're not gonna tell me goblins run the place, are you?" he asks, truly curious as to his answer.
As he slips his arm around her waist, she leans her head against his shoulder. "I thought I was done when I reached the table," she grouses, "but I guess if it were more than a game, I wouldn't be safe until I was home with the door locked. What next, Phil?"
And not even then... but you do trust me... Phillip gives her a consolatory squeeze "The next is easier, take a turn with me around the floor... and find for me a mark, from afar and tell me why they would be ripe for plucking."
Despite the unnatural angle of his head to his body which announces his neck was broken, the dead man is staring mildly up at the road, a slight smile on his bloated face as he keens.
Braddon backs away from the edge.
"C'mon. Let's get out of here. We've got... work to do."He turns his horse away, grabs the lead rope for the scribe and his horse then trots off down the path, urging the others to follow.
"Have you seen riders?""Just you, bub," he responds as he then watches him dismount and then observes his horse disappear into nothing. "Nice trick. Handy too, I'll give you that."
"Until it fades, and you're afoot at large...", Gristav faux-laments, conjuring himself clean of the effluent evidence of his equestrian efforts. "But better two men arrive, than one, even if one arrives earlier."
"Good night for a walk," Gris says to the stranger,"But not alone."The traveler nods. "I won't complain to company. Especially when they aren't tryin' to kill me," he states candidly as he starts back toward town. "So what kind of place is this 'Gold Goblin'? You're not gonna tell me goblins run the place, are you?" he asks, truly curious as to his answer.
"No... there's a harpy, who might think to, and a nymph, who might in time. But it's a disgraced and disfigured crimelord, whose name is superscripted to the Goblin. Saul Vankaskerkin, and if you meet him, have a care offering your hand. He's one hand short. And near a foot shorter than you. All of which pretenses further discussion. What is Riddleport to you, beside the end of the day's road, Mister...?"
"What is Riddleport to you, beside the end of the day's road, Mister...?"
"Nothing more than that at this point. 'Mister'?" He looks at him curiously before it hits him. "Oh yeah, my name. Well it's...," he curiously hesitates a moment before taking a quick glance in the direction of his backpack. "Snake. Call me Snake," he answers, feeling the crankiness of his tiny friend within his pack. That's for nippin' at me, he thinks to himself as a wry grin forms.
Malkith smirks at Braddon's reluctance to linger, but utters a quick prayer to the Fates all the same.
"Now, if you'd named yourself 'Packer', or such, I'd have understood...", Gristav grinned, flourishing his grey ashwood staff. "I've given you my name, as 'Gristav', after all. But 'Snake', then? An effective defense, for a bag.", Gris judges approvingly.
"And a pseudonym seems wise, in any case. Yours has an aura of menace to go with your large frame, neither a bad thing in Riddleport. And the town seems to hold the perpetual promise of dark doings, done or done to, or even dutifully defended against. An alias as armor against authority's arts, or to better shed sinister interests' intents... quite wise."
"I spoke of Saul, as short a hand. Which is true, in as many ways as might come quickly to mind. If you'd linger in Riddleport, consider lurking at the Goblin. Are you planned in Riddleport long?"
He listens to the magus as he speaks, angling his attention slightly toward him, a raised eyebrow due to how much this man has to say. As he finishes, he responds to his question. "Hm, good question. I'm not exactly sure. Until it's time to move on, I'd wager. And I'll take you up on this 'Goblin' place. Sounds interesting." He pauses a moment as the light on the end of his staff goes out. Immediately bringing it back, "Not as fancy as your horse trick, but useful. So 'Riddleport', huh? Sounds like this place is full of trouble," he says, a small sigh escaping as he keeps a watchful eye out on his surroundings.
Just remembering he's dirt broke, "You wouldn't happen to know of any jobs available within this town, would you? I'm a little short on coin."
Daynadrian sets an arrow to his string and seems to consider the idea of putting an arrow into the swinging corpse, but as Braddon and Malkith urge their mounts forward, he follows suit, lowering his bow reluctantly. When they have advanced a little further up the road, the song fades, and the elf turns to look back over his shoulder. "It's gone!" he says sharply but softly, and as Braddon looks back as well, he can see that the yard is empty of both noose and corpse; the gloom is too deep for Malkith's eyes to penetrate.
Drawing nearer to the ridge which shelters Riddleport, the three can no longer see the glow of the bonfire, which is now hidden from them by the tor to the south. As they approach the turn-off that leads up the hill, a bank of fog begins to billow out from nowhere, obscuring the road leading ahead. It is a hot summer night; there is no natural explanation for a thick fog arising, but it is there, regardless, between the men and the city. Daynadrian reins in his horse just enough to slow its pace. "Do we go through it?" he asks uneasily.
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Gristav and the stranger, on foot, arrive at the junction where they must choose to go straight ahead through the Boneyard or turn north to enter the city through Lubbertown.
..."Not as fancy as your horse trick, but useful. So 'Riddleport', huh? Sounds like this place is full of trouble," he says, a small sigh escaping as he keeps a watchful eye out on his surroundings.
Just remembering he's dirt broke, "You wouldn't happen to know of any jobs available within this town, would you? I'm a little short on coin."
"I've no doubt I was unclear, earlier. In vicar's voice, then: I'll make introduction to this one-handed Saul, who I suspect will welcome your height and shoulders. I myself, will welcome another arcanist about; you'll be the fourth or fifth in the employ of the Goblin."
"Which brings me to your earlier question of trouble... Indeed. The Goblin's an unpopular effort by an unpopular man, and has had and expects concerted plotwork against it, above the usual trouble a casino might draw. Unraveling the tangle of some of that, brought me to this road, though I would withhold explanation until it were Saul's choice. It being at least nominally his business."
At the juncture, Gristav pauses. "The longer path, expected safer, the one I recommended for the man alone. Or the shorter path, some local color perhaps, as an option for a man no longer alone?"
"The one-handed man it is then."
He then takes a moment to look down both paths. "Well now you've got me curious. Last I checked curiosity was never a good thing." He stares a moment down the "safe" path before turning to the magus. "Shorter path it is. Way I see it, worst that could happen is I could die. Let's move." He adjusts his pack and starts off down the road.
"Now, as to particulars of the road...", Gristav began, setting out on the Boneyard Road. "Haunted reputation, attended by a hermit who goes to the trouble to maintain a bonfire, considerable trouble for a single man, a particularity that's always tickled. Now, aside from light, heat, and safety, a bonfire's a steady signal, say to a ship at sea? The ancient wrecks illustrate it's not a welcoming harbor, but that doesn't prove that none are welcome." Gristav smiles grimly.
"It does suggest we might not be. Welcome, I mean. Although, if unwelcome, we might in fact come not to be. You might favor less of that light, if you'll trust my elven eyes."
"Snake" looks to him a moment before looking back down the road. Taking a deep breath, he nods. "Alright. But before I do that...," he takes his pack off and bends at the knees to lay it on the ground so as to let his mongoose out. "Alright, Luck, if trouble comes you run to safety, you got me?" He looks up at Gristav a moment, "This is Lucky." He then picks up a rock, stands, and casts light upon it which transfers it from the end of his staff to it, and then he throws it far behind them. Turning back to Gristav, "Lead on."
"Good to meet you, Lucky.", Gristav says to the mongoose. At the tossing of the stone, Gristav suggests, "I'd have found a pocket for that."
Unable to disagree, he picks up another and lights it up, placing it within the pocket on the inside of his coat. "Alright, now we can go. Stay close, Luck," he tells his furry friend as they head out.
Settling into silence, at least a silence of voice, Gristav readies his bow as a balance to Snake's staff, and leads the human at a pace comfortable for Gristav's elven eyes.
Taking Phil's arm, Ethel accompanies him in a circuit of the casino: the pressing crowd around the ghoulette wheel, the churning crowd moving in and out from the bounder and pontoon tables, the orderly queues at the cashiers' cage and the less orderly ones at the bar. She is uncharacteristically quiet as her eyes scan the room. "Him," she finally hazards, nodding at a man playing Crown and Anchor. "He's had several drinks, and the table is away from the Gendarmes and near the front door so you could slip out and be lost in the crowd before he realizes he's been robbed."
"It's gone!" Daynadrian says sharply but softly, and as Braddon looks back as well, he can see that the yard is empty of both noose and corpse; the gloom is too deep for Malkith's eyes to penetrate.
Braddon peers back at where the hanged man had been. "He can stay gone. Keep moving."
But as the suspicious mist appears, Braddon draws up his reins and peers into it.
"It seems too close to the city to be ghosts. And if we can't see them, then they can't see us, right?"
Braddon pulls his bastard sword and spurs his mount into the mists.
"It isn't far now. Just don't stop."
"The spirits are content enough to let us pass unmolested; I suggest we extend them a similar courtesy," Malkith says when he notices Daynadrian equipping his bow. He pays his companions remarks little heed as the ghostly song subsides, but from under his hood a small smile tugs at the corners of his mouth.
As the mysterious fog forms ahead, Malkith pulls on the reigns. "This isn't natural, but we're too close to Riddleport to go the other route." As his companion spurs his mount, the Varisian reaches a hand out to signal Braddon to stop. "We do not know what we are dealing with here. Just because our sight cannot penetrate this fog, does not mean whatever created it cannot. Or perhaps they need not."
Malkith looks around them. "If this is a trap, we would be best to face it where we can see our adversary. If this is nothing more than a queer but harmless phenomenon then we lose nothing by tarrying a few moments."
Phillip casts his own eye over Ethel's intended target appraising it himself before nodding "A fair thought... the drink should make him more easily distracted and less likely to notice if he has been rolled."
"What of using your ears... who or where would to look to go if you were interested in overhearing words that another might pay money for?"
As Malkith reins in his horse and Braddon begins to spur his ahead, Daynadrian suddenly holds up a hand. "Wait!" he whispers intently. "Do you hear that?" A moment later, Malkith hears it as well: a low growl of a voice lilting the same tune the hanged man was keening. It seems to be coming from somewhere high up in the cloud of fog ahead of them.
Braddon frowns, not hearing whatever Dayn is and about to say so when he also becomes aware of the singing.
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Some time later, blissfully unaware of the experiences of the party that preceded them, Gristav and Snake begin to cross the Boneyard. The skeletons of the decrepit ships emit unaccountable creaks and groans, and the occasional plash of the swampy water below seems to bear witness that something lives, or at least moves, among them.
Some time later, blissfully unaware of the experiences of the party that preceded them, Gristav and Snake begin to cross the Boneyard. The skeletons of the decrepit ships emit unaccountable creaks and groans, and the occasional plash of the swampy water below seems to bear witness that something lives, or at least moves, among them.
Gristav walks ahead, his bow ready, careful not to get beyond what he imagines to be the sight of the human he's leading.
Braddon stops his horse at the edge of the mists and pokes at it with his sword.
"Is that the same guy?"
He looks to Malkith.
"If it's a trap, we shouldn't even be here. Let's head back."
He turns his horse and retreats from the mists, looking back over his shoulder as he does so.
Phillip casts his own eye over Ethel's intended target appraising it himself...
It's not a bad choice: The man has been drinking enough to be impaired of judgment, and he is near the door, but he's also on a losing streak with the dice that makes him unlikely to be too lucrative a mark. The selection is a bit conservative; Phillip himself would accept a higher level of risk in return for a better payout.
"What of using your ears... who or where would to look to go if you were interested in overhearing words that another might pay money for?"
"The House of Nabin," she suggests, offering him a conspiratorial smile before turning her attention to opportunities nearer to hand. "The wealthiest men play at golem," she observes, turning her eyes upward toward the balcony. "They might be talking business. It would be even better if they brought their mistresses; they'd have nothing to do but gossip while they're waiting for their men."
Phillip smiles and follows her gaze to the upper level "One would think so... but those who have money seldom speak of it to others... especially those they do not know" and instead his eyes go to the bar, looking for a footman or attendant drinking cheap liquor "The hired help. More easily grateful for a drink offered, less likely to understand the significance of what they might be speaking... and most importantly... more likely to be less wise. You'd need to work harder at it, but with a bit of luck you'll be far better off."
Just then Phillip smirks as he remembers his afternoon, and the manner in which he was dismissed by one swathed in bottle-green... and how the book fetcher was much more easily swayed. "But we digress... a test for your tongue." winking and gesturing with chin towards the bar and fishing out a silver coin "A couple of drinks? - though your task is both to get the barman's name and to somehow make him feel sorry for you. I will watch, and wager your success from his distant disposition."
Ethel takes the coin and turns it over for a moment in her fingers with a thoughtful frown before giving Phil a hopeful nod and heading toward the bar.
Phillip appreciatively watches her sashay towards the bar, before wiping emotion from his face and watching.
Malkith reigns the horses further back from the fog, but stops short of a full retreat. "Trap or no, we're too close to Riddleport to double back now." He controls his horse again, this time to face the misty cover. He gives Daynadrian a look as if to ask whether he will stay or go before a dramatic twist of his wrist springs the harrow's dagger to hand.
Daynadrian looks at the fog, then down at the bow in his hand, and grimaces. Returning the arrow on the string to his quiver and putting his bow away, he instead draws his longsword. "Come on, Braddon," he says, looking over his shoulder at the retreating half-elf, "you said you weren't afraid." (Actually speaking the word ghost seems like tempting fate so close to the fog.)
The fog sits there, unchanged and unmoving. The singing seems to be drawing closer, descending toward them through the mist.
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Gristav and Snake continue crossing the Boneyard. The clouds are drawing in closer, and the whole western sky is dark now. Gristav calculates the speed of the storm nervously with an eye to the distance between the encroaching clouds and the nearly-full moon. If they can only make it through the notch in the ridge before the sky darkens, they'll have the lights of town to guide them, but the thought of stumbling along the road on the edge of the precipice in the dark is not one he cherishes.
Doing his maths silently, Gristav slows a pace to gain the range of a whisper to Snake. "If the clouds catch the moon, you may want your pebble. If we make the ridge before, the lights of the town will serve. Shall we hasten, indiscrete? Or roll the dice?"
Snake looks upon the sky, noticing the clouds moving near to covering the moon. "Let's move. Last thing I wanna be out here is completely blind. The sooner we make town, the better."
Braddon pulls up his horse down the road, keeping the edge of the fog just in sight and making sure the scribe is nearby.
"Pull back." He sheaths his sword and readies Weatherby's crossbow.
"Don't make it easy to trap you."
Dayn glances at Malkith, seeing if he intends to follow the half-elf's lead. "If something's in there," he points out, "I'd rather it come out here after us than meet it inside the cloud where we can't see."
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Ethel crosses to the bar, weaving her way through the crowd, and climbs up a stool to get the staff's attention; unlike at the Watercress, there are no furnishings here sized for Small patrons' convenience. Phil watches as she engages the barman in conversation, toying flirtatiously with the silver coin on the counter. The man smiles in response, setting his forearms on the countertop and leaning across the bar for a span of time, before the crowd begins to back up and one of his fellow employees gives him an exasperated elbow. He stands in a hurry, filling two glasses for Ethel, and waits for her to hop down from the stool before carefully handing them over the bar to her. She parts from him with a coy smile and sets out into the casino again, looking for Phil.
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Gristav and Snake pick up their pace, hoping to reach the ridge before the clouds do. Moving quickly, Snake must trust in Gristav's keen eyesight to keep him from blundering into danger, and Gristav hears sounds from the Boneyard that he hasn't the leisure to try to locate and identify. Closing their eyes and ears to what might lurk in the periphery, they focus instead on the road ahead of them and the sanctuary of the city beyond.
Phil watches the exchange appraisingly before awaiting Ethel's return. Taking the glass and sipping whatever it was that Ethel saw fit to order, he comments "Well you certainly managed to monopolize his attentions..."
Malkith nods in agreement. With knife still in hand, he retreats further back from the fog. "Let it come to us."
The three riders withdraw a bowshot from the verge of the fog and wait, the fourth horse and its burden following docilely behind them. As they turn their mounts' heads back toward the cloud, the singing voice draws closer: "Won’t you take me away boys, me time is not long ... Wrap me up in me oil-skin and jumper ... No more on the docks I’ll be seen ... Just tell me old shipmates, I’m taking a trip mates ... I’m sailing tonight on the Nuckelavee Green...."
A figure becomes visible to Braddon and Daynadrian at the very edge of the fog. It looks to be the hanged man from the yardarm at the other end of the Boneyard. He is tall and powerfully built, dressed as a sailor, and when he grins, his wide mouth seems to have too many teeth, all sharp as a predator's. "You'll be paying a toll to cross the Boneyard tonight, mates," he rasps in a deep growl of a voice. "One of the four joins my crew. Which will it be?" He points a long, spindly finger in their direction as if to take his pick of the four riders.
Daynadrian spurs his horse forward several paces. "Malkith," he calls back, "take the scribe and ride for Riddleport." Holding the horse steady with his knees, he raises his bow to take aim at the figure on the edge of the fog and fires. The arrow seems to lodge in his target's arm, but the sailor doesn't even flinch. Dayn's horse, on the other hand, nickers nervously as the bowstring twangs behind its ear.
"Well you certainly managed to monopolize his attentions..."
"Well, of course," Ethel replies a little smugly, smoothing her skirts. "His name is Vern Thrayer, and he put a little something extra in my drinks because my flatmate is out tonight with the fellow I set my cap for so I'm looking to drown my sorrows and have a little fun. He said these would take my mind off of them." She takes a sip from her own glass and grimaces slightly. They are colorful mixed drinks, bright with syrup, but Phil can taste a powerful rum kick beneath the sweetness.
Phillip is curious at Ethel's grimace, though his own sip and the undercurrent of rum gives him explanation enough. With a smile he gives a slight bow "And well and safely done milady... is there aught you would see me do in recompense for setting such tasks? - or is it far enough along in the evening for us to gamble?"
Malkith looks nervously at Braddon as Daynadrian orders the Varisian to ride. He takes the half-elf by the shoulder, as if to hold his companion back from the fight for a moment. Before releasing him, Malkith whispers into the night, "Hãy để phần còn lại đi tìm chết trước khi bạn làm." With the spell cast, the harrower reaches for the reigns of the scribe's horse and urges it into motion.
"Fair enough, fair enough," the sailor chortles. "Only one must stay to pay the toll. Which of you two will stay and board the Nuckelavee Green with me? How about ... you?" His extended finger settles on Braddon, and with a sound that is more a guttural moan than a word, the half-elf and his steed both glow with a sickly green fire to mark the sailor's selection.
"And well and safely done milady... is there aught you would see me do in recompense for setting such tasks? - or is it far enough along in the evening for us to gamble?"
"Phil," she replies, taking his free hand in her own, "you've already given me so much. The perfume and the bracelet and the dresses ... well," she amends wickedly, "I'll thank you for one of them anyway. I just want to have some fun for a while, and I want to get just a little bit drunk, and then I want you to take me home."