As it is upon the walk, and Phillip has purpose to expend prior to his next planned action - the halfling allows his steps to lead him Southwards through alleys until Zincher's Arena looms up before him. At first, he takes in what bills of action might be posted in the area - before making for the entrance where he fortuitously slipped earlier in the week.
Gristav enters the Three Billed Duck, Braddon and Snake in tow. Behind the latticed windows with their flowerboxes, the interior is all dark wood, brass fixtures, and dim booths. In the middle of the room is a square bar tended by a middle-aged man with a well-receded hairline and a comfortable paunch from the step-saving efficiency of his set-up; Gristav recognizes him as Quinta Crispin's husband and the owner of the tavern. "Welcome back," he grins at the half-elf. "I trust your dinner was a success?"
----------------------
Phillip's stroll takes through alleys behind Flask & Stubb's, where he purchased Larur Felden's Sargavan Red, and within view of the clothier's where Ethel ordered his new wardrobe before he comes out onto the road just north of the arena. He crosses in front of the colorful windows of the Bazaar of the Seafaring Peddlar to the massive outer walls of the coliseum with their graphic depictions of gladiatorial battles. Near the entrances are posted the handbills advertising upcoming events. There are practice bouts open to the public beginning Fireday afternoon, then a full slate of fights on Starday pitting Zincher's stable against Boss Croat's half-orc gladiators.
Phil approaches the chained bars of the gate between which Ranef invited him in on Toilday. He can hear the faint sounds of shouts and clatter of wooden implements which tells him the fighters are still at practice on the sand.
Phillip listens to the sound of voices and clatter of wood for a few moments as he ponders the handbills and preparations. Satisfied at least that there were no mentions of upcoming battles betwixt man and arachnoid beast he ponders slipping within to see Ranef, but is put to pause by remembering Akron's stern gaze. Slickling back his hair with one hand he gives himself a nod before deciding against imposing himself without invitation.
Backing away, he instead turns and crosses the short distance to reunite with Hassan and his peddled goods.
Gristav enters the Three Billed Duck, Braddon and Snake in tow. Behind the latticed windows with their flowerboxes, the interior is all dark wood, brass fixtures, and dim booths. In the middle of the room is a square bar tended by a middle-aged man with a well-receded hairline and a comfortable paunch from the step-saving efficiency of his set-up; Gristav recognizes him as Quinta Crispin's husband and the owner of the tavern. "Welcome back," he grins at the half-elf. "I trust your dinner was a success?"
"With all involved happy to have been so! If there's another measure of success, let us not subscribe.", Gristav bargains with the man's intent, allowing whatever meaning the tavernkeep implied, survive, if it pleased him. Presenting the emptied and magic-clean crock, Gris adds, "It sat a while on the warming shelf. And was still quite good. Never did get to the pie.", his voice carefully neutral, in like wise.
Braddon looks up from examining the brass fixtures.
"Dinner? Pie? What is there to eat?"
Gristav laughs. "Half the elf, but twice the stomach. What can we have to weight his winge and rent a table through lunch? And please do suggest something from a barrel."
"Aye, have yourselves a seat," the man answers cheerfully, taking the stew pot from Gristav. "You've your pick of the tables: private business conversation," he indicates the booths on the periphery of the room, "or people watching?" nodding to the tables and chairs in the open around the bar. "It may not look it now, but I'll swear to us having a full house at noon, especially with the dreary weather keeping folks out of the courtyard. Quinta!" he calls at the kitchen door. "Got a pot needs stowing!"
The plump hostess comes bustling through the swinging door, her sleeves pushed up to her elbows but her smooth black hair pinned back neatly beneath her starched cap. "Alex, what is it? You know we're busy back there and ... Oh!" Her tone and expression change when she spies the three customers, and she graces them with an ingratiating smile. "So nice to have a repeat customer," she coos at Gristav, "and you've different guests with you than yesterday. My, you're quite a tall one, aren't you?" she smiles up at Snake. "I do admire a tall man." Her husband, who is no more than average height, rolls his eyes with a long-suffering air.
Snake looks to the woman with a raised eyebrow as he manages to catch the bartender's reaction. Grinning wryly, "Well, um, thanks. The name's...," he pauses a brief moment, realizing now Gristav's concern over such a title as he possesses. Trying to remember what the name he recommended and utterly unable too, he shoots for something he thinks it might have been. "Kane. And I'm new here so I'll guess I'll take whatever you recommend - Quinta? Was it?"
"Oh, now, 'Mistress Crispin' to you," she leans in to chide him with a broad smile. "I'm a married woman, you know. We've a nice lobster bisque if you want something light, or we could whip up some mussels or crab cakes or mackerel with dumplings."
Phillip enters the Bazaar, greeted by the now-familiar jingle of the silver bell and the sight of the colorful jumble of Hassan's eclectic goods. A few moments after the bell's chime is silenced, the eponymous peddlar himself appears in the doorway from his rooms behind the store. "Ah, my friend," he clasps his hands and offers the halfling a slight bow, "you have returned. I trust your lady friend was pleased with the attar? Or have you simply come to visit your puzzle box once more?"
"Oh, now, 'Mistress Crispin' to you," she leans in to chide him with a broad smile. "I'm a married woman, you know. We've a nice lobster bisque if you want something light, or we could whip up some mussels or crab cakes or mackerel with dumplings."
Snake grins. "Mistress Crispin' it is then," he responds, nodding respectfully. "And the lobster will be fine, thanks."
Phillip tips his imaginary hat to Hassan before smoothing down his mustache while looking about the store to ensure that there are only four ears within to hear the words that will follow. He begins amiably "Indeed the attar was well received and has engendered welcome feelings of gratitude... and while the puzzle box is present within my mind I do not come today to speak of it." moving through the store as he speaks.
Idly running a hand along a display case, Phillip stills his ambulation to more cryptically continue "One that I know may have come into possession of some merchandise that would be of no interest to your good self... but might pique excitement in the sort of man that barters for those goods that you would not sell..." pausing to ensure that Hassan is both following him and seeking a tacit endorsement to continue weaving his words.
"Oh, now, 'Mistress Crispin' to you," she leans in to chide him with a broad smile. "I'm a married woman, you know. We've a nice lobster bisque if you want something light, or we could whip up some mussels or crab cakes or mackerel with dumplings."
"Mackerel."
"Please."
"So nice to have a repeat customer," (Quinta) coos at Gristav, "and you've different guests with you than yesterday. My, you're quite a tall one, aren't you?" she smiles up at Snake. "I do admire a tall man." Her husband, who is no more than average height, rolls his eyes with a long-suffering air.
Happy for Quinta's immediate segue onto Snake's stature, Gristav grins, "I do believe in making Quality known to Quality. These two were nearly in too late to even sample the stew you put up to take out. So I thought you'd all benefit from the knowing of the others... Say, has the hound returned? The one with the gnome... Greatreve?"
Gristav tries to guide the seating toward a view of the door, while still taking a booth, sure that at some point there'd be words best unheard at the bar.
"And Master Crispin? We'll want a keg of whatever you've got from a barrel. By the tankard... we're not barbarians. Not on one keg."
Alex Crispin acknowledges Gristav's request with a nod as the party slides into a booth with a view of the front door. An oil lamp trimmed low on the table twinkles like a star in the shadows but has a knob to adjust the brightness of the flame.
"Say, has the hound returned? The one with the gnome... Greatreve?"
"Hm," Quinta sniffs at the mention of the gnome and his dog. "Not yet, but I'd expect him before long. He always turns up for griddlecakes, sometimes two or three times in a day." She seems caught between embarrassment at the unconventional regular and pride at his obvious loyalty to her recipe.
"One that I know may have come into possession of some merchandise that would be of no interest to your good self... but might pique excitement in the sort of man that barters for those goods that you would not sell..."
Hassan frowns contemplatively. "It can be a heavy burden to possess such merchandise. One feels one has a right to reasonable compensation ... but one must always fear the consequences of being discovered at an inconvenient time and place. I would advise your acquaintance to close the business as quickly as possible and let those with established connections worry about its subsequent disposal; they know the methods to induce people to look the other way."
Nodding sagely Phillip agrees "Indeed, which is why neither you nor I would be so foolish as to offer same for sale." sighing and making a wafting dismissive sweep with his hands "But the acquantaince is not so wise... and having burdened himself thus, the kind step to take would be to attempt to resolve his situation."
Affixing Hassan with direct gaze "Spiders, comparable in size to myself and equipped with a venom that makes strength fade. At least one living, possibly two and either two or three corpses besides. They are not mine to speak for... but if there was one looking to establish a connection... I can give words that would have them heard."
Raising an eyebrow meaningfully "Of course neither you would be so foolish as to have our names attached to such folly... and neither needs to."
"Dangerous beasts," Hassan muses. "The arena would be the obvious outlet, and I doubt Cleg Zincher would delve too deeply into the source of a good bargain."
Alex Crispin acknowledges Gristav's request with a nod as the party slides into a booth with a view of the front door. An oil lamp trimmed low on the table twinkles like a star in the shadows but has a knob to adjust the brightness of the flame.
"Say, has the hound returned? The one with the gnome... Greatreve?""Hm," Quinta sniffs at the mention of the gnome and his dog. "Not yet, but I'd expect him before long. He always turns up for griddlecakes, sometimes two or three times in a day." She seems caught between embarrassment at the unconventional regular and pride at his obvious loyalty to her recipe.
"Yes...", Gristav says with a look of doing maths. "And always the hound has some? That's... unconventional, for a hound. When they arrive, show them to our table, please? There's the business we didn't discuss yesterday, you see. They'd be, my guests, of course. And I would like, to try your cakes. And carry off a pie, again?"
The shadow of the booth might hide, whether Gristav wears a smirk or a smile. He leaves the wick unraised, finding the light sufficient.
Phillip can't help but laugh as Hassan suggests Zincher, holding up a palm for pause before shaking his head and explaining "I would ward against that route my friend... I could say more but it is the better I do not. One cannot lie if one does not know the truth."
"Hm," the shopkeep replies, raising his eyebrows, "perhaps this burdensome merchandise originated from the arena? No, don't answer. But if your acquaintance has crossed Cleg Zincher, I would advise him to be rid of the evidence quickly and in such a way that it cannot be traced back to him. Cleg Zincher is not a forgiving man."
He frowns in thought a moment. "If the arena is ruled out, my next thought would be one of the bosses who might enjoy an exotic pet ... but such an acquisition would surely come to Mr. Zincher's attention. What you need is a man with the ego and the wealth to lay out coin on his whims but who does not move in the same circles as the lords of the city. A businessman in Windward perhaps? But he would not wish such dangerous creatures in the same house with his family."
His brow suddenly smooths. "There is a man," he tells Phillip, "a man who was once a power in Riddleport but whose influence has declined since the Overlord became resident on Maskyr's Island. His fortune, however, has suffered no such decline, from what I understand, and he still does some moneylending. Wilfrid Piggens is his name. I know nothing of him personally, but if anyone both has the coin for an extravagant purchase and is unlikely to come to the attention of Cleg Zincher, it would be he." He pauses. "You said there are dead ones as well? If they have not been dead too long, you might be able to sell them to an alchemist to extract the poison."
"Whoa! Whoa! Whoa!" Snake interrupts, a determined look about him. Looking her dead in the eye, "Did you say griddlecakes? I'd like to try those. I mean, if that's okay to change." Glancing at Gristav and then Braddon before returning back to Mistress Crispin, he's gotten this uncomfortable feeling as if he's forgotten something. "Please! Of course. And ma'am also. At least I think. For some reason those cakes sound good something fierce," he says with a nervous grin as he quits there, hoping he hasn't messed anything up as he pulls the tip of his hat down a tad. Why am I not comfortable in this place? It's just a place to eat. Feels 'wrong' or something and that doesn't make any sense.
"When they arrive, show them to our table, please? There's the business we didn't discuss yesterday, you see. They'd be, my guests, of course. And I would like, to try your cakes. And carry off a pie, again?"
"That filthy, flea-ridden beast in my clean tavern?" the woman protests.
"Now, Quinta," her husband interrupts, delivering the tankards, "it seems a well-behaved animal."
"Oh, what would you know, Alex Crispin?" Quinta asks angrily, following him away from the dim booth. "It's not you has to mop the floor."
As the host promised, it's not long before the lunch crowd starts to filter into the tavern; by the time their food has been delivered to the booth and the trio have drained a few tankards apiece, a good two-thirds of the tables are occupied, and the pleasant hum of multiple conversations fills the room. A few young women are helping Quinta Crispin serve tables now, and from his prime vantage point, Gristav can't help but note when one exits the front door for the outdoor dining area and comes back in calling out an order for griddlecakes to the kitchen.
"There is a man," he tells Phillip, "a man who was once a power in Riddleport but whose influence has declined since the Overlord became resident on Maskyr's Island. His fortune, however, has suffered no such decline, from what I understand, and he still does some moneylending. Wilfrid Piggens is his name."... He pauses. "You said there are dead ones as well? If they have not been dead too long, you might be able to sell them to an alchemist to extract the poison."
"Would you know of an alchemist that might have interest? I find that delicate matters such as this pass better through known entities rather than unintroduced fumblings." slicking back his hair with one hand as he puts his mind to thought upon the other issue...
Knowledge (Local):
...though his little time within the city pays him no dividend. "As to the other, your thoughts and guidance are most welcomed... you have my gratitude" giving a slight bow, before an impish thought takes hold. He recalls one of the first things seen when he entered the store A barrel filled with sawdust-stuffed toy animals fashioned of bright patchwork fabric
"I cannot depart without rewarding your kindness with purchase..." picking through the stuffed animals in search of a snake... a raccoon... and a butterfly.
"When they arrive, show them to our table, please? There's the business we didn't discuss yesterday, you see. They'd be, my guests, of course. And I would like, to try your cakes. And carry off a pie, again?""That filthy, flea-ridden beast in my clean tavern?" the woman protests.
"Now, Quinta," her husband interrupts, delivering the tankards, "it seems a well-behaved animal."
"Oh, what would you know, Alex Crispin?" Quinta asks angrily, following him away from the dim booth. "It's not you has to mop the floor."
"Nor you, this day.", Gristav suggests, rising from the table, entrained in their exit by his entreaty. "Might I see your kitchens? There's something I'd like to show you."
...?
"I have need of a discrete dialog with the... with the gnome. And as well, the hound. If it's the mopping, that's the matter, please, accept my word and warrant, there'll be no need, and if need, no bother..." Magicking clean whatever presents itself for demonstration, making a punctuation of prestidigitation, Gristav continues, "As clean as that crock, and by the same means." Smiling as he finishes, Gristav sobers and sidles to a whispering distance. "It's a matter of some delicacy, and importance. Please, do consider my request." Looking to each of the householders, Gristav excuses himself with a slight bow, and returns to the table.
As the host promised, it's not long before the lunch crowd starts to filter into the tavern; by the time their food has been delivered to the booth and the trio have drained a few tankards apiece, a good two-thirds of the tables are occupied, and the pleasant hum of multiple conversations fills the room. A few young women are helping Quinta Crispin serve tables now, and from his prime vantage point, Gristav can't help but note when one exits the front door for the outdoor dining area and comes back in calling out an order for griddlecakes to the kitchen.
Remembering the hound's attentive needful look, Gristav does his best to manage the same soulful supplication, and to catch the eye of Quinta, or Alex...
"Would you know of an alchemist that might have interest? I find that delicate matters such as this pass better through known entities rather than unintroduced fumblings."
He grins. "A few years ago, I might have directed you to Cleg Zincher's brother, but he has died since, may Pharasma usher his soul to rest. His passing has left us bereft in Riddleport of a well-established public alchemist. There is a dwarf who has set up his shingle in Rotgut, but his reputation is not irreproachable. Perhaps that merely makes him a more likely buyer for the poison glands, however. At any rate, I can provide no introduction, only directions. Most respectable people are reduced to seeking out an alchemist passing through in Lubbertown. I can give you the name of a man I have had dealings with in the past, Pitivo Vitteri, but I cannot swear he will be there and not on the road."
Phillip is able to find the bibelots he is looking for: an undulating snake with a protruding felt tongue in golden yellow, a mauve raccoon with a plum-colored mask and ringed tail, and an indigo butterfly with embroidered silver spangles on its wings.
Magicking clean whatever presents itself for demonstration, making a punctuation of prestidigitation, Gristav continues, "As clean as that crock, and by the same means." Smiling as he finishes, Gristav sobers and sidles to a whispering distance. "It's a matter of some delicacy, and importance. Please, do consider my request."
Quinta blanches at Gristav's demonstration of arcana and acquiesces to his request with a nervous and overwide grin. As he leaves the kitchen, he overhears her instructing one of the girls to scrub out the borrowed crock with lye and boiling water, as if she hopes to kill any remnants of magic which might cling to it.
Later, when the waitress approaches the kitchen with the order for griddlecakes on the cobblestones, Mistress Crispin hurries to the swinging door and looks anxiously toward the party's booth. "Invite the Small gentleman in, Millicent," she directs with a quaver in her voice. "It's not a fit day for man nor beast to eat outside, not with the skies like to open and give his dinner a soaking."
"But, madam," the girl replies, astonished, "you know he's that smelly dog with him that he won't consent to leave outside, and you've been content to let him sit under the eaves with rain dripping on the table before--"
"Do as I say, Millicent Broadrick," the woman interrupts sharply, with another nervous glance toward where Gristav and his companions are lunching. "Seat him over there. I ... I daresay the hound will be quiet enough under table."
"Yes, madam," the girl concedes in bewilderment. She returns to the courtyard and a short time later leads in a gnome who glances around him imperiously trailed by a mottled dog of no apparent breed, creeping half-chastised already, as if he knows he isn't supposed to be there and is preparing to drop his tail between his legs and dash back out the door.
Snake taking notice of the odd looking dog, Well if they'll let that thing in here, Lucky is nothing compared to that. Good thing he likes his naps. This should be interesting.
Braddon looks about curiously as the gnome and his companion arrive. He smiles and nods at the gnome and reaches out a large hand to pat the hound and scratch behind its ears.
"Who's a good boy? Who's a good boy?"
He turns back to the gnome. "It is a boy, right?"
The dog momentarily cringes away from Braddon's hand as if afraid it might be delivering a cuff. As the half-elf scratches behind its ears, its tail begins to thud against the plank floor in a repetitive whap-whap-whap.
"Certainly not," the gnome replies, drawing himself up to his full height and giving Braddon an incredulous glare. "He's a dog. My associate, Sludge. We are investigators. We find, and we find out."
"Understood" Transferring the bibelots to the counter, Phillip raises an eyebrow so as to enquire after price.
Gristav tries to hide from the face the burden he feels, at having bullied Quinta's acquiescence. However much he hadn't intended it so, it was how it had been... now how to put it right?
He pushed it from his mind to rise at the approach of the gnome and the hound. "Mister Greatreave, good of you to join us. And good to have the... boy with us, as well." Gris gives Braddon a humored look. "Is it a boy... you are a wonder."
"Mister Greavreave, my associates, Misters Hurst and Kane, or more familiarly, Braddon and Snake. You may recall, I am Gristav. We met yesterday, in the courtyard, where you spoke of your profession. It is that which kept us at table through the morning, hoping you'd return. Shall we lunch, or discuss the business first? Even if we all agree to urgency, we would need lunch."
Over lunch, Gristav will lay out his hoped-for plan of Braddon taking Natinilinus to both Lil's and the daughter's residences, for the hound to gather scents, and then, though it has been some days, for gnome and hound to follow their noses. "You can hardly do worse than we."
Gristav will also ask permission to prestidigitate a primping on the pooch, the present of an appearance more perfect for a prince. If Natinilinus grants such, Gristav will also ask Sludge. In this last, Gristav is not above morsel-based bribery. (Truth told, he's willing to use such on the Gnome, as well.)
(edit: Oh, alright, on Braddon, too.)
"Understood" Transferring the bibelots to the counter, Phillip raises an eyebrow so as to enquire after price.
"Ah," Hassan replies with enthusiasm, "these bright little animals were hand-crafted from mammoth wool by artisans in the Tusk Mountains. They have taken quite a journey to delight the eye of a child on the Varisian coast, no? Three silver coins apiece."
The gnome listens to Gristav's proposal over lunch. Snake and Gristav find Mistress Crispin's griddlecakes to be fluffy and flavorful, but, try as they might, they are unable to detect the overtones of raspberry and tobacco which Natinilinus insists are there. "It's a jammy recipe," he insists, "with a hint of aged oak and cedar. This griddlecake is intellectually satisfying." His glare suggests that if his interlocutors can't enjoy the meal on the same level he does, they might not deserve to eat it at all. Beneath the table, Sludge lays his head longingly on Braddon's knee, whiffing wistfully at the scent of mackerel.
"Enough!" the gnome announces as he pushes his empty plate away with a flourish. "We will take your case to find your missing crones and whores. Ten per cent of all profits or rewards resulting from the information each, plus expenses, beginning with this luncheon. We are agreed?"
"I'm not empowered to negotiate so. Nor inclined. I think you'd be cheating yourself. There's little coin in revenge, less in defense against revenge, and none at all in the rescue of an old woman. There may be gold to be found, but I wouldn't want it considered plunder, out-of-hand, and that would be forced, if a fifth of it were already in hand. Or paw." Gristav smiles.
"I can give you what you've asked of what profit I might make, as a gesture of good faith, but you'd be better served by a per diem. I... don't plan to make a profit. You're surely welcome to the lunch. And if you like, I can make introduction to someone who might promise such a share, based upon their station, but wouldn't promise such a share, based on that I'm working per diem, myself. We all are."
"Can we still do business? A lunch, more meals as attended, your portion as called from from my per diem, and the primping of your Sludge, until he might pass for a prince? One in disguise, of course..." Gristav's eyes flashed with mirth, and he hoped, earnest goodwill.
Braddon pats Sludge on the head again.
"I don't mind," he tells Gristav matter-of-factly. He appears to be only half listening to the negotiations while he takes some food from the table and presents it to the waiting snout beneath.
Phillip smiles and his eyes twinkle puckishly "Aye, though not for the eyes of a child." he produces two gold coins, placing them upon the counter in turn "For the puppets... and for our stimulating discussion and borrowing of parchment and ink." putting up twice the quoted price of the gaudy items.
Hassan's eyes reflect the glitter of the gold coins as he sweeps them off the counter. "Your custom is always a welcome pleasure," he replies with a bland smile, "although I regret to say I have already forgotten what we may have been discussing before our transaction."
Looking up at the Keleshite with a wink and shrug "I thanked you for the attars bought for my inamorata... we talked of nothing else." he climbs up upon a stool and scratches out some quick words upon two pieces of borrowed parchment, before rolling the message and tying off one around the snake puppet's neck and a second around the butterfly's abdomen. Missives written, Phillip slips off the stool, gives the man a nod and then steps back into the streets of Riddleport.
There may be a man in Lubbertown called Pitivo Vitteri... a travelling merchant of tincture and oil. He may pay for a chance to draw liquid foul from the mortos oito besta pernas.
Make use of this or not, it is the only time it will be mentioned,
Mapache
If the two new guests are now unwelcome, you could seek out Wilfrid Piggens (of him the badger likely knows). A chance they could be exchanged for gold, with little risk of the change being noted by the blade.
Make use of this or not, it is the only time it will be mentioned,
Mapache
The gnome listens to Gristav's proposal over lunch. Snake and Gristav find Mistress Crispin's griddlecakes to be fluffy and flavorful, but, try as they might, they are unable to detect the overtones of raspberry and tobacco which Natinilinus insists are there. "It's a jammy recipe," he insists, "with a hint of aged oak and cedar. This griddlecake is intellectually satisfying."
Snake looks to the newcomer strangely. "Intellectually? A griddlecake? Can't say I've ever heard them called that. You have a strange opinion, bub. It's interesting if nothing else, I'll give you that."
Phillip exits the Bazaar of the Seafaring Peddlar to find the sun almost directly overhead, the overcast now thin enough for it to dazzle the eyes even through the cloud.
"Can we still do business? A lunch, more meals as attended, your portion as called from from my per diem, and the primping of your Sludge, until he might pass for a prince? One in disguise, of course..."
"We are not 'for lease,' sir," the gnome replies with dignity. "We strive to maintain our independence from any particular patron, so that we may follow the Truth wherever it leads, and I prefer not to tempt my associate with the prospect of being on indefinite retainer. That is," he lowers his voice so as not to be heard by the dog beneath the table, "I fear he might intentionally lengthen the investigation to keep himself in griddlecakes. He is young yet and not as dedicated to discovery for its own sake as I should like to see him." He considers a moment. "You open a tab at this establishment for a period of one week for our personal use. If we provide sufficient evidence to close your case before the week is up, you will continue to cover the tab until next Oathday, the eighth of Arodus; if we have not uncovered your missing women, we may renegotiate at that time. That provides Sludge with both surety of reward and incentive to complete the task as expeditiously as possible, you see."
Phillip ignores the growing sense of hunger in his belly and instead hustles towards the docks. He heads roughly South from the Bazaar towards the wharf before following the water West to Cas' shipyard.
While walking he keeps his eyes open for sign of Bellamy or Billy Dagger but does not seek to search for them specifically. When he draws nearer to the road leading north to the Gold Goblin he looks for a beggar or workman eager to earn an easy couple of silver. He impresses upon them that the three toys are to be delivered to the Gold Goblin. Phillip doesn't give him a name - for either sender or recipient, instead impressing upon the man to leave it with whoever answers the door.
"We are not 'for lease,' sir," the gnome replies with dignity. "We strive to maintain our independence from any particular patron, so that we may follow the Truth wherever it leads, and I prefer not to tempt my associate with the prospect of being on indefinite retainer. That is," he lowers his voice so as not to be heard by the dog beneath the table, "I fear he might intentionally lengthen the investigation to keep himself in griddlecakes. He is young yet and not as dedicated to discovery for its own sake as I should like to see him." He considers a moment.
"Well said. And, well parented.", Gristav says into the gap.
"You open a tab at this establishment for a period of one week for our personal use. If we provide sufficient evidence to close your case before the week is up, you will continue to cover the tab until next Oathday, the eighth of Arodus; if we have not uncovered your missing women, we may renegotiate at that time. That provides Sludge with both surety of reward and incentive to complete the task as expeditiously as possible, you see."
"We shall have an accord.", Gristav predicts. "But you should have these cautions, first. The crone is not presumed dangerous, but rather, in danger. The... other is the opposite. I would not have you risk contact with the other, merely learn what you can. Her habit of scenting herself puts you both at the advantage, it's hoped, even after some days and rains. It is currently thought, she has left the town. The elder, is only known to have been replaced, and to have disappeared. Mister Hurst will arrange to provide you access to her last known whereabouts. If she is found well, avoid contact, and report to us. If unwell...", Gristav tries not to glance at Braddon, "...there may be no purpose to contact. We'd have interest in her circumstances, in any case. Please do take it as requested and required, that of any circumstance which would endanger yourself or Sludge, you seek our accompaniment. If you'd tolerate it, we might do well, to observe, such professionals, at work."
"Mr Hurst? Oh me. Sure."
The trio reach an accord with the gnome and his dog. "If we obtain any information, how shall we contact you? Ought we to have a code word to scrawl in chalk on a certain streetcorner to set up a meeting?" he asks hopefully.
The trio reach an accord with the gnome and his dog. "If we obtain any information, how shall we contact you? Ought we to have a code word to scrawl in chalk on a certain streetcorner to set up a meeting?" he asks hopefully.
Amused, Gristav nearly weakens to the point of accepting the method. "We haven't so many men as to maintain a watch. And if you needed us, you should not have to wait. I'm currently employed adding magicks to the defenses of the Gold Goblin, a casino in the city. As well, there's a certain server there, who's caught my eye. Well, all of ours, truthfully. The result being, you can find me there, and if I were not there, some one other, who will know what you are about. Only, let's use the kitchens door, the front may be watched. Others, have more men."
"Also, there'll be habitual meals here, for less urgent meetings. And I suppose the hosts might be pressed to hold a note, from one to the other of us?"
Phillip finds the Wharf District busier than when he last visited, in the darkness of the pre-dawn. The quay is thick with sailors and stevedores, shoving roughly past each other and filling the air with a cacophony of shouts, angry oaths, raucous laughter, and sea shanties, and traffic in and out of the dockside taverns is heavy as people take the chance of snatching a bite of lunch. Phil does not spy either Bellamy or Billy Dagger among the throng, however.
As the halfling leaves the boardwalk and nears the ship repair yard, the crowd grows thinner. On the far side of a warehouse, some men in sailors' clothing lounge behind a stack of crates, passing around a bottle; Phil's guess is that they are neglecting their duties out of sight of their boatswain. Their shared bottle almost empty, one of the sailors is happy to make the short jaunt to the Gold Goblin in exchange for more drinking money. Phil hands over the items with a word of instruction for their delivery, and, with a glance back at the harbor to make sure he's keeping buildings between himself and the ships, the man skirts around the far corner of the warehouse and skulks up the street Goblinward.
Satisfied that even if the man chooses to be delinquent at his task... at least an attempt was made in good faith - Phillip absolves himself and instead focuses forwards. He continues along the boardwalk to where Cas' shipyard lies - eyes roving for friendly faces of similar stature... though more specifically for whether Marce could be found.
Braddon stands up at the conclusion of the deals and looks around disinterestedly. His gaze finally settles on Gristav.
"So, what now?"