Casting an unsure glance at the rover, the knight of Torag answers the odd question with surety. "No. But any infraction he committed, if any, will be seen to after I see that you no longer corrupt the law with your thuggery."
"Come. If you will not accompany me, then I will bring the officials to you." The young blacksmith takes a few steps toward the city hall.
Fizkin keeps the dwarf between himself and the thugs.
"So you'll come peacefully?" The smaller big thug asks. "...good." It's obvious that the two are disappointed, but they know what they're paid for. The thugs in brown begin frog-marching the odd pair towards the, perhaps ironically named, Hall of Justice. Several streets down from the city center.
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Meanwhile, back at the cove:
Professor Fletch begins to walk toward the cave but stops short as he notices that his two companions stay rooted to their position. Blank expressions staring off into the distance. He waves his hands in front of the two Dwarves faces, but it seems to elicit no response. Shrugging he sits on the grass and waits for them to respond.
The young knight proceeds quietly, his brow furrowed into a puzzled expression.
Why are they undisturbed at the charges I lay against them? They do not seem repentant. It takes him a few steps to realize. Surely, their supervisors are not corrupt as well?! His labor-calloused hand brushes the warhammer on his belt as it swings with his short-legged gait, reassuring the newly-knighted dwarf. Torag guide my eyes to the right path, direct my actions to root out any evil.
He turns a sideways look to the gnome who seemed to be trying to distance himself from the two thugs. “What is your name, anyway?”
Fizkin, keeping the dwarf between himself and the thugs, grows visibly more and more nervous as they close the distance to the Hall of Justice. Finally he leans over and whispers to the dwarf. "This is a bad idea."
With a lurching start, the Quaesitor stumbles forward. "Egads! Where... what..." Catching sight of the Professor, he moves toward him. "I had the strangest dream... It was as if I had been frozen in time for months! What could it mean?" He shakes his head and gestures toward the cave. "Shall we continue on?"
The young ranger, staring off into the distance, blinks multiple times and has a body rocking sneeze that could be felt all the way down in his ankles. Hearing the Quaesitor's words , Sorn looks at the cave and to his companions "Let's continue on, then!" trying to leave behind the sudden feelings of neglect and abandonment which threatened to infiltrate his mind.
Sir Togril purses his lip, thinking. “I know.” he whispers back, “But the smart thing to do is not always the right thing to do. The townsfolk were afraid to raise even a word against these dark-hearted brutes. But wanton violence against thugs is no improvement. I would like to meet this Fenn and determine his quality before making my decision.”
“I do not know your place in this, and I see no wickedness in your heart. I will not begrudge you if you ran, but there is a wrong here I must right. These people do not deserve to live in fear,” the whispering blacksmith adds. He draws himself to full height as they enter the hall.
I won't run, not now anyway. There might be a song, or a coin, in this stubborn venture."
Despite the troubling unknown ahead, the gnome’s comment brings a smile and a low, brief chuckle from the knight. A chaser of stories. He may not be so bad after all...
Professor Fletch shrugs at their odd behavior and the curious trio make their way to to the dank cave at the end of the cheery cove. The tunnel entrance is just large enough to allow the three to enter one at a time. Arnan ducks his head and proceeds to walk inside. He stands there blinking against the blackness as the two Dwarves arrive behind.
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Meanwhile, in the Hall of Justice:
"Stop talking." The smaller thug says as the heavy oak doors close behind the Knight and Troubadour. The procession walks slowly through old musty halls, the quiet chatter of lawgivers and their acolytes. It doesn't take long before they're pushing through stout bronze lined swinging doors into a dim lit room, a raised chair sits behind a wooden podium at the far end. In it sits an elderly man glowering down at a citizen standing in shackles on the floor. Though you cannot hear what is said you see the old man wave his hand the chained person is led away by men dressed similarly as the two thugs who've escorted you this far.
As the other group leaves, the Gnome, the Dwarf, and the two men are beckoned toward the bench. The old man, face now nothing more than one big glower, speaks in an imperial, though weary, tone. "Well, what is this now?" He asks of the two thugs.
"The Gnome has been charged with disorderly conduct, disruption of the peace, resisting confinement, loitering, disrespectful tone to an agent of Fen, lying to an agent of Fen, mocking an agent of Fen, and failure to show a permit for public performance." He casts a dirty look at Togril. "The Dwarf wished to see justice done."
The old man looks down his nose at the diminutive pair. "Is this true?" he asks, tone no less imperious than before.
Let's see what the Dwarf makes of this.
The dwarf nods a bow in respect, “I am Sir Togril,” Sir Togril clears his throat uncomfortably, and uses the tone of one bearing bad news. “It pains me to say that some enforcers of the law abuse their power for amusement,” he indicates to the two thug escorts, “and the citizens of this fine city live in fear of that abuse. They goad the innocent to break laws, and those who resist, they falsely accuse. I am here to see that they are removed from their station, and serve the proper sentence.”
The knight steels himself for the potential offense of the seated elder, muttering for Torag’s protection under his breath.
Fizkin, looking boldly contrite, approaches the justiciar and speaks in a voice too low for the thugs to hear.
"I think we both know how this works." As if from nowhere, 15 gold coins appear on the table before the official. "Moreover, we both know this is more than an amble payoff. The extra money is to rip these agents a new one in front of this dwarf. Why would you do this? Because the dwarf is an upstanding blacksmith and warrior whose word is beyond weighty with his ilk. Cater to him, and you'll have no troubles in the lower quarters. If that isn't reason enough..."
Five more gold coins flash onto the counter.
Sorn, walking in the cave and looking about, looks at the Quaesitor and says "I'll go first, you take rear?"
The man behind the bench sighs heavily as Emberforge begins speaking. His face the very picture of resigned long-suffering. Though at the very least he gives the Dwarf his full attention. He seems to be considering Togril's words when the plucky Noblejinx slides up to the bench.
Without a word he watches as the gold piles up before his eyes. The two thugs also spot the shinies and their own eyes widen as the heap grows. But the effect is not mirrored in the old mans face, in fact it almost seems to be as if a door, that had gradually been opening, was slammed shut behind his stern gaze.
The man begins to speak, slowly at first, but with increasing volume and rapidity. "For twenty-three years I have sat behind this bench and worn these robes. In that time I have seen murderer and martyr, petty crook and pariah, but not a one has insulted me so." At this point he slowly rises from his chair. "No NOT. A. ONE. I have sent men to the gallows, the headsman, prison, and community service and NONE of them have abused me so! NOT. A. ONE." Now standing, nay looming, over the odd pair the man continues face boiling over with umbrage. "I HAVE ADVISED RULER AND ROUSTABOUT, CATERER AND CLERGY, AND NONE OF THEM HAVE ATTACKED ME SO! " Now roaring with displeasure the old man, who appears much larger now that he's standing, swings his gavel scattering the gold coins across the hall floor. The thugs, who up to this point had stood near their prisoners, likewise scatter. Rushing to pick up the coins before anyone tries to stop them.
Arms raised to the ceiling the old man roars to the heavens, it seems apparent that he's no longer looking at the Gnome and Dwarf. In fact, it seems that this outburst isn't really focused at Noblejinx at all, it seems that the bribe was merely the straw that broke the camels back. So to does it seam that if he flexes much more, he'll burst out of his black frock. It's right around this point that Fizkin and Togril notice that everyone in the hall is focused on either the money littering the floor, or the Adjudicator Bartholomew Avery Cumberbatch, who is now standing on his bench gavel upraised like a weapon. Indeed everyone is focused on only those two subjects. Nothing else. Just the money and the Adjudicator. There is no other thing, that anyone working in the Hall of Justice is focusing on right now. Other than those two things. Just those two.
________________________________________________________________________
Meanwhile back at a cave:
The young Ranger notices with his deep seeing eyes that the cave doesn't seem to go very far into the cliff face. It is dank and dark inside, with a pool of water not far from the entrance. No obvious threats present themselves.
"Huh. Well that couldn't have gone better." Fizkin shrugs and walks out of the hall. "Come on Dwarf. I'll get you some ale."
The blacksmith’s caterpillar eyebrows raise at the tirade, taken aback. Still bewildered, he follows the gnome, resolving to return when the justicar is feeling more reasonable. And quiet.
As they exit the Hall of Justice, he leans and murmurs to wanderer. “You shouldn’t need to bribe officials, especially one such as he. Adjudicator Cumberbatch had no evil intent -unlike his two inferiors we encountered, who I hope will bear the brunt of the Adjudicator's wrath. Save your coin for better things.”
Recognizing the amicable gesture, the knight quietly follows the musician to the establishment of his choosing.
"There seems to be a pool not very far from here. Perhaps this aqua-woman-thing is there? This isn't too deep of a cave, so it shouldn't be too hard to determine." The young dwarf looks at the scholar "Have you noticed anything that might suggest she's here?"
Tyro sighs and looks around the cave. "Dank, nasty place. Could use a little civilization and order. Psh."
Fizkin chooses an inn where the revelers are already well into their cups. He takes a seat at a small table and invites the dwarf to sit.
Sir Togril sits down across the table from the gnome. "You did not answer my question earlier," he states, "What is your name?"
"Better ask the name of the wind dwarf! I am wanderer. Singer. Minstrel. Beggarman. Drifter. Noble. Scoundrel. Husband. Schoolboy."
"I am the sadness of the valleys, and the pride of the mountains; the song of the fields, and whisper of rivers; the roar of the sea, and the danger of the desert."
"I am chance destiny. Fate's wildcard."
The gnome shrugs.
"Most cannot remember all that, and so I am known as Fizkin."
An impish grin awaits the paladin's reply.
Looking about the cave "I don't know how much civilization and order could fit in here... Maybe an inn...you could call it Hole inn the wall or something like that..."
Oh my. No wonder he found trouble so easily.
"Fizkin," the knight mulls the name in his mind, "Well met. There is no mystery to my name or purpose. Apprentice Guardian Sir Togril Emberforge is what I am called at home, though 'Sir Emberforge' will be fine while I am out in the world."
"I remember your music and merriment in the tavern last night. I am also new to this city, I found work in a smithy just over a week ago-" The young dwarf stops short, suddenly remembering his promise to the blacksmith. He stands abruptly, the wood chair scooting loudly behind him. "Damn the dross. I must return to the forge. My apologies, but I cannot share a drink with you right now."
Sir Togril makes for the door of the tavern, to make a beeline to the forge.
"I've never see a forge up close, I'll come too!"
Fizkin stands to follow the dwarf.
Better not leave his side for now, the fuzz'll be looking for me. Besides, I'm sure there's mischief to be found in a smithy!
Wanderer. Singer. Beggarman. Drifter... I wonder if he's worked a day in his life...
The Knight of Torag chuckles at Fizkin's enthusiasm as his stout dwarven legs carry him down the road.
The dusty old professor glances about the ill-lit cavern. "I'm not sure. I'ts certainly dim enough though!" He squints into the darkness.
"You said there was a pool of water?" Fletch fumbles with the clasps on the heavy tome he has been carrying. Opening the ponderous book to somewhere in the middle he presses his face up against the dry crinkled pages.
It's obvious he can't read a thing without a light. "Eh, hahaa." He says with some self depreciation. "Don't suppose either of you fine chaps has a light now eh?"
________________________________________________________________________
Meanwhile back in the STREETZ!
As the curious pair make their way to the forge of embers, it is easy to note that many and more eyes are watching them with some curiosity. It would seem that some find your quick release to be, surprising.
The two round a corner and are met with Togrils employer, hammering furiously at the forge. As the man takes a moment to wipe the sweat from his brow he notices the Dwarf and Gnome. "You!" His eyes betray and expression of, betrayal, as he points at Togril. "You've cost me a lot of money today strong-arm!" It is obvious from his tone that he's upset. Though as to why, WHO KNOW'S?
"Please, my good man. Vent not your wrath on good Sir Emberforge here. 'Twas my fault that he strayed from the forge. How or why is not important when you look at the larger picture."
Fizkin produces a single, gold coin. "Here are his wages for 3 days, plus a silver-lined gratuity at that."
"Is there something else you require of the man? I mean to educate this dwarf on the virtues of drinking many beers."
The dwarf blacksmith raises a hand in protest when the gnome produces a coin. “I will take responsibility for my actions, thank you.”
He turns to the blacksmith, “I was not aware that the citizens here endured corrupt lawmen, and acted as mice in the face of unjust thuggery. So, I stood up to these imposters of justice and peace-keeping, and tried to remove them from their station. Surely, it is better for your neighbors to live in peace and without fear than it is to rest with a heavier purse at day’s end. A man of your quality certainly understands, yes? I will repay you the coin I earned today, and I will no longer work for you, since I did not keep my promise to continue working.”
Five silver coins and seven coppers drop from his labor-calloused hands onto the master blacksmith’s bench.
Sir Togril nods a respectful bow and turns to leave.
Tyro walks toward the professor, and touches the man's glasses. "Lumos." Bright light shines from the glasses, illuminating the area.
Ooh, look at him with his special eyes. the young dwarf hides a smile.
Hmmm... I wonder what a water elemental tastes like... Would I eat or drink one... The dwarf looks at the professor How do they reproduce? Does a new water elemental just sort of split from the old? Either way, talk about sharing fluids Sorn chuckles at his play on words. What does one fight an elemental with, a towel? Maybe a herd of thirsty cats... I love cats. Every kind of cat, really. I just want to hug all them, but I can't hug every cat, that'd be crazy... Sorn looks a bit downcast at this realization.
The smith sighs heavily as he takes the coin from the bench. He is obviously still upset, but his body language suggests he is more unhappy than actually angry. At the last second a big hand swipes the gold piece from the Gnomes grasp as well, and the smith grunts in something just short of satisfaction. "It's not the same, my reputation was hurt today Strong-Arm. I couldn't' follow through on my claims." He sighs again heavily, "You're right though, about this city. It's not a bad place, but the law is pretty fluid at times. I think-" He pauses and gestures to the Dwarf in his armor. "That maybe smithing isn't the job for you." He grunts out what might have been a laugh. "As good as you are, you've got too wary a heart for such a dull profession, I think." He begins to return to his forge, turning back he asks one last thing. "Drink one of those beers for me, eh?" With a final laugh/grunt he turns to his anvil and begins pounding away.
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Meanwhile, in a cave.
Fletch jumps slightly as the spell takes hold. "Oh!" He touches the wire rim tentatively before exclaiming again, "This is splendid! Splendid indeed!" The professor quickly turns his head to and fro watching the light play across the stone surfaces of the dank chamber. His face shines nearly as brightly as his glasses as he completely neglects the heavy book still in his arms.
Eventually he notices the impatient expressions on his two short companions. "Oh! Indeed!" Quickly he regains his scholarly composure, lifting the tome to his face his eyes speed across the handwritten text. "Ah, yes, according to this a pool in a cavern would suit a water elemental nicely. Nicely indeed!" His spindly hands turn the pages furiously before arriving at what looks to be a phrase-book, or dictionary of sorts. "Here we are." He begins to mutter under his breath for a moment before he closes the book with a snap.
Straightening up to his full gangly height he speaks in a strong booming voice, doubtless learned after many years lecturing in the School of Scholars. "تحيات، نأتي في البازلاء."
After a pregnant silence, nothing happens, and silence continues complaining about morning illness.
Fizkin eyes the beers and shrugs. He grabs two, thrusts one into Togril's hand, and takes a deep draught of his own.
After a while, Sorn smiles and says "Clearly this watery maiden doesn't take after any babbling brooks!" with a look that says something to the effect of "Eh? Eh?"
Smithing isn’t the job for you…
The young dwarven blacksmith does not remember returning to the tavern, yet there he sat, with a tankard of ale in his hands. Smithing isn’t the job for you… The new knight blinks and then shakes his head, realizing he was lost in thought while in the company of this musician, Fizkin. Pushing the doubt from his mind, Sir Togril mumbles an apology for poor manners and takes one great gulp and turns his attention to the gnome.
“So, wanderer, it looks like I am without work, and I am sure the other smithies will have heard of my failure. Perhaps one of ships at the docks are in need of a laborer...” The dwarf knight thinks aloud, before downing another gulp of his ale.
"Don't think of it that way. Now you're free to pursue your law career."
Fizkin looks serious for the first time. "Something needs to change here. I will help you."
“Law career?” Sir Togril shakes his head, “I am no scholar or judge. I was gifted with a strong back and knack for the forge. Back home, none of my peers could match my endurance behind the anvil and kiln.”
“Smithing is the highest praise to the Master Craftsman, but I was called into a path of Guardianship.” The young dwarf finds his words easily, as though the truth needed only speaking to clear his uncertainty. “And protect, I will.”
“I know now that my assertion to confront this ‘Fen’ leader might have been foolhardy, like blindly marching into an ambush. Strategy is as high a tenant to Torag as Crafting...” he raises a bushy eyebrow to the traveling musician, “How long have you lingered in this city? What do you know of this man?”
A nudge of common sense prods the new knight to look about the tavern, in case a stranger was listening in on his intentions. If someone was, perhaps they too had information on Fen.
"I know a fair bit. What would you like to know?"