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Anga spots a storm drain behind the shop and quietly slips into the dank dark. She quickly notices the "hidden" hatch, unlocks it, and slithers through. The smell of the shop hits him, but this is not the showroom. A small bed and dresser are all that furnish a room almost not big enough to contain the furniture. Anga located the hidden drawer in the molding around the dresser and slides it open. Inside lays a thin strongbox. The key slides in and the well oiled lock makes no sound. The box contains a modest ring of gold with a pitiful diamond set into it and two stacks of Amerysi bills totaling 2000 gp.
Taking care to not make any undue noise in the effort, Anga empties the box and secrets the money and ring away. She is careful to not touch the accessory directly, placing a scrap of cloth between her hands and the ring. Placing the key inside the now otherwise empty lock box, Facion closes it and returns everything else to how she found it before swiftly taking her exit, back outside.
At the soonest convenience he removes his disguise and adopts another, this time as an Ammyersi merchant, plump and jovial.
Making his ponderous way through the city streets, the modestly well to do trader seeks out those who may sell more circumspect items, those not common to typical business transactions.
Thanking the vendor Anga makes his way outside and surreptitiously slips the gloves onto his hands. Satisfied for now, the merchant of Amerys sets out to find his companions.
Ezkal looks up from his drink he was nursing? "What say you?" he rumbled looking at the angry man. "But it was YOU who came to us looking to buy this sheep you had heard of! Said you needed a grand ol time since the missie had turned you down" he guffawed as he slapped Tholan on his back merrily.
The agent of Rudianos is just about to pass by yet another way house before he hears the tail end of a shouted insult. Followed quickly by a familiar voice returning in kind. Something just shy of a grin tugs at the half-blood's mouth as he ducks behind a waist-high-wall and once more changes his appearance.
With the paints and odd bits of hair and even some fur he once took from an alley cat, Anga fashions himself into someone completely different than before.
Any careful observer would have seen an Amerysi tradesman duck down behind the wall, and a tall, somewhat rangy Thelkonland scout pop back out. Gray hood half-way pulled up and wild hair pointing in nearly every direction at once the man brusquely pushes into the bar and spots his comrades.
Newly muddied boots stop across the room until he reaches Ezkal and Tholan's table. Slapping each on the shoulder a big smile splits the scout's face as he bellows. "Ha! I'll give the Archards one thing, they sure charge a fair price for their brothels!" He tilts his head back in a bone rattling guffaw before snagging a half full flagon from a nearby patron and guzzling it down.
Waving one of the staff over he orders a round for his companions and one for the individual who's drink he just quaffed. Bemused and contented he surveys the room continuing his loud proclamation "And such beautiful women here!" His eyes lock on the square-jawed man "And some lovely men!" The Thelkonland scout winks and turns to accept his new beverage from the server before holding it aloft in silent toast to the Archard Islands.
Iskandarr, contented with his understanding of the city soars back to the area where he had last seen Thaegrin. Soaring above the buildings, he eventually spots Thaegrin outside a tavern. Swooping down into an alley near the tavern, he returns to human form once he is sure there is no one watching. Walking out from the alley, he approaches Thaegrin. "Finding groceries in this town is an interesting chore. Red onions seem more popular than aged and eggs appear to be in demand."
Tholan grins at his brother, debating a further contribution regarding the importance of sheep to the man's immediate future, then pauses to look around the room and gauge the atmosphere.
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The scruffy patron brandishes a table knife at Ezkal. "Wot exactly 'r' you insinuatin' mate?" He briefly loses his focus on the Ordo Hereticus as a rangy Thelkonese scout enters blustering. When the scout winks, the square jawed antagonist explodes to his feet. [b]"F^ck these Thelkonese dogs! I want 'em out! It's 'ese type 'ere perpetuatin' the war innit!? Gettin' 'em gone 'd do a lot t'wards endin' the fightin' an' showin' Amerys that Archard is ready t'be incorporated! Who's wit' me!?"
Tholan, scans the faces in the crowd and finds at least half nodding along with the square jawed man. He also realizes that most of these people will have served or are waiting to serve in the Amerysi military.
"So instead of talking to us about your concerns, you come to goad us? That war is over, there is no battle here, unless you have come asking for one. You come with insults, I replied with words in jest. But I sense something else is amiss. Come, sit and drink, what ails/ales you?"
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The man blinks stupidly at Ezkal's remarks. Before he can do anything about them a commanding voice sounds from the back of the tavern. "And who, exactly, says that war is over?"
The speaker is not immediately evident, but the crowd parts to reveal5 cloaked figures sitting at a round table, dice and drinks scattered on it's surface. The game continues uninterrupted and they seem intent on what they're doing.
The old Feraweni weighs his desire to step into the raucous and noisy tavern as he watches the passersby walk one way or another on the road. A portly tradesman unexpectedly ducks behind a low wall, perhaps snatching up a stray coin. But to his fascination, the person who rises is a tall, lanky Thelkon ranger. Thaegrin rolls his eyes as the master of disguise makes a show of throwing open the door and saunter inside. A ragged voice scrapes out bawdy boasts over the din of drinkers before the door bangs shut. He contently watches other people come and go along the road, still indecisive on joining the rough crowd.
When the man-beast appears next to him, Thaegrin glances at him and nods casually, as one acknowledges a new business partner.
“No matter where we go, we still find ourselves a stew,” the old traveller grins wryly.
After a pause, he changes the subject. “Have you happened to find a place our lot can stay in relative discretion? I would prefer to have our visit to this island go unnoticed.”
Iskandarr shakes his head, "I have not, but I can look. I have a little bit of time before I go buy an onion."
Tholan smiles and gestures to the man to come closer. "Come now, we're not here to start a war. If you've fought with us before, you know that we're reavers. When we're looking for a war, we don't hang about in the tavern and chat with locals. Come, let me buy you a drink. There's more to the Thelkonlanders than battle." He turns to the innkeeper. "The next round in here is on me."
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With no apparent signal, the dice and cups are swept aside. 4 of the figures rise from the now clear table and take up positions around the walls. The seated figure lowers his hood revealing short cropped black hair salted at the temples. A bushy mustache dominates his upper lip and droops around the corners of his mouth. He peers at you from beneath a shelf of brow where two huge, black caterpillar eyebrows hang lazily.
"I won't refuse your hospitality. Please, join me." The request somehow rings with command: like this man is not used to being denied.
"Do you want some grub as well? Bartender! The finest haunch of meat you have for us! And whatever he wants to eat." Ezkal says nodding over to the seated figure as he wanders over.
"Will your companions be needed nourishment as well?"
Thaegrin watches the tavern drama unfold from the street, without the privilege of the dialogue. His brow creases slightly at the man-beast’s night-time activities, but says nothing, assuming Iskandarr would at least consider the wizard’s preference for discretion.
His far-off stare breaks and he nods up at the tall woodsman. “Of course. If you can be troubled to find a place, that would be most helpful. Alternatively, our camouflage might be best found among the crowds, so I shall inquire there for the more common places on the island. I will wait for you here.”
And if need be, I'll keep an eye on our reavers…
Thaegrin stoops forward and hobbles on toward the tavern door. Halfway across the road, he recites an incantation. Nothing around him changes. Suddenly he stumbles forward, and slowly he uses his aching joints to right himself again. Passersby might notice the old traveler dust himself off, though in truth the dirt of the road remains on his clothes. He adjusts the round grey brim of his pointed hat lower, and pulls the hem of his cloak closer around his thin frame. He sputters at the embarrassment and continues on his way. He keep his head down as he slowly pushes open the door, looking as like an old traveler beaten by a long day of walking. He pretends not to notice how strangely quiet it is in the tavern, but already his mind buzzes with a thousand thoughts.
Not all of them are his own.
The old man glances up from his downcast entry. His face is long with weary, and his eyes are tired and dull. Paying the men around the table little heed, he follows the wall, hobbling around the edge of the crowd to find an open seat near the fire. He apologizes for nearly bumping into a patron, for his gait is unsteady and slow. As he settles in, he tries not to disturb his neighbors, mumbling "excuse me" and "begging your pardon". The wizard is careful to choose a chair from which he can continue to monitor the minds of this "Mimic" and his men.
"Please," he gasps to a barmaid, "Just water for now. I am so tired."
The old traveler holds up a bit of copper for her trouble. When she departs, his grimy fingers rub his temples.
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"I will have fish." The cloaked man says the the barmaid: his voice is soft and calm. "Crispy, with burnt bacon with a sweet roll on the side. My men are content to wait." He does not glance at his men, nor does he break eye contact with Ezkal. "So! Tell me, my convivial sons of Thelkon, what brings you so far south in so few number?"
Tholan chuckles to himself with a smile and a little shake of his head. "I've seen enough battle to last most men a lifetime. The differences between Amerys and Thelkonland pique my curiosity. It occurs to me that there might be more to life for the Thelkonese than just battle." Tholan raises a mug to his mouth and takes a deep drink before continuing. "Though don't tell any other Thelkonlanders that I said as much."
Tholan shrugs and stretches, muscles rippling beneath his skin as his joints crackle and pop, cloudy eyes wandering around the room. "I suppose it's a sort of scouting, though I'm not here to find battle. I'm more interested in the knowledge there is to be gained here."
Tholan is slightly taken aback for a moment, then laughs. "Your culture is fascinating. Certainly far quieter than I am used to, but that's not bad. Very different from home. Your people are welcoming,
though I will say that my... stature seems to earn a little more status back home," He finishes with a wide grin. His grin then shifts, becoming rueful. "I'm not here in an official capacity, I'm afraid. I'd certainly be happy to speak to the Magistrate, but I'm not in a position to negotiate. This trip wasn't exactly sanctioned by the Thelkonese government, such as it is."
Thaegrin quietly nurses his water cup by the fire. He wears an exhausted, satisfied look as he casually scans the tavern and its patrons. He says nothing and keeps to himself.
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The man furrows his brows in mock confusion. "I do not understand. You are not here to fight, but you are scouting for knowledge. Your mission is unsanctioned and you do not have the power to offer or accept terms. Moreover, you claim that the war between Thelkon and Amerys is ending." He leans in whispering. "That's really where you blundered. You see, no one knows that as yet." He sits back up. "So! It would seem you are not ambassadors after all." He raises his voice to cut across the chatter in the room. "It seems to me that the word that best describes you three is "
One of his eyebrows raises in amusement as most every face present turns to scrutinize the Thelkonlanders. Hostility roils around them all like thunder yet to be unleashed.
Tholan's eyebrows raise into his hairline, genuinely surprised. "The war is ending? This is news to me, and I'm glad to hear it. I meant that I think my people should look to a future with more than just reaving." Tholan is clearly on edge now, ready to defend himself, but does not adopt a hostile posture. "When I say unsanctioned, I mean that no one in Thelkon knows I'm here. I'm here to learn, and not about fortifications and defenses." Shaking his head, Tholan sighs to himself muttering, "I knew they'd jump to conclusions but this is ridiculous."
This Mimic has no patience. He does not know how to savor the game. Thaegrin closes his eyes to keep from rolling them. Sometimes, the Thelkonlanders were adept at finding trouble. In this case, the trouble found them. The court wizard masks mild surprise when Tholan makes a peaceful response, and he realizes the wisdom the Drolleye has learned in his adventures.
Knowing the crowd is always a valuable skill to learn, Thaegrin knew this before he even purchased his freedom. He scans the people now, looking for any variation in garb or skin tone that might indicate origins other than Amerys.
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The Mimic and 2 or his men are highly suspicious of Tholan, but seem to believe him. The other two are thinking of food and beer.
Thaegrin thinks he spies a pair of Isterothi men sitting in the corner closest to the exit, but their hoods are up and there is a haze about them from the long pipes they smoke.
The bartender is praying for no bloodshed, but his hand is blindly groping for the crossbow that he can't remember if he loaded or not...
Sharp laughter breaks out over the tense silence. The old, stooped Feraweni claps his hands happily.
“Bravo!” he gestures to the foreigners and the mustachioed man, “Bravo! The cleverest comedy I’ve seen in years!”
Throwing his head back in laughter, he nudges the patron beside him, expecting to receive affirmation in the mirth. But instead he finds a face of perplexion.
“Oh,” he holds his sides, catching his breath to explain the performance. He points to the Mimic, allowing his explanation to carry a bit further than to just the people surrounding him. “You see, the mustache and his lumpers are here looking for spies. And in blunder the loud foreigners,” he gestures to the three Thelkonlanders. “Who say they are visiting. A shabby disguise for spies, wouldn’t you say?” Thaegrin laughs and again nudges the bloke beside him, hoping to at least coax a smile from the fellow.
“And yet!” he recovers from his guffaw and continues in his stage voice. “The mustache takes the bait! The big hairy smelly bait, he bites right into it! The joke here is, the spy-seekers bumbled into the most obvious targets, forgetting the fact that spies would not show up on foreign shores and announce themselves as spies! Is that not hilarious?”
“Bravo! Hahaha! Clever! Topical! Well played!” he claps to the Mimic and his troupe of dupes, indicating to those around him that these clowns deserve their applause.
The old traveler falls back into laughter, slapping his knee.
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The hall grows still before the gout of laughter from the old Farenweni. Nervous titters follow from most, but the man nearest Thaegrin joins with the old man to taunt to Mimic, laughing loudly. "Knobbed it up, innit my son!?"
The Mimic looks nonplussed, then embarrassed and angry. His men, hands on weapons, look nervously from the crowd to their commander, unsure what comes next.
The Mimic stands, eyes locked on Thaegrin. "You dare to mock me? Have you any idea to whom you speak?" His eyebrows quirk up in pleasant surprise. "You are one of the long-lived. Are you not a foreigner yourself? Perhaps you too are a spy?"
The Mimic is trying to save face and using his reputation, experience, and menace to carry through the blunder. He's thinking he'll just arrest people until everyone else takes him seriously.
His men are battle hardened and ready for anything, but there is some fear. It seems they think the Mimic can be a bit unhinged and they worry what atrocities they may have to endure or commit in their service to this man.
The Mimic’s accusation triggers a deep chuckle from the barman, but soon the chuckle gives way to guffaws, and then descends into that special, unflattering kind of laugh reserved for the utmost hilarity. The poor tavern owner is quite beside himself as he leans over his own bar and shakes.
“Oh!” Thaegrin looks wide-eyed in mock surprise to his laughing new friend beside him. “He’s chosen someone from the crowd! I shall do my best.” He says to those nearby, mimicking a performer’s bow.
He raises his stage voice, loud, slow, and deliberate. “Of course I know who you are! The Mimic of Arched! The most laughable intelligence officer on this side of the sea! Do you think I am a spy? Shall I report to the ruins of my ancestors? I’ll tell those mossy scattered stones that there is a moustache sniffing about, naming any non-Amerysi a spy! And he’s not even on Amerys when he does this! Will he arrest every island native as well? Hahaha!”
The court wizard never thought he would stoop to such performances, but this stooge and his men are a special exception. A disgrace to the world of secrets and subtlety. Thaegrin wanders from his place near the fire, closer to the bar, trying to collect his laughter, but consciously placing more furniture and people between himself and the Mimic and his men. Visibly fighting to hold back a smile, he holds a long finger across his upper lip and lands a hand onto another patron’s shoulder.
“I moustache you a question! Are YOU a spy?” his voice comically lowered to sound slow and boorish, with a stare of mock intensity. He jabs his non-moustache finger into the tablemate next to him. “You must be a spy too!”
“Everyone here is a spy!” Thaegrin roars, throwing up one hand while still imitating a moustache with the other. He booms a parody of the Mimic, growing bolder by the second. “Arrest everyone here! Only I know who the spies are! I am in control!”
While he is the center of attention, Thaegrin can feel his connection to the many emotions around him. His personality tugs that connection so slightly, softening the crowd to shape their emotions if the surly Mimic becomes nasty.
Tholan's huge from doubles up in laughter as Wizard carries on. He wipes a tear from his eye, a genuine grin spread across his face and laughter rocking his gut. As his chest rocks with laughter, Tholan turns a good-natured grin toward the Mimic. "Brilliant! The man's clearly an old jester, I'd hardly say he's a threat to you. Might be a threat to any local comedy shows though, he'll put them out of business." He throws back the rest of his ale, drinking it down in a large swallow.
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The crowd begins to chuckle along with Thaegrin and the bartender, but the become positively riotous with laughter when Thaegrin "moustache" the Mimic if he is a spy.
Red faced and sputtering, the Mimic roars for silence and succeeds only in fanning the flames of laughter. Finally, exasperated, he leans in and shouts to Thaegrin, "I'll not take this abuse! Outside and draw your steel!" The man and his men file outside.
"Yes! Show us how clever you are and attack us in the dark of night! That will teach us a lesson!" Thaegrin sneers at the Mimic as he leaves.
After the door slams closed, the court wizard raises his voice for everyone inside. "Beatings, manacles, and torture. Unless you are into that sort of thing, I suggest you remain inside! From the windows we can watch him waiting outside, to fester and fume! More's the pity, because neither him or his men will be enjoying free beer!"
He dramatically slaps a handful of gold coins onto bar next to the tavern owner who still weeps with laughter. "Good man, two rounds for everyone here! And some hot food to share!"
After the cheers die down, he says in a lower voice to the barkeep. "I served as cook for the Grand Poobah of the Sand Palace in Isteroth for ten years. Let me give you a hand in the kitchen..."
Without waiting for permission, he turns to enter the kitchen. Before he disappears behind the door, he turns and gives a look to the three Thelkonlanders. His dark eyes flit to the windows facing out to the street.
A second later, the Feraweni finds himself in the kitchen, and devotes the next few minutes to helping the staff prepare and dish out lots of whatever hot food is readily available -probably stew or meat on the fire- if they were lucky, fresh baked bread.
As he does so, Thaegrin pays close attention to the back door and the ease of escape from the dining hall, if the need arose. Wondering aloud if there is extra storage in the back, he pokes his head out the door to quickly scan the back of the building. Then the wizard resumes his aid to the cooks.
With a grin, the Telkonlander watches the Mimic retreat, chuckling at the petty man's bruised ego. He cheers along with the rest, adding his hearty roar to the din, and finishes his next drink in one long pull. He catches the old wizard's eye and Tholan nods to Thaegrin as if to say 'yes.' He turns back to his drink and the crowd, but keeps a cloudy eye and hairy ear open.
Thaegrin wonders aloud about extra food storage upstairs and starts up the steps.
If he reaches the top of the stairs, the old Feraweni looks for windows or other ways out of the building.
Thaegrin tries first door on the left, as quietly as he can.
Tholan looks around the room with a relaxed grin, letting his eyes linger for a moment on the Thelkonese scout. He raises his drink to his fellow raider and leans on his table. "Ach. These Southerners. Easily scared, eh? Still nice enough folk!" Tholan lowers his voice and leans in, letting the sounds of room cover his voice as he continues, "You may want to keep an eye on the old fool, to make sure he isn't grabbed by the pompous Mimic. Hate to lose such a funny friend," he says with a wink.
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Upstairs, Thaegrin eases open the first door. Inside is a disheveled bedroom: clearly well lived in. Perhaps the innkeeper?
An unmade bed slumps against the far wall under a leaded glass window. A small desk and a large trunk are the only other furnishings.
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In the street, Tholan can see the Mimic's men lighting torches at his orders.
Thaegrin peeks down the bedroom window to judge the distance to the ground.
He wastes no time trying the next door, with as much secrecy as he can manage.
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Standing close to the window, Thaegrin can see it's about 15 feet to the cobbles below. He also notes that the adjacent room seem to have a small balcony overlooking the backstreet.
Moving down the hall, Thaegrin tries the next door and finds it open. Inside, the scent of some bizarre incense hits him as hard as a slap to the face.
Thaegrin recognizes the sharp, acrid smell of Burnt Othur Fumes even as the toxin burn his notrils and lungs. A pale yellow cloud expands to dissipate in the hall.
Tholan furrows his eyebrows, shaking his head. And they dare call Thelkonlanders monsters. At least we raid for profit, instead of burn for pride. Quickly moving through the room to the front door, Tholan quietly cracks it open. Letting his voice blend with the sound of the crowd as he speaks the arcane words, he makes a gesture like an egg falling and cracking into his open palm, spreading his falling hand from a fist to cover the other. Grumbling, he walks to the barkeep.
"I think the mimic might cause trouble for your patrons. It's suddenly cloudy out though, an a fog seems to have rolled in, if you want to send them home. He'd have a hard time spotting them through that bank." Tholan claps the man on the shoulder with a smile, and moves back into the crowd. After waiting a few moments, he slips upstairs in the confusion of the room.
Fumbling at one of the potions at his belt, he hurriedly glances at the label to to confirm it is the right one and then pours down the bitter coaly contents into his burning throat. Pressing the sleeve of his cloak against his nose and mouth, the old Feraweni takes in a few deep breaths to try to replace the harmful gas from his body with clean air.
What kind of establishment IS this?! Slowly, the gears of his mind turn toward revenge as he blinks away the tears triggered by the harsh chemical. I'll poison his food stock, I'll poison his ale! Whatever this damned innkeeper is hiding is about to be found out!
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The barkeep frowns at Tholan, then clomps to the window where his eyebrows attempt to lead off his face. "The inn is closed!" He shrieks. "Everyone out the back, like we practiced."
The barman scowls and rushes behind the bar and grabs frantically at some items beneath, muttering all the while.
"We are not doing this again. I won't be pushed around like this. Not today."
The barkeep emerges from behind the bar with a broad axe tucked into his apron and a loaded crossbow in his hands.
It takes a moment for the crowd to comprehend, but then everyone hurriedly grabs their things and shuffles out the back. There is surprising little jostling and the whole process takes only a few moments.
Meanwhile, Tholan springs up the stairs to see Thaegrin enter a room at the far end of the little hall. There is a strange, sour odor on the air and some cloud-like substance thinning rapidly among the rafters.
Inside, you notice 5 leather packs matching the armor and kit of the mimic and his men. 3 cots have been hastily set against the walls and two straw piles covered in haphazard bedding lay beside them. I huge canopied bed dominates the large room with space to easily sleep 4 large men comfortably. Apart from the "beds", Thaegrin spots a rather impressive desk of dark, oiled wood. It is strewn with paper and parchment, a dagger so large it's nearly a short sword, two inkwells, and a mug of warm sour ale. A small table stands in the corner nearest to the balcony window with the heaped remains of a modest meal set on top.
The "Thelkonese scout" shouts as he sees the barkeep going for the front door, armed, and with murder in his eyes. "Old man! We have a situation and it's like to get wet!" Anga subtly draws a long knife and holds it along his leg to detract attention.