Night draws in, and the warehouse quiets. As Quill and friends inscribe runes about the place, the noises of the city outside fade perceptibly. As you watch outside the windows, the gazes of the few passers-by in the neighborhood seem to slide off the abandoned building.
Zintaya settles in for the night slightly apart from the group and gently rebuffs further efforts at conversation. The far-away look in her eys implies she has much to consider after the dramatic events of the day.
Night passes without incident and dawn spring upon Litran. Six days remain until the planned masquerade.
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Funmi is up bright and early the next morning to make her daily preparations. Once she's taken the opportunity to wash and change into fresh clothes, she sets herself up in a quiet corner to study her books. Quill takes a spot on an old crate beside her, flicks a claw with his inky tongue, and begins taking notes. The two squabble occasionally in muted - if animated - draconic about her choices of spells. "Just because it wasn't useful against a pile of rocks doesn't mean it's a bad spell. Remember that time in Vidrian? It came in handy then, didn't it?" A sarcastic chitter. "Fine, you want to be a witch's familiar instead? I know one who would love to turn your toenails into soup." An irate hiss.
Eventually, the duo manage to come to an accord. Funmi closes her spellbook and Quill returns to his hiding place in her travel bag. "We're meeting a Lord today, so you'd better be on your best behavior," she says with only a hint of sarcasm.
Easily picking up on Zintaya's desire for time and thought, Fiorré conscientiously gives the elvish woman all the space she needs for now, busying herself with cleaning her dishes and otherwise seeing to the party's habitation. As with the previous nights, when bedtime comes, she undoes her braid and lets her hair cascade down around her, drifting away from the lighted rooms to say her prayers. The keen-eared among her companions can pick out Desna, Luhar, Erastil, Tsukiyo, and a smattering of other names from the Iobarian girl's richly-accented murmurs.
Returning to the firelit offices, Fiorré casts a wistful glance up at the high support beams, sighing. But rafters are in no short supply and will always be there. Instead the beastblood girl slinks, only a little self-consciously, to somewhere near to (but not too near to) Funmi and Kuthek. Retrieving her snow leopard plushy from her satchel, Fiorré curls up in her fluffy cloak and quickly drifts off.
Particularly light sleepers may notice Fiorré occasionally rising to tend the fire or climb into the rafters; occasionally the subtle scritching of a quill can be heard from above.
Fiorré sleeps in a little, as usual, though she does at least put in the effort to get breakfast—omelettes laden with butter and cheese, thick-cut bacon, and some sort of fluffy cakes—ready for the group and their guest. The Iobarian girl then plays her lyre for a little while, the subtle and soothing instrumental composition perfectly easing people into the day.
When it comes time for her own preparations, Fiorré carefully and intently dons her equipment piece by piece, from the glittering anklets at her feet to the flower in her hair. Then the beastblood girl heads out into the cavernous warehouse for some fitness; dashing this way and that at breakneck pace, bounding up walls to leap to the high support beams, and generally engaging in athletic frolicking. If any of her companions show interest, Fiorré will invite them to join or even pull them in, smiling gaily; if not, she will simply enjoy it for herself. She caps all of this off with a bit of washing-up, making herself properly presentable for public.
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Zintaya bids you a quiet farewell and promises to stay safely inside the hideout while you are gone.
The journey through Litran is uneventful. The streets remain quiet, and at time you get the sense you are being watched, but you keenly realize that the feeling is just the eyes of the townsfolk keeping tabs on unfamiliar faces.
Lord Harble's residence is easy to find with a delicate inquiry. The manor house is imposing for a townhouse, but ill-kept. Inpressive stone planters flank the front door, but the plants in them are withered. Faded whitewash paints the frame around the doorway of the servants' entrance in the rear of the building.
A quick surveille of the property doesn't reveal any servants coming in or out.
Fiorré is rather somber as the party departs their safehouse, a sharp contrast from her earlier comfort and vigor. She bids their guest an equally quiet farewell, nodding solemnly at the promise given. Now, out in the hostile realm of the Gray Gardeners, the young woman does her best to keep her attitude serious and her attention focused, with a chew of mint helping the latter along. For the moment she refrains from excessive sidetracking, stopping only a few times for niceties and perishables or to observe particularly interesting architecture (and this mostly to obfuscate the group’s trail and intent).
As the group approaches the manor house, Fiorré leads the group on a somewhat meandering circuit, observing the state of the structure and other details. The Iobarian girl drops back slightly to murmur to Aphotos and Kuthek, trusting the sharp ears of her teacher and their mysterious priestess to keep the ladies informed. “Sure he’s fallen on hard times. That or he’ll not be trusting folk to tend his garden. ‘Tis no hard thing to imagine here.”
After a few moments’ thought, Fiorré advances on the front door; she’s neither commoner nor servant, and has a relatively serviceable alibi besides. The young woman raps politely on the door three times, then folds her hands in front of her demurely, putting on her sweetest noble-girl smile.
Funmi frowns at the state of the manor. Normally she would take the disrepair at face value, but so far nothing in Litran has been what it appears. Could a sakhil or some other fiend spread its sickness to the house itself? "I'm beginning to worry that an illness may not be the worst thing ailing Lord Harble. Stay on your guard, and let us keep our good doctor safe."
She doesn't intend to make the same mistake with Chance that she made with Fiorré.
Chance's discreet inquiries about Lord Harble reveal that is he was an older gentleman, stern and canny enough to survive the upheavals that have rocked Galt during his long lifetime.
Magical investigations reveal nothing untoward about the outside of the manor house. In fact, there are no disturbances in evidence, magical or mundane.
In response to Fiorré rap on the door: Silence. A gentle testing of the door's handle reveals that it is locked.
Fiorré is many things—some even simultaneously—but a burglar is not among them. But even if she were so easily deterred, she knows full well her companions will not be, and she’ll not be left behind. After a moment’s consideration, the noble girl turns slightly to the others, incrementally tilting her head to indicate the rear entrance. Creeping around the manor, Fiorré tests the rear door and is gratified to find it unlocked.
Holding up a hand for the others to wait a moment, Fiorré steps silently into the kitchen and takes a deep breath of the air. No scent of fire or foodstuffs, just the dusty staleness of desertion. Leaning back to address the others, the beastblood girl murmurs softly, “Unused for two days’ time at least. Sure this bodes ill for our host.” Gesturing for the others to follow carefully behind, Fiorré begins to drift through the house with feline stealth, keeping an eye out for any clues as to what might have presaged this apparent abandonment; and, of course, for signs of habitation or potential threats.
Aphotos slides around the corner of the building after Fiorré and stays close behind, while staying as quiet and light footed as possible.
"That seems unusual. Even a sick lord has to eat, right? Do you think he sent all the staff away to keep them safe from whatever's ailing him? Though... given the city's state it may be wise to expect the worst rather than the best case scenario."
He stays low to the ground and takes a slow look around. "We should be careful. This room seems abandoned but given we've already seen two horrors hiding beneath the floor of a regular unassuming building, I would stay on guard and try to keep out of sight in case someone's waiting to get the drop on us."
Even before Aphotos finishes speak, Funmi has already drawn her bow. She's already moved beyond mundane explanations and began to run down a list of supernatural ones, though she doesn't voice them. The Lord of the Manor turned into some sort of lycanthrope? No, there would certainly be more blood. And the staff would have fled screaming, not quietly disappeared. If he was turned into a vampire, he could mind control his staff before locking them away, but in a town this superstitious wouldn't someone notice the signs?
"Alright, you all know how it works by now. Anyone who needs help remaining hidden, stand beside me."
You make your way invisibly, and very quietly, through Lord Harble's manor. Within, the house is tidy but sad, its dark-paneled galleries holding ancient portraits of several generations of Harbles in sagging frames. The servants’ quarters look hastily abandoned, and there are no sign of inhabitants. The only thing that strikes you as unusual is that a few expected valuables, such as silverware and small knickknacks, are missing from the house.
Fiorré is noting the absent valuables with a careful eye when the fetid stench slices into her senses. Slowing to a halt and trying to keep her eyes from watering, the beastblood girl takes a careful sniff, and then another, her gaze drifting up to the ceiling. Oh dear...
Turning to her companions—or, at least, to where she believes them to be—Fiorré daintily raises a hand in a ‘stop’ gesture. Then she points a finger upward. “‘Tis a horrid scent in the air, coming down from above. Death old enough to spoil, and sickroom smells besides. I fear ‘tis too late for a doctor...” The Iobarian girl shakes her head solemnly. “...but just the time for Miss Chance’s services.” Gesturing for silence and straining her ears a wee bit, she adds, “I heard no motion, but dead and undead lie still the same. If you’ve the means for such foes, perhaps prepare them.”
For a moment Fiorré considers abandoning stealth in favor of swiftness. But Miss Ozinichi has already spent some of her magic, and that power comes dear. And if she lets herself admit it, the beastblood girl does enjoy the prowl. So with a dainty little ‘follow me’ gesture, she begins silently moving toward the stairs.
Fiorré leads the way upstairs, where you all find the source of the unpleasant odor. The main bedroom emits a smell of decay, and harbors a gruesome scene: a balding old man dead in his enormous canopy bed. The drooping, heavy curtains around the bed are pulled closed. Chance easily discovers that the man died of natural causes in his sleep, but his body has remained here for about a day, maybe a bit longer.
A desk in the bedroom holds a cream-colored invitation to the Gray Gardeners’ masque. The invitation doesn’t have Alastrin’s name but is written to admit the bearer and a small entourage.
As you are examining the scene, you hear the front door open and heavy footsteps on the main level.
Aphotos whispers from under the veil of invisibility. "Chance, hold tight to that invitation, we should make sure whoever else is here doesn't get their hands on it. If we can avoid them without a confrontation that might be safer for our eventual 'attendance'. That said, our wizard here is quite resourceful, so I think we can figure out how keep an eye on them without giving ourselves a way."
He does make sure to keep the sword part of his walking cane extended as they sneak, however. He can't help but expect a fight while on one of these jobs.
"Let's see who's come calling, then." Kuthek closes his eyes and breathes deep, beginning the exercises that will slow his heart rate and help him stay hidden. The sensation of arcane invisibility slithers across his skin.
You hear a voice call from downstairs, "Eh, someone up there?"
"This place was locked up tight, Stev. No one in here but us and the rats." Another gruff voice answers.
"Not even the master of the house? Judge Gharmino said he hasn't been seen in days, and he usually has his nose to the ground. Let's check it out."
There's a grunt of assent, and you soon here a heavy step on the tread of the staircase.
Funmi stills her breathing and crouches low in her shroud of invisibility. She watches through her hidden companions' eyes, and prepares herself to either fight or flee.
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Fiorré tenses up at the sound of voices. Too much to hope that they’d go unsuspected. The others are all safe in the embrace of illusion, at least, leaving her all alone. Where to hide... All alone. A sudden jolt of inspiration strikes the Iobarian girl. There’s no time to think it through—and really, it’s not as though Fiorré Braska Wintrelle has ever gotten anywhere by thinking—and so she simply acts.
The thought of her wig crosses Fiorré’s mind, but she hasn’t invested that old thing in months. The panther trick will do, though. Recalling the book she’d found in the Magaambya archives, Fiorré focuses on her hair. The results are immediate; darkness splashes through the beastblood girl’s torrent of hair, painting every inch of it black as ink.
As Fiorré enacts this change, her hands are already pulling her swordbelt off and deftly stowing it in her satchel. Most of her other gear should be readily explicable, but her silver bracer will raise some questions. Tugging it away from her arm, the Iobarian girl twists it just so, and its magic takes hold, transforming it into a glittering silver band which she artfully tucks into her now-inky hair.
And now, the pièce de résistance. Refocusing for just a moment on her beautiful sunsilk clothing, Fiorré dreams it into a new shape... that of a fine Galtan chambermaid's outfit. ‘Tis a fine thing that black and white suit me so well. As the dainty dress settles in around her, the beastblood girl catches her reflection in a nearby mirror. The overall effect is enough to make Fiorré’s pretty cheeks burn. Quite the look, my lass. Might that you should see what your lovely elvish flame thinks of it later, no?
Steadfastly ignoring Sibéal and her deeply unhelpful commentary, Fiorré then darts for a closet. She only barely hides herself, though, striving instead for an amateur impression of stealth. The point, after all, is to be found; she’ll get her answers, and the intruders won't look too hard for invisible folk if all they find is a spooked and distraught chambermaid.
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Reckless. Ridiculous. Kuthek’s worried forehead uncreases and a broad smile brightens his face. Brilliant.
Four rough-looking characters trundle noisily into the bedchamber. They all wear quizzical looks and the tabard of the city guard.
"Ah, what a stench!" exclaims the lead guard, and all of the rest mutter assent, with mumbled oaths. One of them approaches the bed and grimaces. "Well, there's the late Lord Harble. No wonder he didn't make it to the judge's cards table."
He turns to the other guards and says, "Well, whatever made that noise, it wasn't the Lord. And that missing silver isn't tucked in with his lordship."
The lead guard looks around, but one of the others notices that the closet door is slightly ajar, motions her fellows to silence, and yanks open the closet. The woman's eyebrows raise at the sight of the "chambermaid."
"Well, what do we have here? A little thief?"
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She knows it’s coming, yet Fiorré still lets out an undignified little squeak when the door is flung open. As she quakes and stammers, the beastblood girl recognizes the guards’ tabards. City guards. Oh dear. Why couldn’t it have been ordinary ruffians? Thinking back to her mother’s lyrical accent—her mother, oh dear—she clears her throat.
Looking up at the guardswoman, Fiorré heaves a sigh of still very anxious relief, clasping her hands to her chest. “Thank goodness! I feared you were mere ruffians. I have had quite enough of those these past weeks.” As if the woman’s words are only now getting through, the definitely-not-Iobarian girl shakes her head meekly, striving for the deference with which she had spent two decades treating guards of all stripes. “I beg your pardon, my lady, but I am no thief. My name is Bellerose. Um, Celeste Bellerose. I am a recent addition to his lordship’s—” Fiorré’s gaze flicks to the noble corpse in its lovely bed, and she quivers slightly, tears brimming in her eyes. “—um, his late lordship’s household.”
Letting her gaze lower to the floor, Fiorré shakes her head sorrowfully, anxiously twisting her hands. “The local apothecary, that curious bird man, could not get the correct medicines for the lord. And so, being the newest of the maids, I was sent by the head of household to Isarn.” Another tremble shakes the unquestionably-Galtan girl’s shoulders, and she sniffles loudly. “It... was a very difficult journey. They would not give me money for a coach, so I had to travel on foot by myself. Hiding from b-bandits and things!” Fiorré takes a deep breath to steady herself, though the quaver in her voice only seems to worsen. “And w-when I returned...” The 100% pure human girl gestures at the bed, her hand trembling, unable to look upon the deceased lord. “I w-was too late. Too late to save him. I f-f-failed.” Fiorré bursts loudly into tears, wholly unfeigned, as the familiarity of the situation fully sets in.
“A-and, and all the others have gone. I'm sure it... m-must have been them that had away with his lordship’s lovely things. ‘No money for a coach’, indeed! They planned it all, I am sure!” Shaking with indignation and sorrow, Fiorré holds her travel-ragged satchel close. “If I had not taken my inheritance and savings with me, they would have taken it as well.” The young woman, who has never in her life been outside of Galt, much less to anywhere as exotic as Iobaria, slumps against the wall next to the closet. She buries her face in her hands, her shoulders trembling as she sobs.
The guards seem to buy Fiorré's tale of woe. "There, there. No one is accusing you of anything. It sounds like you've been put through quite the ordeal." The female guard turns toward her fellow that led the way into the room. "What should we do about this, captain?"
The captain scratches his chin, where a five o'clock shadow is already starting to develop, despite the early hour. "Well, there will be an inquest, no doubt of that. Could you turn out your pockets, my dear? Unless you've got a set of silverware or the lord's signet ring secreted about your person, we can leave you free to go today. Where are you staying? I'm sure the judge will want to speak to your about your former coworkers and where they might have absconded with the goods."
The guard waits patiently for Fiorré's response.
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Under the veil of Invisibility Aphotos clutches his swordcane, and pulls it just slightly out from its sheath, only to completely relax upon hearing the guards's response.
"Huh... I guess the guards around here aren't as suspicious as the rest of the townsfolk. Well then, isn't that grand, perhaps we'll get out of this without having to hide a bunch of bodies today after all."
It takes Fiorré a few moments to regain some vestige of her composure, a final proof that her tears are no act. Taking a few deep breaths, the previously-definitively-established-as-not-Iobarian girl does her best to piece together the guards’ last words. “A-an inquest? Oh. Oh aye—um, of course!” The trouble with lies, Fiorré glumly reflects, is that they echo like a shout in the mountains. And can quite similarly bury the speaker out of nowhere. At least the quaver in her voice will go unquestioned.
As for her pockets... Fiorré sets about pulling items out of her pockets. Truth be told, these contain very little; some spare gold with which to generously overpay, her little waxed-paper bag of ‘medicine’, a vial or two of potion, and some spare trinkets. Then, ever the soul of forthrightness, the in-no-way-beastblood girl starts taking items from her scholar’s satchel. Unfortunately—or perhaps fortunately; their size would have revealed the container’s copious capacity—she's left most of her traveling gear, cookware and the like, back at the safehouse. Still, one by one, out come a few spare outfits, relics of a time before the dreaming dress; her masques, wood and mithril; the broad shady hat she’d worn to endure the Mwangi heat; her sword Snowfall, sheath and all; and her splendid lyre.
Fiorré begins speaking again before Snowfall comes out, hoping her words will distract the guards from inspecting the potent blade too closely. “Though, ah...” The young woman smiles a sheepish smile, hand rubbing at the back of her neck in uncertainty. “I fear I’ve not yet found proper lodgings. I had expected to once my employment was proper stable, perhaps rooming with another domestic or such. And given the urgency of my errand, I’d hastened to return before finding a room proper for a young lady.” More composed now (though she still avoids the sight of the bed and its occupant), her voice has largely returned to its elegant mimicry of Galtan inflection.
Not wanting to leave the matter at that—for after all, was she not quite innocent of death or burglary? and besides, the habits of Abadaran upbringing were not so far distant from the ever-considerate girl—Fiorré smiles her sweetest, most obedient smile. “But of course, I’d not ever wish to cause you inconvenience. Perhaps on the morrow I could simply pay a visit to your guardhouse, or to the judge’s seat of court? Then you needn’t search the inns and caravanserais for my lodging-place.” Fiorré folds her hands demurely in front of her, smiling quite genuinely; helping is its own reward, after all.
The guards seem very puzzled by the sudden appearance of these strange items and the continued forthrightness of the serving girl with the accent that they can't quite place.
"Hmm...ah, yes. Well." There an exchange of looks, and a few shrugs all around. "Careful with that pretty pig sticker there, miss. I'm not sure where you picked it up, but it's certainly not the lord's. Not his late lordship's style at all. Unscrupulous folks might try to take such pretty things away from you, but luckily this town is a law abiding place." The talkative guard nods.
"On with you then, and remember that people value order around here, and you wouldn't get far without someone spotting you if you decided not to stop by tomorrow."
The guards pull a coverlet over the body and begin discussing whose turn it is to fetch the doctor, Fiorré is left to her own devices.
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"Well done, girl. We got what we came for, so let's make a quiet exit," comes a whispered message to Fiorré. Then each of the others hear their own in turn. Under cover of invisibility, Funmi leaves the same way they entered so the guards can go about their work undisturbed.
The surge of pride Fiorré feels at her teacher’s words is tempered by the weight of the emotion still hanging over her. The Iobarian girl creeps out, resisting the urge to offer to fetch a doctor herself. Best not to complicate her involvement any further. As she emerges through the servants’ entrance, blinking at the sun’s brightness, Fiorré finally remembers to shift back. Hair reclaims its snowy shimmer, the mithril band becomes a bracer once again, and her dress returns to its wonted form. Holding the door for her unseen friends, she finally takes a deep breath of air untainted by death.
“Like that I should be inquiring of my errant fellow servants,” Fiorré murmurs to herself, halfheartedly endeavoring to shroud the old grief in an audacious grin. “But perhaps the judge shall under these circumstances forgive me my deception.” With a series of faint sniffles, the beastblood girl orients herself upon her companions. “Whence now are we bound?” Fiorré asks, voice still low. “Back to our wyrm-shrouded lair? Or have we others of import to call upon?”
Funmi lets her shroud of invisibility fall away and gestures for the group to keep moving, to continue their conversation further from the late Lord's estate. "I've no more leads for now, but I worry we still have too many unanswered questions and too many dark shadows for our enemies to lurk behind. I'd like to keep exploring the city, but we should be careful not to draw any undue attention to ourselves. I fear the curious foreigner ruse would only get us so far in a city this suspicious of their own neighbors."
As they continue through the city, Funmi focuses on her arcane sight. She doesn't plan on being caught off guard the way she was at the meeting hall.
Aphotos pulls his hood further over his head and nods, "I'm inclined to agree. There are still many things too many loose threads. What say some of you to a bit poking around through some more clandestine means? I'm quite good at keeping a low profile, and making a quick exit if need be. And with that in mind, I think it might do us some good to look further into the dangers that may befall us at this party."
Aphotos stops for a moment to look around at the crowd of city dwellers, "These folk all fear something, it would best for us to try and understand some of those fears further. I say we delve further into these Gray Gardeners and their soul rending blades. I'll see if I can wrangle anything out of these people, and perhaps those of us who are more academically inclined can do some other research. We'll meet back up as soon as I learn something." With that, Aphotos takes a bow and walks into the crowd, quickly fading into darkness.
Chance's easy manner loosens some tongues around town. Only careful questioning allows the gnome to avoid attracting attention when asking about such sensitive subjects.
The monastery is so old that it predates Galt by millennia, though it was an abandoned ruin before the Gray Gardeners established their headquarters
there just over 50 years ago. Any deity or philosophy the monastery might once have been dedicated to is long forgotten. In its center is a grand ballroom, surrounded by offices, dining halls, and servants’ rooms. The Gray Gardeners maintain very few servants, all of whom live in the old monastic cells and never leave the monastery.
Aphotos briefly finds most of the group in a few hours, appearing out of flickering into existence from a dark alleyway. "Well, I have discovered another lead. There is a cartographer who may be familiar with some recent movements of the Final Blades. It may be fruitful to visit her shop, 'The People's Maps' and see if she has anything useful about these movements and why they might be taking place."
"Did the rest of you find anything else that might be useful?"
"The cartographer could be a good friend to have," Funmi agrees, appearing seemingly from thin air. "I discovered...something, but I can't say yet whether it will be helpful. It is disturbing at the very least. An incredibly powerful necromantic aura is emanating from one of the circus tents at Grange Market. It seems a strange place for it, but a travelling troupe could be the perfect cover for a Gardener. I'd like to investigate, but we should be prepared for a fight if we do."
No sooner said than done, you make your way through town to The People's Maps. The People’s Maps is a storefront. Its sign depicts a map of Galt behind crossed ink quills. The shop’s wide windows are plastered with topographical, political, and survey maps, along with signs indicating “Property Lines Properly Defined” and “Lost Locations Found at Reasonable Prices.”
Inside, a halfling with curly red hair is at a sturdy table, poring over a map of Litran. She looks up as you enter and dismissively proclaims, “Apologies, but I’m closed for the day.”
It's only a brief blink that betrays Funmi's surprise. It's still early in the day, and the door was unlocked. And it certainly didn't look like the cartographer was cleaning up for the day.
"Bah, I told you we should have come earlier this morning!" she chides, pretending to smack Aphotos on the arm. Hopefully he gets the message to play along. "I apologize for disturbing you madam, but perhaps you can find the time to help a traveler who has just arrived in the city? I promise, it will be brief. And profitable."
With a quick flourish, a flash of gold appears between Funmi's fingers, and then just as quickly disappears.
"I'm quite busy today, but I might be able to tackle an interesting project later this week. What are you looking for?" The cartographer seems distracted, but something in Funmi's manner has caught her attention.
It wasn't quite the answer Funmi was hoping for, but it wasn't a boot out of the door either, so she'll take what she can get for now and hope to convince the cartographer of more after. "Well you see, it is my first time in Litran - my first time in Galt, actually. And I am just so enamored with your beautiful countryside, I should like to see more of it. But I've also heard a number of...unsavory stories that have me just a little nervous."
Funmi takes a few tentative steps forward. She doesn't move too close to the halfling, and keeps an eye on her reactions. If the woman seems at all tense or guarded, Funmi will pause to idly examine whatever she's stopped nearest to.
"What I need is a map that will let me know which routes are safest to travel and which are to be avoided at all costs. I've heard you are the only person to ask about such matters. And the sooner I can acquire such a map, the better. My friends and I have invitations to a certain event in town, and once it's over we'll have to leave rather quickly to make it to our next destination in time."
She doesn't bother looking to gauge the cartographer's reaction. Her friends can do that while she holds the woman's attention. Instead she leans down to take a closer look at an old map kept in a glass case. Ever the nosy tourist.
"An event, in Lotran?" The halfling pulls absent-mindedly on one of her curls as she considers the question. "It would be highly unusual to have a big event here. Almost everything has, historically, been held at the capital. I suppose there are a few ways out of town...the usual routes, though. You could take the river, but water travel is dangerous, I hear. There's been more drownings than you would expect!"