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Gravin scowls and shuffles his feet. "No problems on the night shift, Roldheim," he answers flatly. "Lad's here with a commission. He's worked with us before, many a time," he glares somewhat defensively. Gristav realizes that this must be Tromard Roldheim, the manager of the Gas Forges.
Gristav sits on the stoop at the foot of the Gas Forge steps and waits for sunrise, keeping his staff in evidence and at the ready in case anyone should judge him an easy mark, half-passed-out on his early-morning stagger home from the taverns. Out in the harbor, visible above the rooftops, the apex of the Cyphergate, the communal timepiece for every Riddleport denizen, suddenly flares in the sky; the sun hasn't yet climbed above the eastern ridgeline, but its rays have reached the highest point in Riddleport. As if on cue, only a few moments later, the side door of the Gas Forges swings open, and the night-shift trudges out, looking grimy and fatigued, Gravin Goldhammer at their head. When he sees the half-elf on the stoop, he looks startled and then frowns. Turning to mutter something to the rest of the dwarves, who glance in Gristav's direction and then continue on their way, he approaches, looks around a bit nervously, and mutters, "Don't tell me you've been here all night, lad."
Gristav: "He's got a tenement in Leeward District, just north of the Boneyard Road," the dwarf grunts back over his shoulder. "You might have come by it on the way into town."
Gristav: "Nay, Zincher wouldn't be here," the dwarf chuckles without much humor, "but some of his men are like to be. Larur's ... not in his flat anymore, either. If you're looking for him ... you remember that old inn in the River District, been closed for years, the Gold Goblin? You'll find him there. You'll, eh, give him my regards, will you?" The dwarf nods, not unkindly, and moves away to enter the Forges for his night's work.
Gristav: The dwarf looks uncomfortable. "Larur ... isn't working with us anymore," he says, shuffling his feet, his eyes on the ground. "If it's business with the Gas Forges, I can take it in for you. But Zincher's not for allowing any goods to be delivered by men not of his stable anymore. Says independent couriers aren't trustworthy, unless he's approved them."
You recognize the name Cleg Zincher as the man who represents the labor force at the Gas Forges; in exchange for a small percentage of each dwarf's pay, he negotiates with the ownership for wages and benefits. It strikes you as highly unusual that Larur wouldn't be working at the Forges anymore; you know that virtually every dwarf in Riddleport works there. |
