Padraig Astreson's page

"Oh, aye," Padraig responds with a smile and a nod before his gaze wanders back out over the rooftops.

"Today, no," the man replies, shaking his head. "Yesterday...," he hesitates. It's not clear how firm a grasp he has on the passage of time.

"Were there usually many messages?"

"Oh, aye," the old man nods vaguely, still peering into the sky above the harbor.

"Aye," Padraig replies, turning his attention back to the sky off the end of the deck, "they're not well, are they? Not flying like they should be. The Father won't be getting his messages if the birds don't come." He shakes his head worriedly.

"Padraig", Gristav says gently, hoping to avoid any abseiling startle. Tapping on the door out of the elder's room though he hadn't knocked his way in, Gristav steps out onto the deck. "How are you?"

Gristav needn't have worried about startling the old man. He seems not to hear the hail at all and turns without the slightest alarm when the half-elf's approach darkens his peripheral vision. "Hm, aye?" he asks hopefully. "Is the Grail in port then?"

He'll also look about for any assembled logs or notes in the messaging room just before the loft. And yes, take the magnifying glass, personally and carefully.

Padraig looks up, as vaguely cheerful as usual, when Gristav re-enters his room to search the pigeon post. "Oh, aye?" he asks helpfully.

The half-elf carefully wraps the brass magnifying glass and stows it in his backpack, but he finds no remaining notes, either received or composed and not yet sent.

"Hm? He turned three-and-twenty the autumn before he set sail. Right proud he was to get a berth on the Grail, not one of these minnows swimming the Gulf but a proper ship heading all the way south to the Inner Sea. You don't make a voyage like that in a season, aye, or two."

"It was spring, it was," the old man says nostalgically, "a lovely spring day. The Grail set sail at sunset, and the sky was all fiery beyond the 'Gate. 'Jhonas,' I told him when he carried his kit aboard, 'you be sure and make your obeisance to the 'Gate. There's never a sailor what failed to respect the 'Gate sailing under it but met a watery end.'"

He gives a quavery laugh. "Oh, no, my eye is too dim and my hand too shaky. You have to write powerful small to send a message by pigeon. It's the Father writes the messages, right here in my little room," he goes on with obvious pride. "That's when I slip down to the kitchen and borrow a spot of drink off Mumsy." He taps one finger alongside the papery skin of his nose knowingly.

"Oh, aye," he smiles. "The grand cathedral in Roderic's Cove sent him. He and his lads moved in here at Rag's End to help the poor and downtrodden and let me stay on to take care of the pigeons. They carry messages back and forth from the cathedral, you know. It's a very important job."

"Eh? Who's that, now?"

"I take care of the Father's birds," he says proudly. "It's a very important job, it is."

Padraig stares disbelievingly at Snake. "The Cyphergate, lad, in the harbor!" He smiles knowingly. "Time to lay off the sauce for a while, eh? Sleep it off and you'll know where you are in the morning."

"Aye, he's a fine lad, is Jhonas," the old man rambles on; whether in response to Snake or merely completing his earlier thought is unclear. "It were a fine sight, the Devil's Grail setting out under the 'Gate at the evening tide."

"Jhonas is a hand on the Grail," he replies, as if it should be obvious.

The old man! "Oh right, I almost forgot about him." He immediately heads upstairs, moving toward Geezer Pidge's room. He's just about to knock before he remembers that the old man probably won't hear him so he decides to walk in, albeit carefully. As he does, he looks around for him. "Old man?"

Having seen some of the other rooms, it's now clear that Padraig has the worst accommodations in Rag's End, due largely to the warped and ill-fitting door; it must be almost unbearably cold and damp in the winter. Still, the old man also has the benefit of fresh air and as much natural light as seeps through the dirty window.

As Snake enters, Padraig is taking a swig from a small flask. He half-chokes when he sees the visitor and quickly hides the flask beneath a threadbare blanket on his cot. "Aye, young man? Have you come from the harbor? Is the Grail in?"

Snake once again notices the fresh quills, vial of ink, sheets of fine parchment, spool of twine, and oversized brass magnifying glass on the scarred surface of the makeshift desk.

From a loot standpoint, the magnifying glass might be worth something. And someone might find use for the writing supplies.

"What year was it? What is Jhonas' last name?"

"Three and twenty he was, the autumn before the Grail sailed. That was...," he trails off, a pained look crossing his face as he counts back the time, before his expression grows placid again. "He'll have missed his natal day when he gets back, but he'll take me on a pleasure cruise just the same. The things he'll have seen, down to Cheliax where they worship devils!"

"Weighed anchor in the spring," he replies, a timber of surety entering his voice as he reconnects with the vivid memory. "Set sail on the afternoon tide. Not one of these minnows jumping from harbor to harbor in the Gulf, a great ship heading all the way south to the Inner Sea. One doesn't make a voyage like that and return in a season, aye, or even two. 'Jhonas,' I tells him, 'you be sure and make your obeisance to the 'Gate. There's never a sailor what failed to respect the 'Gate sailing under it but met a watery end.'"

Gristav meets no one in the upstairs hallway as he finds his way back to Padraig's room. He pauses a moment before rejoining Braddon and the elderly man out on the deck to look over the pigeon-post supplies on the desk. The quills and parchment are new and clean, in sharp contrast to everything else in the mission, and the magnifying glass must cost more than all the furnishings he's seen combined; undoubtedly it is used both to write and to interpret the tiny missives tied to the birds' legs.

"Have they names, Padraig?", Gristav asks. "How often are they carried off? To fly back, they've got to be carried off, yes? It must be nice to see one that you know as a friend, when it returns."

"Aye," the old man replies, "they used to have to go by ship when the Father first arrived. But they learned quick; they're right smart animals. They let them go from the cathedral spire hungry, and they know they'll find a meal here in Riddleport. Then when the Father has a message to send back, they know where their home is in Roderic's Cove."

"Padraig", Gristav asks, "Do you play cribbage? Would you play, if I- if we?", Gris looks questioningly to Braddon, "Brought a board?"

"Ah, cribbage. Used to play with Jhonas afore he shipped out. You should come back when the Devil's Grail is in port and play muggins. Jhonas is cut-throat at muggins, he is."

"Oh, they discuss ... theological matters," he concludes hazily. "The Father lets them at the cathedral know what good he's doing, and they encourage him to do more."

"Get many pressers round here? Whachya doin' with the bird?"

"Hmm?" the man asks vaguely, seeming to pick up only on the second of Braddon's questions. "I feed them. It's important they know their food is here; that's what brings them from Roderic's Cove. If I don't feed them regular, the Father won't get his messages."

Appearing not to notice Snake's advice, Padraig moves to the door in the outer wall and opens it, an easy task as it fits so ill it practically swings open of its own accord when the latch is raised. It reveals a broad deck on the flat surface of the roof, approximately fifteen feet square, more spacious than the cramped bedroom and, even with the acrid haze from the Gas Forges in the air, more wholesome of atmosphere. Rickety stiles line the perimeter in a dubious nod to safety, and the branches of the tree in the back garden protrude over the eastern edge, the cupola containing the mission's bell visible above its jaundiced leaves. On the western edge of the deck stands a small shack-like structure caged with wooden slats and stained with the white splotches of bird droppings. The cooing of pigeons can be heard from within.

"Where do your birds fly to, Padraig?"

"Eh? What's that?" the old man asks, tottering over to the cote, precariously near the rotting railing for a man so unsteady on his feet. When the question is repeated, he replies, "Why, to the home church in Roderic's Cove. There's a grand cathedral there. They and the Father are always sending messages back and forth."

"I don't have Jhonas, Padraig, I'm sorry, I've just come to see you're well..., Gristav says, looking to Snake for an opinion.

"Come to see the birds then, have you?" he quavers complaisantly, trying to get to his feet off the low cot. "They're out on the roof."

Once Snake has entered, there is scarcely room for the other two along with the furniture in the cramped room; Braddon finds himself standing half-in and half-out of the open doorway.

With some difficulty, Snake manages to rouse the sleeping elder. Despite waking to a room full of strangers, he doesn't appear startled or afraid. Sitting up, he blinks from one to the next of them vaguely, his eyes not quite focusing. His breath stinking of stale alcohol, he asks, "Aye? Is the Grail in the harbor? Has Jhonas come home?"

The old man, for his part, pays no more mind to Jill's misgivings than to Gristav's arcane cleaning service or, for that matter, the road-turned-canal he waded through without remark. When the cupolaed building comes in view, he smiles with satisfaction and points to a flat deck visible on the back side of the roof. "That's where the pigeons live," he says happily. "There's a door leads out from my room." He picks up his pace, tottering rather alarmingly as he heads around to a set of flagstone steps on the north side of the structure. Gristav and Jill can see some rough-looking men sitting on the stoop and gazing toward the harbor.

"Father Kreun, then. When we can, we'll get you back there. Do you keep the father's pigeons, then? To some purpose? Or are these the pigeons of the street, and feeding them a charity?"

"Ah, no, they're clever birds. Carry messages, they do, from one church to the next. Powerful clever birds."

"And this isn't Jhonas' ship. What is the name of Jhonas' ship? We may pass it in the harbor, or find it on the way. Do you know the ship's name?"

"Aye, Jhonas's ship." His eyes take on a little more life and acuity as he makes contact with the memory. "The Devil's Grail, she was. A fine sight setting out under the 'Gate, the sky all fiery with sunset. 'Jhonas,' I tells him, 'you be sure and make your obeisance to the 'Gate. There's never a sailor what failed to respect the 'Gate sailing under it but met a watery end, he did.'"

The Cloud once again safe in her berth, Jill has taken a place at Gristav's shoulder. When the Devil's Grail is mentioned, she meets the half-elf's eyes and gives a barely perceptible shake of her head: She doesn't recognize the name.

"Mister Astreson, do you remember my name?"

"Hm?" he asks, drawn back into the present moment from a much more vivid past. "Oh, aye, aye, lad," he assures Gristav, papery fingers tapping his arm gently. "You're Jhonas's friend."

"We'll get you back there, Padraig. But I don't speak much pidgeon. Is there a person, we might get you back to?"

"Hm? Oh, well, Father Kreun, you know. They're his pigeons."

"I am Gristav, I will help you.", Gris gentles as he sets to whatever aid he might give the rescued elder. "Are you injured? We'll have water for you, when you want it again, just to rinse the salt from your mouth. And if we might have your name, and that of who we ought tell, we'll send a runner, soon as the docks are safe. There'll be worry, after a wave like that; we can spare yours most of it. Oh, and if you'll permit, I can dry you, and remove the salt, with a bit of magic?"

The man seems vague, difficult to engage; his eyes wander across the sky and the ship without focusing on anything in particular. At first, Gristav assumes it's the shock of his recent misadventure, but when he finally succeeds in securing his attention and he opens his mouth to reply, the strong scent of liquor on his breath offers a competing theory to explain his bleariness.

"Oh, aye, young man," he smiles gently. "Is this Jhonas's ship then? He always said he'd take me on a pleasure cruise one day. Can't be gone long, though, oh dear me, no, they'd worry, they would. Who'd feed the pigeons?"

He at least hasn't objected to Gristav's ministrations so the magus takes the opportunity to do what he can for the old man with prestidigitation. With a little persistence, Gris is able to extract a name, Padraig Astreson, and the avowal that he resides in Rag's End.

One Knowledge roll, please, Gristav.