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Sounds good. Happy holidays, guys!
At the sound of approaching footsteps, Fawkes jumps, startled. Whipping around to face the intruder, he sighs at relief to see Torr. "Oh good, it's only you." Turning back to his investigation, he whips around again. "Why aren't you protecting the women?!" As soon as that, the matter of the women is forgotten again as he waves Torr over. "Never mind, come take a look at this." He points out the tracks on the floor. "What d'you make of that?"
Fawkes grips his head, stumbling about as the clanging rings through the depths of his mind. He slips in the blood, tumbling to the floor, rolling to a crashing stop on one of the doors. He lays there, still holding his head, until the clock ceases to ring. As the visions slowly fade, he picks himself up, glancing at the clock with a leery grimace. He tries to shake off the disquieting feeling that begins to seep into him, but can't help but shiver a little. Putting the event out of his mind, he sets to the task of investigating the dangling body.
Finals are coming up, projects need to be worked on. Sorry for the delay. I'll try to get a decent post in tomorrow.
"Well, I won't leave the building then. I'll be alright; it's just in the other room," Fawkes says, his words trailing over his shoulder as he exits through the door to the scene of the recent catastrophe.
Fawkes frowns as he realizes something. "Torr, I fear we've been remiss. It may behoove us to examine..." His voice trails off before he can finish, not wanting to frighten the women any more. He indicates, by inclination of the head and pointed looks, the door the half-orc was last seen exiting. "I'll go check it out if you'll defend the women in my absence. Shouldn't take more than a moment."
Fawkes puts an arm around each waist, offering a firm but comforting hold. "Fear not; no harm will come to you, as long as I stand by your side." Unless, of course, you're the culprits, in which case there's probably few places worse than where you are now. Turning his attention on the dwarf. "I'd say the next step is to investigate the attic. What say you, d'Landry?"
"I don't know...yet. But I don't think we should let them in on our suspicions, at least not yet. I suspect even the spirit may know more about this than we do. Follow my lead, for now at least." Reappearing from The Study, Fawkes tries not to over-exaggerate his act. With a shrug, he says to Torr, "See? I told you there wasn't anything in there. It's not even the right room!"
Fawkes follows Torr back into the room and whispers conspiratorially. "I think the ghost knows we're not jurors, but that's neither here nor there. If this means what I think it means, then one of them," he says, gesturing out the door, "knows a bit more than they're letting on. Could be more than one, or even all of 'em. Mark me, the real culprit's standing in this courthouse."
Fawkes' mind begins to puzzle over the possible meanings of the passage, but the sounds of horrible death interrupt him before he can get far. Poking his head out of the room to check on everyone, he tugs on Torr's sleeve, jerking his thumb behind him to the book.
Fawkes, sensing that he's been ignored, follows Torr. He mumbles a defense, mostly to himself. "I was getting there. You're just... supposed to wave your sword around first." With a sigh, he adds a grumble. "Stupid stories..." Pushing past Torr, who seems to be more interested in looking at the room than searching it for clues, Fawkes looks around a bit. Standing in the center, he freezes. "This doesn't look like an apartment. I think this is the wrong room." Shrugging, he goes over to the desk anyway to search it.
Fawkes stands up from his hiding place to watch the half-orc leave the room. Thinking aloud, he rubs his chin absentmindedly. "I suppose if we are supposed to investigate, we'd likely have to leave the courthouse to do it, except that the courthouse itself is the scene of the crime. If we can't leave the premises, that's almost surely an indicator that the case can be solved without leaving. Or there's some other business here that we simply don't know yet. And if we can leave... that proves nothing one way or the other. What would Grishom Short-Sword do? He'd probably wave his sword around for a bit." Breaking from his thoughts, he glances around, pointedly looking for something. "Do any of you have a large sword? Really, any sort of blade will do, but it has to be big."
Nope, just Thanksgiving. Travel, festivities, the like. Sorry for the delay, and it's good to see your internet's back.
Fawkes stares at the axe stuck deep in the wood, more in surprise than horror. "Well, that was suitably dramatic." In response, he ducks down behind the juror's box and confers with Torr. "I've no clue what to think, really. It doesn't seem like any of the others were aware of this 'meeting' except for us. Binns may be in on it, or perhaps we have more to fear from our mysterious benefactor than our dubious landlord. In any event, I'm sure Tablark's got everything under control. I've heard plenty of stories of haunted dwarven mines; he probably lives in one!" Fawkes pauses to think for a moment. "Then again, Tablark sentenced the ghost to death, so he might not have it as under control as he might think. Mark me, the stories, at least the ones with happy endings, always start with righting a wrong. Or massages." From his hiding place, he calls to Rekkart. "Sir Rekkart, it may be prudent to share the details of the case; it may not be as open-and-shut as you first thought."
Fawkes frowns in disappointment. He was so hoping for a tax fraud case. "Well, I suppose there isn't much else to do but sit and wait for something to happen. Did you all end up here the same way ten years ago, or is the drugging an innovative addition to the experience?"
Fawkes turns his attention to Sir Rekkart. "Maybe it has something to do with the events of ten years past; in fact, it seems the most reasonable place to start. What happened then?" His eyes go wide as his mind races with the possibilities, and he begins gesticulating wildly. "Was it a murder? It was, wasn't it? A high-profile case, the high priestess of a secret sect of Norgorber, dead on the steps of courthouse! Killed by her own acolytes, offered up to her foul god in a cruel twist of irony!" Fawkes stops to catch his breath, and he realizes that he's gotten very, very carried away. Shrugging weakly, he tries to recover. "Or maybe it was... tax fraud?"
Fawkes holds up his hands in a placating gesture. "Alright, alright, just calm down. My name is Fawkes, and my associate here is Torr. We were sent in place of Caius and Jake. We don't have any details; we were told to just shut up and pay attention. At this point, I think you all know a sight more about all this than we do."
Fawkes blinks, keeping a straight face. "I was adopted."
Confusion and suspicion cloud Fawkes' eyes, until he lights up with an idea. Looking back to Torr, he grins excitedly. "Jake! It's 'appened to us this time! I always thought Pa was jus' full o' it!" Looking back to the others, he re-introduces himself. "I s'ppose you mus' think I'm me Pa. If'n you knew Caius Twining, he was me father."
Fawkes' eyes dart back and forth between Torr and the crowd, remembering his instructions: 'Listen much, say little.' No choice but to go with the flow. Picking his character up right where he left off, he looks right at the dwarf, leaning forward in an over-exaggerated display of sizing him up. "I ain' never seen you 'afore neither, I wager." Standing back up straight, he assumes a hunched standing posture. "I'm Caius. Who're you? I think I gots a right t' know you as well as you me, and seein' 's how we're makin' introductions, meet me partner, Jake."
Fawkes turns to look at Torr, giving him a quizzical look and a shrug. In a low voice, he asks, "D'you think this is part of the plan?"
After taking in the sight of the eight others, Fawkes tries to break the ice. "Did everyone have a nice nap?"
Frantically, Fawkes scrambles for his throat, checking to make sure it's still there. He pants heavily, his heart racing. I haven't had nightmares in years! And certainly never anything like that. Calming down, he looks around the courtroom he finds himself in. The fading mural above seems oppressive, the dingy, shadowed room confining. Suddenly realizing just where he is, he gasps in horror, covering his mouth to muffle the sound. No! Take me back to the dream! Rip my throat out! Tear me limb from limb! Just...anything but jury duty!
'Caius' fans himself with a hand, pouring another glass of wine. "'s gettin' a bi' hot 'n here, don't you think, Jake? Don' get me wron', it's be'er than mos' o' th' places we been lately, but there ain' even a fire goin'! I's bloody swelterin', i' is!" A bead of sweat falls slowly down his face as he talks, punctuating his point. At the last, his tongue licks out and catches the salty droplet.
"Y' 'ear that, Jake? She called us 'gents'! What a classy wench! D'you thin' it'd be polite t' wait fer th' others, or d'you thin' we can start drinkin'? That wine's lookin' quite tasty!" As he keeps up the act, Fawkes seems to be acting less and less, the character becoming more and more real. Again, the half-elf takes on a sort of different countenance without really changing. His clothes seem a tad more rumpled, his hands seem just a bit grimier. His fiery hair looks just a little less washed, a bit more matted. But the excited grin doesn't change one bit, as if a reminder to the world that there's still a wily Fawkes underneath it all.
"Well now hol' on there, Jake, no need t' be so ru'e abou' it." Turning to the bartender, 'Caius' grins amiably. "Like 'e said, we're 'ere fer a mee'in', but I'd be 'appy t' sample some of your wares. One mus' be sure not to refuse such 'ospitality, Jake. I'll 'ave some wine; I'm feelin' a bit fancy tonigh'." Turning away from the barman, he nudges 'Jake', looking about in appraisal. "'s a nice place, this is. I coul' get used ta mee'in' in places like this! 's much be'er than the usu'l spots. It don' even look like there's a choker 'angin' abou'! 's even got lights! We're movin' on up, we are, Jake!"
"I don't know how to tell you this, but nondescript isn't going to be easy for you. What do you think Jake Blacklee would wear? As long as we look like run-of-the-mill thugs, we'll have the run of the mill!" Fawkes pauses for another moment in thought. "Do you think it would be harder to run a mill or an alchemist's shop?" Shrugging, Fawkes heads to his room without waiting for an answer.
"Swampwater to goblins? Well, that's easy. You just have to tell them that they seem to have a problem with horsewater in their swamp, and offer up your own swampwater, making sure to point out that not only is your water horse-free, but that if they inhale deeply, it even smells a bit like pickles. Goblins love pickles for some reason. Mark me, pickles are a tasty snack, but it takes a goblin to truly appreciate a pickle." Following Torr's lead, Fawkes manages to make himself as useful as possible without understanding the organizational scheme. He tries to pay close attention to where everything goes, separating the symbols in his head. "Do we sell reagents, catalysts or material components, or do we keep to selling finished alchemical products? And do you gather the reagents yourself, or is there some sort of supplier?"
So far the pace is working fine for me. I'm in a Legacy of Fire game in which the GM's pacing is rather terrible. The story moves along in the choppiest way and it's almost painful to watch. I like that you've allowed the action to be character-driven so far; all of a sudden it's looking like we'll be running an alchemist shop during the day and having all sorts of crazy adventures at night. It's practically a sit-com! That said, I tend to be a bit over-indulgent in character interaction, and I'm fine with speeding up whenever you are.
Dropping the Caius character, Fawkes stands and looks pensive for a moment while he ponders the question. "No, I can't say that I have any plans. We'd best tend to the shop and get it operational. Mayhaps you could teach me a thing or two about alchemy while we're at it. Mark me, I don't think I'd be of any use in the production, but I might make for quite the salesman if I knew the first thing about what I was selling."
Examining the note, Fawkes grins with glee., his prior consternation forgotten. Handing it over to Torr, he says, "Good ta meetcha, Mistah Blacklee. I 'spect it'll be a most int'rest'n meetin'. Wot says ye?"
Fawkes stands in his room, looking around and taking it all in. After one turn, he stops and lists his observations. "I'd say that it certainly has less pillows than my room in Riddleport, many more than my hammock on-board the Gray Devil, and roughly the same number of pillows as the rooms in most taverns. The view out the window is somehow picturesque for the scene of refuse and drabbery it portrays, and I quite like the sound of this floorboard!" He shifts his weight back and forth, eliciting a wooden squeal from the beneath him. Fawkes seems to take a strange satisfaction in this, grinning more than he maybe should be. Tossing his single bag onto the bed, he moves to the window. His hands on his hips, gazing out onto the Shingles and Korvosa's skyline, he takes pleasure in the scene, feeling triumphant. It may not be much, but what do I truly need, more than a song in my heart and a smile on my lips? It will do, and there's nothing wrong with that.
Fawkes summons everything he has within him to remain calm and collected, saying nothing and turning back into the shop. He'll tell us what we need to know later. Which is to say that he will provide us with the rest of the details as the time draws near. Just calm down, Fawkes. One-hundred and sixty gold is more than worth this moment of agitation. He's just a stupid man, with a stupid face, with stupid bodyguards, and a stupid house that I'm renting and a stupid mysterious job for me to do tonight. That's all it is, just a lot of stupid. So relax and take the day as it presents itself. "So, how about giving me a tour," he says to Torr.
Turning back to look at Binns, he gives him a quizzical look, then an exasperated one, until finally, with a heavy sigh, he explains in painfully even tone, "You said we'll have aliases. We need to know what they are. Am I to be Mr. Brown, or Mr. My-name-is-designated-but-I-know-not-the-designation, Esquire, third of that name? Are we to show up at Designated Meeting Time o'clock, or will the meeting take place in our own plane of existence with it's subjective hour and minute of the day? Does this inn have a name, or is it merely the Designated Tavern & Inn, open from Designated Hour of Opening o'clock until Designated Hour of Closing o'clock, every day of the year save for the Day of Non-Designation, a day held holy in the sight of the Designated God as a day of rest? After all, I would hate to attend the wrong meeting, at the wrong place, at the wrong time, under the wrong assumed name, and I'm sure whatever information we could provide from that particular meeting would hold no value whatsoever to our benefactor." Realizing that, despite his even tone, he may have gone too far, he grimaces apologetically. "Please excuse my deprecating long-windedness. I merely wish to be useful to you, Mister Binns, and I fear that I can't be useful on assumed designations; I am simply not autonomous enough for that."
He won't be answering any more questions for now, I'd wager. Knowing how this sort of thing is likely to work, Fawkes nods and says, as much to Torr as to Binns, "Very. I expect that you'll provide us with the rest of the details as the time draws near; we are, after all, on the need-to-know, and we don't yet need to know, do we?" A short pause gives Fawkes enough time to realize that he was perhaps a bit too curt, and so he bows graciously, attempting to exude humility and thanks. "Thank you for this most magnanimous opportunity, Mister Binns." Returning upright, he pushes his way past the entourage to enter the apartment, all other decorum forgotten.
It seems too good to be true, but Desna's jokes always come with the best bait. Fawkes holds Binns' gaze for two seconds, glances at Torr, and nods. "This arrangement seems more than fair. I accept, at least for my part." Too good to be true or not, I'll need to keep my misgivings to myself and my wits about me. It certainly didn't take me long to get back to trading in information; so much for escaping my former life. Never a dull moment, eh Fawkes?
Fawkes opens his mouth to speak, but is silenced by Binns' gesture. The green eyes light up at the sum before his imagination carries him away again. That's quite a large sum for so small a favor. It sounds like an important meeting, and one that may not be entirely... Well, if nothing else, it should prove to be lucrative. "I'm a bit concerned regarding the exact nature of the costs and payments involved. The back-rent owed should be a sum of eighty gold pieces, the same sum that I'm putting up in advance. This job is to pay one-hundred and sixty? Is that to each of us? To split? Or the gross total, with the back-rent expense to be deducted?" Mum always said to see the money first; few services demand payment once already rendered, though it's a fool of a man who double-crosses Calistria's wasps.
Fawkes fingers the purse filled with gold on his belt, keeping quiet while Torr deals with Binns. Torr may not speak much, but he's efficient with his words. He may have had some tutoring in speechcraft or argumentation. I just hope he's a good an alchemist as Pedrach thinks he'll be. The idea of Torr running the shop alone just seems somehow wrong, and Fawkes realizes that he and Torr will each need the other to accomplish their dreams. This pithy thought is suddenly hijacked by the prospect of running an alchemist's shop, and the half-elf's eyes glitter with glee at the adventure to be had in business management.
Fawkes snatches the offered note and reads it, his brow knitting with vaguely negative emotion. He sips the ale, listening to Torr's concerns. "I think you've got it in you to run the shop, but I'm fairly certain that Binns is cleaning out the apartment as we speak. We may be able to negotiate with him over their price, but I'm afraid we're a bit stuck for the moment." He starts to say something else before pausing and staring into his cup. After a moment, he confesses, "I've got enough for the first month, but it will deplete most of my savings, such as they are. Truthfully, my first thought was that this was a confidence game of some sort. I apologize for maligning you so harshly to Binns; things didn't go quite as I had intended and I got a bit carried away." Shaking his head solemnly, he takes a long swig. By the time he's finished, there's a smile under the foam he wipes from his lip. "This has been an eventful night. I'm almost sad that Pedrach wasn't kidnapped after all; mark me, it would have been one hell of an adventure!"
Smiling and bowing his head in gratitude, Fawkes starts away. As soon as he's turned around, the smile drops into a calculating frown. Pedrach's left some things, it would seem. Torr thinks he can't run the shop by himself, and that may be true, but if he's to have any chance as an alchemist, he'll need the supplies. I don't know if I'll be able to cover the expense, and it's a bit unreasonable to even expect that I should. Fawkes continues walking, thinking hard about the situation, but keeping on the look-out for chokers or other threats in the dark. Just what have you gotten yourself into, Fawkes? People disappear mysteriously all the time! Why should I even care?! His frown creeps upward into a mischievous grin as he answers his own question. "Because it's a damn lot of fun!"
As Binns says his piece, Fawkes notices that Torr has managed to slip away. Taking another breath, he makes a show of regaining his composure. "It appears that I have forgotten myself." Bowing to chest level and rising again, he calmly offers his apology. "I can certainly understand the need for protection; one can never be too safe in these troubled times. Please accept my deepest apologies; now that I see you mean me no harm, I can calm my cock's comb and rest easy." Fawkes takes a non-threatening, restful posture, and has the good sense to look suppliant. In explanation for his behavior, he offer, "When one has naught but words for defense, one learns to wield them sharply, and I fear that I was perhaps too quick on the draw. I hope it has not cost me your roof. If it is a choker's nest, than I hope that I may be so lucky as to consider myself among the filth-encrusted sewer demons to be granted the privilege of taking up residence here. If you are still willing to take me on, I am willing to pay a month's rent in advance, and to keep a steady schedule of payment to protect against a repeat of this predicament." After a moment's pause, the half-elf quirks his eyebrow. His eyes dart to the left and right before asking, "While we're on the subject, how much are you charging?"
Fawkes tries to keep his face from falling as a realization sinks in. Glancing behind Binns at the two men, his self-preservation kicks into overdrive. Time to make a decision, Fawkes; those men look like they're more than willing to purt the screws to Torr for this back rent, regardless of whether or not he can pay. This situation may be bad, but it doesn't seem like I'm being fleeced for the gold. Mum always did leave out the part with the beatings for those who can't pay. Knitting his brow into an outraged sneer, he throws his hands in frustration, adding in a grunt of outburst for good measure. Ostensibly stalking away, Fawkes attempts to walk around Binns and the men as he rants. "Why, I never! I've never met this Pedrach fellow before, much less kept company in his run-down rented shack, and you're going to hold me responsible for the rogue's debts? If you think I'm going to stand for this, you're sadly mistaken, sir! You're hardly the only slum-lord in the Shingles, and if you think I'll stand for such racketeering as this," he points a finger at the two brutes as he stops in his pacing. He steps toward Binns again, stopping short of getting into striking range to keep from provoking his hired muscle. "You come here and try to intimidate me with these menacing gargoyles, expecting me to pay a debt I don't owe, and then continue to happily rent your rotting choker's nest of a domicile?!" He throws his hands out again, spittle flying as he shouts, "I won't have it, sir! I've a mind to report this to the Cerulean Society, if not the Guard! I offer to pay rent in advance, and to track down your debtor free of charge, out of my own pious devotion to the Savored Sting, and you treat me as though I am part and percel to this brigandry?! By what measure do you call yourself by any other name than 'scum', Mister Binns?!?" Fawkes takes a deep breath, his chest heaving with true outrage at the fictionalized slights against him, his face as red as his hair. He places his hands on his hips in an agressive stance, ready to pull the dagger that hangs inches away on his belt.
Fawkes glances at Torr quickly before approaching Binns. He bows his head and clears his throught before beginning his quick-talking game. "Good evening, sir, and a pleasure to meet your acquaintance proper. I am Fawkes, and I have no quarry with you. As I am not your tennant, I have no stake in your quandry as it is, and I'm merely a humble by-stander. However, it occurs to me that both you and your tennant are in a bad way. You are owed back rent equalling four weeks' worth, and your soon-to-be-former-tennant here has no money to pay." After stopping a moment to take a breath and to let his words sink in a bit, he continues, spinning his pitch. "One way or another, you have a residence that needs lodgers, and I am a prospective resident in need of lodging. I understand that you're in a bad way at the moment, and may be in need of some assurance of payment after this unfortunate turn of events. I am willing to rent your..." He pauses a moment, looking behind him and giving the building an exaggerated once-over, before continuing, "shack. And I am willing to pay my rent in advance, to provide you the assurance you so desperately need after having been taken advantage of so mercilessly." Again, he pauses for emphasis. Sighing dramatically, he opens his mouth to finish his piece, laying it on as thick as he can manage. "Truth be told, sir, I've never met either of these unscrupulous men before tonight, and I must say that I am thankful to be spared in this way, that I should not have fallen among them without warning as a sheep among murderous wolves! Truly, my goddess protects me in this, and as a devout follower of the Savored Sting, it is my duty to aid you in seeking revenge for the injustice that the ignoble Pedrach, the son of infamy that he is, has brought upon you! Sir, if you would allow me to aid you in this, if you would give me leave to track down your debtor, I would be grateful for the opportunity! Sir, I beg your leave, that I may set right this wrong in the eyes of Calistria!"
Fakwes cooly regards the building that may or may not be his future home, thinking about what he's going to say to Binns in the morning. Looking back to Torr, he says, "We have lodging for one night at least, but what are we going to do about Pedrach? If you want to find him, perhaps we should go back to the tavern? If he's truly fled, then he like as much won't be there, but there may be somebody who knows where he went."
Mine too. I tried to find a more folksy acoustic version; Metallica and Thin Lizzy would both be out of place. I've got some ideas for a couple other songs to drop in, but I'll try to keep it to a minimum for the most part.
Fawkes stops playing mid-song as Torr reappears. He listens to the explanation of the sorry situation, frowning. "This is quite the conundrum. I think you're right; it just doesn't feel... It feels like there's more to this story than we know. If business was in a bad way, you'd have known about it. Perhaps it explains Pedrach's searching for a new tennant, but I won't pretend that I'm close enough to the situation to make guesses." Fawkes crosses his arms and stares at the ground, the green orbs clouding over in their strange way. I have more than enough to pay the back rent, but it may be best to keep that piece of information to myself at the moment. It's like Mum always said: "If they think you can't pay, you'll never spend a coin." And I suppose I could always stay another night at one of the inns. But I was so looking forward to having my own lodging again! Looking back up at Torr, he opens his mouth to say something, but a sudden thought strikes him. "I think I may have an idea. I'll talk to Binns."
Fawkes stands aside, stepping out of Torr's way as he rushes into the apartment. Finding it better for him to stay out of the way, he stands outside, a bit away from the building, and retrieves his lute. Strumming absentmindedly, his mind reels at the new development in this increasingly-twisted story. Something just doesn't seem right, here. Why would Pedrach go through all the trouble of finding a new tennant simply to leave? If he was planning this, why wait this long? And what of his shop? Or his apprentice, for that matter? Though perhaps I've been conned. I'm sure I'll be asked to help with the month's-worth back rent. I'll have to be on guard in case this is some sort of confidence game. After all, I was under the impression that Pedrach was the landlord... Thoughts of conmen inspire him, and he begins playing a folktune, humming along with it before breaking into the accompanying lyrical poem. "As we were goin' o'er
Whack fol di daddy o
That's fine. Honestly, it's refreshing to be allowed to move along naturally like this without waiting for the DM to initiate every single change of scene. It allows for awesome character introduction and interaction like this! Yay for character-driven scenes!
The question elicits another sigh from the half-elf, once more dampening his mood, though only somewhat. "When I discovered my magical talents, I had delusions of grandeur. I thought that surely, powerful blood must flow in my veins! For awhile, I thought that it may have had something to do with my father, but experimentation proved that my abilities were more focused, that they required music and action as well as intention. So I thought that I might have some talent at wizardry, and I sought out someone who would take me on as an apprentice." He shakes his head in solemn resignation and sighs. "None of the cyphermages were interested in the prospect, nor were any other wizards that I came across." His mood lightens again, as he remembers happier times. "When I was younger, my mother told me stories of Korvosa, and I remembered her descriptions of the marvelous wizarding colleges and arcane universities, tales of pseudodragons clashing with imps high above the city streets! It all seemed rather fantastic, and I thought myself the sort to fit in at a place like that. So, with my head filled with notions of untapped potential, I set sail for Korvosa to attend the Acadamae!" He laughs, shaking his head again, perhaps at his own foolishness. "It was stupid of me to leave with such a vague notion in my head. I should have remembered that nothing in life is free. I can't say why, but I was completely unprepared to discover that the Acadamae, in fact, charges tuition! So here I am, fresh off the boat from Riddleport, with nothing more than the clothes on my back, the lute in my hands, and a small sack of earnings from the trip, still smelling like the salty sea breeze, walking right up to the doors of the Acadamae. There are some people milling about the gates, and I ask them, 'How do I enroll?' I got some strange looks, but eventually a generous soul directed me to the administrative building, where all my hopes and dream were subsequently dashed on the cobblestones." He laughs again, before finishing, "And that is the story of my time as a hopeful wizard. I've been here a bit over a month now, and I'm still playing for my dinner. Really, it's not much different than the life I left in Riddleport. Now I just have less people looking after my well-being." Shaking his head again, he turns his eyes on Torr, and smiles. "But I'm doing alright. I'm alive, I've got coin in my purse, and new friends!" Spreading his arm out wide in a sweeping gesture, he gazes over the city. "And there's a whole new city to explore! Asmodeus can have his infernal Acadamae, I'll keep my lute. Things are going to get better!" Smiling at Torr again, Fawkes cocks his head to the side, suddenly inquisitive. "And what about you, Toric d'Landry? I've done an awful lot of talking; what's your story? Where'd the scars really come from? And who's this beautiful Charlatan that left you so sad?"
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