The old city of Corvis was unusually quiet. The winter season had come and gone, ushering in the gradual warmth of spring. It would not be long before the merchants, mechanicks, soothsayers, craftsmen, and thieves would return to the City of Ghosts. The city was a valuable hub of trade between the nations of Llael, Rhul, and Ios to the north and Cygnar, Ord, and (to a lesser degree) the Protectorate to the south. Despite the fact that the city was sunk into a vast, marshy bog in the middle of northern Cygnar, Corvis still saw much more merchant traffic than many other cities in the Iron Kingdoms. The traditional design of modern cities had long been abandoned after the original city sank into the marsh under it's own weight and was buried under the reconstruction that followed: a network of canals and raised platforms that stretched over several square miles and boasted a population of thousands.
It was here, in the City of Ghosts, that Vinter Raelthorne the Elder had brought his Skorne army against Cygnaran forces in a vain attempt to reclaim the throne he had lost to his younger brother Leto only a year prior. Hundreds of men and Skorne lost their lives in that swamp, laid low by enemy fire and the wandering beasts that lurk below the surface of the bog. This was not the first battle in Corvis' history, however. Many battles were fought over this crucial waterway in the past, dating all the way back to the time of the Orgoth, and the swamp was teeming with spilled blood. Many of those wars continue to be fought today on the spectral battlefield that stretches for miles around Corvis, earning the city it's nickname with their nightly routines. Most of the haunts are little more than disconcerting reminders of days gone by. Some, however, obtain a new, sinister life after death and stalk the nearby roadways and waterways in search of living prey. Every year, a few people go missing. Every year, a few bodies float down the river and into the city's canals. If they're lucky, the body is found by the city sanitation workers or one of the priests of Morrow. If they're not so lucky, the body is collected by individuals who have a sinister need of such things or others who wish to sell said body to the former.
Our story begins at a tavern called 'Rusty Jack's' in the northern quarter of town, a residential tavern situated away from the hustle and bustle of the Quad near the river. The tavern is generally populated by locals but, on occassion, the tavern's reputation for being 'off the beaten path' leads individuals with a need for secrecy to it. It's these customers that always cause trouble. Sometimes it's a wanted criminal, sometimes it's a Khadoran spy, and sometimes it's just a comman man trying to hide out from 'debt collectors.' It's seldom good, however, and the owner of the bar typically keeps a sharp eye out for potential trouble.
As fitting it's namesake, Rusty Jack's is home to the rusted shell of a warjack's cortex, it's lifeless eyes cracked and worn. The shell is displayed prominently on the northern wall of the establishment, greeting patrons with it's cold, mechanical stare. The story goes that the shell was salvaged by the owner's father in the swamps years ago and was far too pitted and worn by the elements to be useful for resale to anyone. The cortex inside was still largely intact, however, and the owner's father made a hefty sum selling it back to the Cygnaran army. That sale enabled him to fund the tavern's construction and provide a place for the weary workers of Corvis to sit and drink far away from the tangled mess of the downtown hustle. It also provided a place for the Cygnaran soldiers garrisoned here to take a load off and enjoy a quiet night to themselves after a harrowing patrol. One such soldier made himself a regular at the owner's insistance. This soldier was different, however. He was not garrisoned here. In fact, he wasn't even truly a solider anymore but he was still a tough old soul and fairly handy with a forgelock. The owner arranged to keep him around in exchange for his services as a bouncer and enforcer in case more undesireables should find their way into his bar. This man was Claudian Galbraith.
The utter mundanity of the evening was disrupted, however, when a slender form made it's way in through the door. Draped in black and possessed of a chilling, bone-white countenance was none other than a Nyss elf! Immediately behind her was a large Umbrean woman bearing a massive axe that seemed to radiate a faint blue glow from a series of runes adorning the blade. They exchanged glances at each other after looking around the room and finally nodded, almost in unison, as they stepped forward to secure a room for the night. The conversations in the room fell silent as they passed, all eyes focused on the elf with combined terror and awe. The two women adjourned to a small table in the corner and began examining a map, the Nyss putting an end to the staring with a baleful glare at the gawking patrons.
A few minutes later, another group wandered into the tavern led by a Tordoran man of noble heritage and strong build. He had the look of an adventurer to him, or perhaps a mercenary, as did the other two who accompanied him: a slight, freckled girl dressed in similar fashion and a younger man who seemed to light up at the prospect of a good night's rest. The Tordoran saddled up to the bar, smiling at the owner, and slapped down a handful of gold crowns.
"I need 3 rooms for the night, 3 breakfasts for the morning, and 3 mugs of your best ale for right now," the Tordoran said, looking over his shoulder and smiling at his companions. "It takes more than a couple of bog trolls to stop the Jackal's Grin eh?" The Tordoran chuckled and the other two simply nodded, smiling. The owner provided the requested ales and the trio made their way to a table near the bar, laughing and carrying on about a battle they had fought out in the swamps only a few hours past.
It has been a long, exhausting day, and Sy’yll simply isn’t in the mood to endure the wide-eyed, prying stares of the humans around her, let alone to try and ease their discomfort with her usual pleasant but guarded smiles and kind words. Placing both of her long, deathly-pale hands on the map before her, she leans forward to speak to her formidable companion, allowing her long raven hair to shield her irritated expression from casual view.
“The endless, insatiable curiosity of your kind never ceases to amaze me,” she hisses in quiet, slightly lilting Kedoran. “Have your negligent mothers not taught you that it is rude to stare? What is it these troglodytes expect to see? Shall I try to strangle this overly-stuffy place with ice, just to satisfy their ridiculous, primitive fears of that which is different?”
Her fingers drum a testy, impatient rhythm on the worn map as she speaks, but when she is done she takes a deep calming breath and abruptly relaxes. She feels a little better at having gotten that bit of bile and venom out of her system, and so long as she doesn’t overdo it with her unsympathetic estimations of human kind, she doesn’t feel the need to fear the heavy axe of the large woman before her. Yfel has put up with the Nyss’ prejudices for over two weeks and still hasn’t sundered the elf in half… yet.
Still though, Sy’yll knows it doesn’t do to offend the large woman. It’s easy to forget, sometimes, that Yfel is just as human as the subjects of Sy’yll’s rants. Even if the two women’s cultures do share a surface similarity that allows for a surprisingly easy ability to identify with one another, Yfel cannot possibly appreciate her companion’s constant criticism of human kind.
And so, feeling somewhat guilty, Sy’yll sucks in another calming breath and attempts to grasp after the last unraveling threads of civility. “Forgive me, Yfel,” she sighs. “As usual, I’ve allowed my tongue to run away and have become guilty of the same lack of courtesy as those I accuse. It’s just been a long day and I’m tired. Let us get back to the task at hand, then, and then go to bed. Here--” She stretches her thin torso across the table and places her finger on a spot in the upper part of the map-- “is where we are. That says ‘Rusty Jack’, O Illiterate One. And here---“ She indicates the Quad, “is where we probably need to go to repair your armor and purchase my scrolls. We can venture that way tomorrow morning… unless, human, you feel it is pressing that we do so this evening?”
She fixes the formidable woman across from her with a sleepy dark-blue gaze.
Claudian reclined hugely across two chairs. He wore patched leather trousers that tucked into steel-capped boots, and a yellow-stained white vest over his massive torso. His beard had grown in irregularly around a scar that sneered the left side of his mouth, matching the host of pock-marks and sword-rips that tangled almost every inch of visible flesh.
The man had not been scarred in the pretty fashion of a trophy-wound at all - here was the countenance of one who'd seen all the worst things about close combat. His hair had gone snowy gray at the crest of his forehead and near the point of his beard, as well as his left temple. His right, however, bore no hair at all; it too was marked with a jagged, poorly healed crescent, perhaps the size of a man's fist, if not the shape.
Despite all this he seemed relaxed in his own way. His table held up four empty mugs. He leisurely crossed his ankles on the table, looking out over the collection of sullen regulars escaping the drudgery of the day's work, and had been about to give the first thought to considering perhaps busing his own table when the door opened and admitted the odd couple.
One frail, one fierce, neither of them local. The patrons began lifting their heads and talking in startled whispers amongst one another, shying away from the frigid glare of the smaller of the two.
Claudian smiled and picked his mug up about a hand's width from the table, then brought it back down again with a delightfully loud clop. Satisfied that he had broken the momentary inquisitiveness of the more sober customers, he spoke up, leaning a little up from his chair to further emphasize the point.
"It ain't but two wearies come in from the night, boys. Back t'yer drinks," he said. His voice carried well, resonant in it's own way as was the wont of big men, but his throat sounded like he spent his spare time gargling gravel. He smiled when he'd finished, meaning not so much to cow but rather to simply remind people of their manners, and settled back into his chair again, rocking it up on two legs and draining the last of his mug.
Her gray eyes blinking, Yfel tilts her head curiously at Sy'yll. "I did not have a negligent mother. I was raised by many sisters, all older, all wise." She gestures to indicate some sort of circle, calling to mind the tribal clan she comes from and their ancient ways. Her Khadoran accent sharply twists the words, 'deed noht', 'neck-lee-jint', 'seer-kul'.
"If others have negligent parents, I can not understand this to you. I do not know about them. I know about me." She squints for a moment. "And maybe little bit you."
She taps the tabletop, reaching to tug her brown-black hair out of her face. She and the elf had for some time been pondering over the map in front of them, Yfel asking with all the politeness she could muster every now and then what different words meant. And this politeness was not in abundance, for the berserker was indeed a rough sort of creature. She kept her hair- not always combed- woven back in a long braid that fell to the waist of her long leather coat, which had indeed met some sort of nasty fate along the way.
Perhaps inarticulate but no fool, Yfel had seen her traveling companion warily eye her weapon more than once. She wondered just how concerned this white-faced one was with meeting death by Yfel's hand. "Is alright, Elf. I do not wish to axe you..." She glances at the map and taps again. "But I am to finish this foods before we go to sleepings. This wear on my coat will not be problem tonight, I am thinking. But empty belly will."
She sighs and reaches for her meal- a half gnawed-through sandwich of curious meats on a crusty bread. After a thoughtful bite is taken, chewed, and washed down with heavy beer she nods. "But if you want I should axe the city-people who are making stares, I will." She whips her head around to glare at Claudian for a moment, as if to make her point rather clear.
Claudian wasn't staring at her, or really at anyone. He'd settled into his chair, rocked back and balanced, and was idly looking at patterns on the wall as his beer-mellowed mind wandered.
The dour-looking elf cannot help but laugh at her companion's antics, but she grasps the other’s wrist nervously, as though expecting to pull Yfel’s meaty, axe-wielding arm down. Her slender fingers are unable to completely circle the wrist and the massive arm does not go anywhere, but Sy’yll doesn’t seem to notice.
"No no," she chuckles dryly with a cautious sideways glance about the tavern. "Although most here would not like to test you, that one" --- she juts her chin toward the lounging scarred man --- "would quite possibly give you a scar or two to match his own! Let us finish our meal---in peace for once!---and retire for the night. Here." She releases Yfel’s arm and grabs her own untouched beer by the handle, pulling it across the table toward her companion with two clean, trimmed finger tips. "Nurse that for a while, and I’ll attempt to derive something akin to nourishment from this... unpalatable slop."
Her expression is grim as the grave indeed as she bites into her own somewhat-stale sandwich and begins to chew unenthusiastically.
Three pints were poured and Ashleigh Thatcher cut off his companion's chatter with a single raised finger. He lifted his stein by the bottom and gently swirled the ale about below his nose, inhaling deeply with his eyes lightly closed. His Tordoran scoffed and rolled his eyes but Ashleigh held up his free hand to silence him. "A gentle, earthy bouquet, with strong floral undertones. Delicate. Of a recent but distinguished vintage. Good legs and a body to match..." Without opening his eyes, Ashleigh noisily sipped on the ale, let his head drift to one side, then fluttered his eyes open with a sigh. "Castellan Faro Degrata, Exalted Lady Brianne Applebury, I present you with this evening's libation: the Rusty Jack House Ale. A rough draught in higher times, I'll grant you, but after the past weeks the very honeyed wine of the gods could not taste sweeter." With a grand gesture he bowed and indicated the dark pints in front of his two companions. The freckled woman laughed loudly once then regained composure and sipped at her stein daintily, with a single pinkie extended with a playful look in her eye. The Tordoran just shook his head, "Alas, if only you were even half as clever as you think you are, I could leave the Jackals in your care and retire a happy man." He held his ale up at the level of his forehead in a toast then took a long pull capped by a satisfied sigh.
Ashleigh spun in his seat so his back was leaning against the bar and pushed his turned-brim hat back on his head a bit, spilling bright red locks on either side of his face. He smiled a crooked smile and ran his thumbs under the lapels of his long leather coat, "Even if it were so that I was only half as clever as you thought I was, I'd be clever enough by half to known I'd not want to have to run herd over that mangy lot. Drunkards and miscreants every one of 'em. Love them all like kin and make no mistake, but I'd just as soon not have their welfare and wellbeing resting on my dainty conscience. I'd much sooner be in the business of solving problems than creating them. You just go on calling the shots, Faro. Bri and I will be here to patch up your crew when you misfire. Now, by your leave, I've not had the chance to relieve myself over anything more dignified than a mossy stump in a fortnight, and I have an intention to rectify that circumstance."
He popped off the seat and strode down the bar towards the small side hallway, nodding courteously to the massive, scarred bouncer in the corner as he went.
The bar was certainly seeing one of the busiest nights it had seen in years. A group of Ordic mercenaries, an Umbrean barbarian from the northern reaches of Khador, and a damnable Nyss elf! The owner looked around the bar as he went about his usual rounds, smiling to himself as he cleaned a few mugs and poured a few beers for waiting patrons. The tavern itself was fairly small, able to accomodate no more than twenty at a time, and possessed little staff - namely the bartender himself and his daughter, a girl no older than eighteen who served as a serving maid and, on occassion, cook.
"Herod!" Claudian suddenly barked a few minutes after the Rusty Jack had settled down from it's strange visitors. He swung his tree-trunk legs off of the tabletop and down with a clump, standing at last to a startling height - he could easily have reached the tavern's ceiling.
His ugly grimace of a smile retrod his face as he crossed the distance from his corner table to the bar. He folded his arms as he pulled himself into the barstool next to the Tordoran and his group, and leaned in to rumble at the bartender.
"'bout time I poured somethin' besides swill down my gullet," he rasped loudly. He didn't seem to have bathed in several days, was unmindful of personal space and didn't particularly mind that he was interrupting their conversation with his proximity. "Still have a dippa yer girl's stew back 'ere?"
He spoke with the ease of casual friendship, which seemed unlikely given the boorish man's nature, but then, he was clearly the man-at-arms in the place and had probably earned his keep more than once.
The bartender smirked and nodded slightly to the large man's request. "That I do. S'abit cold, though. I could have Sarah fetch a couple logs and warm it up if you want, unless you don't mind? 'Course... you could always fetch the logs yourself, heh."
The Tordoran nearby turned to raise an eyebrow at Claudian, his eyes first settling on his scarred face and then to the man's meaty fists. He sighed, turning away from the scene, and returned to his conversation without a word of protest.
Ashleigh returned from the hallway looking utterly satisfied with himself. He paused for a moment to survey the room, and for the first time he caught sight of the Nyss and her unpolished companion. A smile played on his lips and he glanced to where his companions sat. Seeing Faro shift uncomfortably in the bearish presence of the bouncer, he instead strode over to the table with the two women, doffed his hat a respectful distance away, and stood there with an 'I'm willing to wait all night to be acknowledged' look upon his face. Brianne raised an eyebrow at him and Ashleigh subtly winked back. She shook her head and rested her chin in her fist. Glancing between Faro and Ashleigh she idly wondered which powder keg was going to go up first.
"Can't do with that," he growled, more to himself than Herod, and unwound his hand, pressing his hands on the edge of the bar. Claudian hauled himself to his feet again and shifted his weight on one foot, turning and shouldering the Tordoran brusquely as he did. He glanced down, blinked once, looking at the other man in the slight bafflement of early drunkenness, scowled meanly and headed for the door.
The stockpile was right around the corner, it wasn't much of a favor to ask in return for a hot meal and a job that involved little more work than occasionally looming darkly over the easily cowed until they stumblingly showed themselves the door. Claudian turned the knob and pushed the door open somewhat awkwardly. As he stepped outside he let the doorknob go and flexed his wrists and elbows and winced when he was sure no one was looking.
That done, he strode toward the woodpile, leaving the door standing open for his return.
Sy'yll couldn't help but notice the heavy gaze of yet another of the Rusty Jack's curious patrons. This one, however, didn't seem to have any intention of going away, but instead stood there with what she felt must surely be a mocking---or worse, acceptance-seeking---expression upon his face, as though waiting for her to deign to notice him.
She tried to ignore him, glaring first at the map stretched out before her, then at Yfel, then into her half-eaten sandwich. She scowled and chewed, hoping he'd see she was busy and uninterested in his company, but still he stood there, waiting.
Finally, she swallowed the last dry bite of her sandwich and gave up. If you can't beat them... she thought, rising from her stool and emerging from behind Yfel with a polite smile on her face.
"Hello," she offered in her dulcet, sibilant Cygnaran, folding her hands before her and lacing her fingers together. She stopped a cautious distance away from him, worried that he might be yet another of the grasping types so many humans seemed to become when intoxicated. "How are you this evening?"
The trip to the woodpile was uneventful for Claudian, the stack of foot-long, 4-inch thick logs laid in the same place they always had just beside the building.
On his way back inside, however, Claudian saw someone posting a bulletin on the neighborhood board just outside the tavern. The man nodded with a smile at Claudian's approach and began to make his way down the road with an armful of identical fliers.
Local Alchemist Missing! The Strangelight Workshop is offering 1000 gold crowns for the recovery of one Mr. Adell Rathbone, an alchemist in good standing with the City of Corvis. Inquire with the Strangelight Workshop for further details. They can be found on Corben's Row south of the Quad.
Claudian returned with the cord of chopped wood under one arm, closing the door with an abrupt slam with his free hand. He wove his way between the 'Jack's patrons to the swinging door that would admit him to the kitchen and piled the new stack of firewood next to the meager remaining pieces inside, tossing one onto the cookfire and shuffling the embers to catch it.
That done, he turned and ambled back out into the commons area and up-nodded to Herod. "Finch is out posting again," he declared to Herod and loud enough that everyone might hear, settling back into his seat to the Tordoran's right. For a wonder, he was a bit more careful on his way through this time and took care not to actually run into the gentleman, though was still a heavy presence to the other man's right nonetheless.
Lowering his voice a bit he spoke directly at the barkeep. "Strangelight Workshop's had one of theirs vanish, it looks to be. Had to happen sometime, huh?"
Herod nodded and scratched his chin. "Hm. Certainly, and it's not the first time either. They lost another one 'bout a year ago. I don't recall hearin' about him turnin' back up, either. S'a damn shame, but sometimes things happen in the bog," Herod paused a moment in thought. "At least they aim well enough. Them Strangelight folks're... well... strange, but they're good folk as I gather. I've gotta say it takes stones to go pokin' around the swamp itchin' for a fight with spooks."
"Oughta get together a thumpin' squad and go out and sand up that fen," Claudian grouched to no one in particular. "Tired of hearin' ghost stories from the swamps. Ain't like we don't believe they're out there, an' yet every day people go out in onesies and twosies and vanish, and no one cares. 'Cept the Strangelight folk, it looks to be." Claudian looked up from the bar and spoke conspiratorially with Herod. "Thousand gold marks to find that one they just posted." He paused thoughtfully and looked over his shoulder at the bar's patrons, specifically to tonight's newcomers. "Think any of'em are here for that mess?" he asked, not particularly caring that two of the people he was discussing so impersonally were right beside him.
Herod shrugged, looking around the bar as he cleaned another mug. "None o'these folks look like ghost hunters," the bartender chuckled. "They managed to pick this bar outta the lot of 'em in Corvis. Clearly they've got some sense about 'em!"
Herod's exuberant statement was met by a few chuckles and a couple of mugs raised in respect. The bar quieted quickly soon after, the gravity of Claudian's statement settling in once again. Herod spoke again:
"A thousand crowns'll set a man for near a decade, providin' he don't do nothin' stupid with it. The Strangelight folks must want that fella back somethin' fierce."
Ashleigh's smile broadens as the elf addresses him and he offers a polite bow. "I am doing right well, and I thank you for asking, but I'm afraid I'm in a bit of a conundrum and I was wondering if I might impose upon you distinguished ladies for a solution. You see, I've been traveling with those two characters up at the bar for the better part of a decade and most recently, I've spent a solid seventeen days in the swamp with them and some other well-intentioned but by and large unsavory types, and I am fair starved for novel discourse. A mere spot of conversation that does not revolve around the topics of troll or insect or firearm or muck or anything the like, and I'd be willing to buy your time with old Herod's fine beverages if you'd like. What do you say?" Hat still in hand, Ashleigh implores the women, his sky blue eyes twinkling merrily out of a rough but honest face.
Yfel's mouth warps most curiously into a mask of confused indignity. You ought to be grateful she swallowed her sandwich first. She does not know who this fellow is, could not feasibly comprehend why he would wish to have a chat with her, and absolutely does not care. However, Sy'yll in all her seemingly ridiculous high-borne graciousness appears to feel otherwise towards this gentleman, and so she lets the unappealing visage melt away and she offers a foolishly affected grin to the man.
"Elf is loving the talk. I am not ...uh." She pauses and gestures with her hands, almost as if trying to sculpt the missing word out of thin air. "Novelly disconversating."
It becomes apparent that she does not have the best grasp of language; any of them. In fact, the only thing she seems to have a grasp on at all is her axe.
Ashleigh optimistically interprets this as a positive sign, and while he hasn't gone so far as a taking a seat at the table, his hands now rest on the back of an unoccupied chair. He doesn't miss a beat as he replies, "Novelly disconversating or not, it'd be worth at least a drink to hear the story of your axe, assuming you don't mind of course..." He leans forward just a touch glancing between the two women's faces.
Glancing in towering dismay from Yfel to the newcomer, Sy'yll struggles to keep her pleasant smile on her face. It seems she is forced, by virtue of her ability to communicate in any manner that makes a modicum of sense and Yfel's decided lack thereof, to serve as a sort of intermediary between her outlandish friend and this unfortunately very social man. After all, it's clear the newcomer isn't simply going to go away and it certainly wouldn't be fair to leave Yfel alone with him.
"You'll have to forgive my companion," Sy'yll says, with an affectionate smile at Yfel. "Cygnaran is not her mother-tongue. You will find that she communicates very well with her hands, however." She glances down at the other woman's axe. "And with that, though in an entirely different way. Yfel's prowess in battle is unequaled by anyone I have had the good---or poor---fortune of witnessing during my life." Her smile widens slyly and she lays a hand on Yfel’s shoulder and winks conspiratorially at the man. “One day she shall make some lucky man a very fine wife.”
She gestures toward the table. "Please, take a seat," she invites him, noticing wryly that he's more-or-less already invited himself. She removes her claymore from the seat of the chair he has marked his own and leans it against the wall so that he might have a place to sit.
"My axe..." she says, pulling it closer and tacking an extra 'sk' onto the end of the word as she draws it out. "...Has too many tales for one night. And I think is too much guts for table-talking."
She then glances up at Sy'yll, tilting her head curiously. "Explain this logic, Elf. How does axing making marriage?"
Frowning, Sy'yll regards Yfel for a heartbeat, struggling to determine how best to explain the joke. Finally, she decides not to. "That was, er... a joke, Yfel. A jest." She repeats the word in Kedoran and laughs softly. "Nevermind my friend, it is not important." She turns away from her companion and fixes the newcomer with a steady gaze. "I believe you spoke of ale, good sir."
Ashleigh studies the sword leaning against the wall for a moment, this is an interesting pair indeed.... Before sitting, Ashleigh leaned back to catch the serving girl's eye, beaming a smile and holding up his last three fingers, glancing down at the table. She nodded understanding and bustled back behind the bar. He settled himself into the offered chair and opened wide his hands, "Again thank you. Now I'm going to go way out on a limb here and venture that neither of you are native to Corvis..."
Sy'yll answers with playful sarcasm. "Not from Corvis? Us? However did you reach that conclusion?" She lazily points a slender finger at herself. "I am Nyss, as I am sure you have noticed. Born and raised among my own people far from this place. And she..." She raises an eyebrow at Yfel. "She I picked up along the way. Her history is her own, and I leave her to tell it---or sign it!---as she so chooses."
Yfel nods flatly, expecting her answer to be enough: "Is long story. ...Also, I am not picked up like pageboy or dog. I decided to go along since we could not making traveling alone so far."
The tavern girl walked to the bar and retrieved three mugs at Ashleigh's request, filled them with the house brew, and placed them in the center of the table, accepting the silver piece with a smile.
Meanwhile, at the other table, Faro and Bri watched Ashleigh's antics with amusement, wondering what sort of mischief he was getting himself into. The Nyss were not exactly known to be pleasant people, often murdering human trespassers in their territory without so much as a warning. This one was clearly different, however, and very far from home. Tonight had certainly been an interesting one for the Jackals.
"Well, if not a homecoming, what brings you to this fair city?" Ashleigh glances ironically out the window, to the canals of the sinking town. He sips on his ale and seems momentarily distracted as the bouncer inquires broadly as to he and his fellow stranger's intents to collect on a reward. 1000 gold was a fair bit of money, but not nearly enough to divert the Jackal's Grin as a whole. He watched his new tablemates to see if they had any reaction to the discussion of the bounty.
"Why not this city?" Sy'yll replies with a raised eyebrow. "I do not have anywhere in particular to go, and so... here I am..." She pauses, for the man seems to be fairly distracted, seeming to listen to her with only one ear while eavesdropping on the conversation of the ugly human at the bar. Sy'yll sighs quietly and waits for his eyes to return to her, hands folded before her on the rough tabletop, the perfect picture of patience.
When he finally deigns to swing his gaze and his attention back to his tablemates she continues. "But tell me, Goodsir I-Did-Not-Catch-Your-Name, what is it this most valorous of men speaks of?" Her eyes flicker briefly toward the scarred man-at-arms and she allows no hint of distaste to leak into her smooth voice. "What precisely are 'Strangelight folk' and why would anyone wish to abduct them?"
She takes a sip of her ale and grimaces only slightly as she swallows.
Claudian shrugged his huge shoulders indifferently, looking down at the bar, worn with old beer-stains and the marks of hastily drawn weapons.
"Everyone's import'n t'someone," he grouched quietly, and put his head down between his folded arms on the bartop. He grumbled there to himself for a moment before looking up at Herod.
"H'bout that chow?" he asked abruptly.
Ashleigh gives a brief laugh, "Oh, begging your pardons, ladies. I was so focused on my social undernourishment that I rudely let introduction phase of the conversation whip past me with out contributing my own. Amends shall be made in double. I am Ashleigh Thatcher, neophyte historian, student of the arcane arts, and junior morale officer of the Jackal's Grin Irregular's. The befreckled blond at the bar with a proclivity towards eavesdropping is my dear mentor, Brianne Applebury, the senior morale officer and one of the most sonorous balladeers you're ever apt to be within earshot of. Her tall, dark and handsome companion is none other than Sir Faro Degrata, fearless leader of the Jackal's Grin, returned from a recent harrowing yet ultimately successful campaign. Let's see here...that gives me three introductions to your two, meaning I owe you but one more to settle on my social debt." Ashleigh's eyes cast about the room, only to catch both the Herod the innkeeper and his daughter Sarah disappearing into the kitchen. A sly smile spread up one side of Ashleigh's face. "One moment, if you please, I might see if I can touch off two kegs with one torch." Ashleigh stands suddenly and strides over to the large scarred man seated next to Faro. "Excuse me good sir, might I inquire as to your name and the availability of your company? The two ladies at yon table have questions pertaining to the Strangelight Workshop, and you seem more knowledgable on such subjects than I."
Claudian turned slowly, matching Ashleigh's mirthful expression with one of wry cynicism.
"Galbraith, an' no. I don't know a damn thing more'n the next about them folk. Ghost-hunters an' witchlight, an' that's the end of it." He waved dismissively with one hand.
"Lucky's the fella who don't get himself involved. Lonely business wanderin' th'swamp an' it ain't a surprise to no one that some folk up and vanish. Smart money's on fightin' the enemy you'n see."
Claudian turned back to the bar, watching Herod and Sara work in the kitchen with a slightly forlorn air. He had not once smiled at the jovial man's invitation, nor during his own dull dismissal.
At the back of the small bar, Sarah set about the task of warming the pot of stew that was, at this point, several hours old. A few of the bar's patrons had left and the night was beginning to grow long. It was already nearing midnight, when the old bartender would finally close up shop and head home for the night, leaving his keys with another man, a trusted friend of his by the name of Jacoby Rinshaw, to watch over the place for the night and admit any after-hours customers looking for rooms.
When Ashleigh made the bold introduction to Claudian, he couldn't help but smirk at the scarred man's reply. "The folks at Strangelight are odd, t'be sure, but they're right clever folks. Got they'selves a mechanick what knows how to rig up all kinds of ghost-trappin' gizmos... 'least, that's the word on the street. They're the first ones we call when someone goes missin' in the swamps. More'n half the time, Strangelight'll find 'em... though not always alive, unfortunately." Herod looked down at the bar solemnly as he issued the final statement.
"Right. Pleasure to meet you Mr. Galbraith, I'm Ashleigh Thatcher." Without moving from the spot, Ashleigh turned and addressed the table making an open handed gesture. "Ladies, this is Mr. Galbraith. Mr. Galbraith...Ladies." He turned back to the slouched mountain of a man. "The offer stands Mr. Galbraith, if you wish to join us. The Rusty Jack is one of my favorite bars in all of Immoren and any man Herod hires on is one I'd consider worth knowing." Ashleigh takes a half step away from the bar smiling invitingly at Claudian.
It took every last drop of self-control Sy'yll possessed to keep her face from falling when the excitable human, this "Ashleigh Thatcher", invited the enormous, ugly man-at-arms to join their conversation. Although at first she couldn't help but resent the intrusion of the overwhelmingly jubilant Ashleigh into her quiet and weary evening, at least he was a cheerful, interesting sort of individual. The sullen, towering lump of scars that had the audacity to call himself a person, on the other hand, did not appear to be anything even remotely close to pleasant company. What had that man done to himself, to become marked so?
Her smile felt a little strained as she nodded her head in acknowledgement of Ashleigh's introductions. "Well met, Ashleigh Thatcher." She inclined her head toward the other Jackals. "Brianne Applebury and Sir Faro Degrata, it is good to meet you as well. And you also... Galbraith. Please, do join our table. There is ample room for all of us and Yfel and I would love to have you, for we have had little company beyond one another for nigh on three weeks now and it would do us both well to see some new faces and hear new stories. Perhaps Ms. Applebury would be so kind as to grace us with a song? My name is Sy'yll Abidne, by the way, and I too am a student of the arcane arts, Mr. Thatcher. Now please, if you would be so kind... why is it that you refer to yourself and your esteemed company as the Jackal's Grin?"
Claudian was just swallowing the first of his newest mug of Herod's ale when the Nyss asked her question, and he gurgled suddenly into it as he choked on a gasp.
Finally recovering, foam bubbles hissing in his beard, he turned and regarded Sy'yll with a sort of puzzled wonder. "Ne'er heard of the Jackal's Grin?" he asked, clearly astounded.
Ashleigh gave a small but still somehow flourishing bow, obviously pleased with the recognition. "Ah, they traveled from the north country, Mr. Galbraith. We don't get around up there quite so much, leastways not in the manner they have a tendency to toast in taverns. For the name you can blame none other than Sir Degrata there and as for a brief course in our history, the lovely Bri has composed a song or two for exact purpose, provided we have the Witzel clan's blessing." Hat cocked slightly back on head, hands on hips, Ashleigh resembled some smalltime ringmaster, happily guiding the events of the evening along. "What say Herod? A song or two before you head off to your bed?"
The old barkeep smiled and reluctantly nodded. "Aye, a song'll do before bed. Do try to keep your volume civil, though. There are a dozen 'er so folks upstairs trying to catch a wink."
Claudian made no attempt to cover his groan-and-eyeroll routine at the outlandish display that came down, as they always did, to an offer of song. He let out a growl deep in his throat, the sound like the thrumming of a warjack's engine, and put his head down on one arm, the other hand clasped around his beer mug.
In a theatrically small voice Ashleigh raised his hands proclaiming, "Ladies and Gentles of the Rusty Jack I am proud to present to you, for one night only, that great Midnight Madonna, Brianne Applebury!" He reached down and took her hand, raising it high enough that she didn't have to option of remaining seated on the stool. Ashleigh beckoned with his other hand to encourage the smattering of applause and the hooting of an obviously intoxicated Midlunder at the back of the room. Bri gave the tavern a winning smile, then leaned in to Ashleigh's ear whispering, "I will kill you for this. And it will not be slow." but she gamely turned and walked toward the small raised corner of the common room which served as the stage. Ashleigh returned to his seat at the table looking exceptionally pleased with himself.
