The sea voyage from Magnimar was a short and uneventful one; weather in the Varisian Gulf is generally pleasant this time of year, and, whether due to luck or canny connections, the Rude Curse avoided any piratical attention. The first glimpse of the massive Cyphergate towering high over the natural harbor was impressive, and Phillip and Sarien noticed several of the sailors touching lucky charms or whispering quick prayers as they passed beneath the arch, even as they went about their preparations for docking; but any awe inspired by the sight was soon overwhelmed by the stench of rotting fish and sewage that hung over the still water and the shock of fetid heat between the protection of the cliffs to either side of the city proper, cut off from the fresh, cool breezes of the gulf. Phillip and Sarien had been pleasant enough to be generally well-liked on the ship, and as they prepared to disembark, a few of the sailors sidled up to them. "Don't know where your business might be taking you, but I'd advise the two of you to stick together, at least until you're through the wharves. Keep your weapons visible and look ready to draw them; a concealed dagger's a man's friend once a fight's started, but a blade in the open will stop many a miscreant from jumping you in the first place. And steer clear of the taverns by the docks, unless you want to find yourself putting to sea again, as a swab -- or as cargo. The only safe place for a stranger in Riddleport to buy a drink is the Publican House." Giving them directions to a clapboard and shingled tavern on the far side of the river, they wish the two luck -- with a tone that says they're going to need it.
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In contrast to the experience of the Rude Curse, the Executioner had a much longer and harder journey to Riddleport, as might be expected from its origin far south in Corentyn. The initial leg through Hellmouth Gulf to Pezzack wasn't too strenuous, but from that point forward, there were no friendly ports to be found until the ship reached Varisia, and the waves in the Steaming Sea were choppy for most of the extended voyage, presenting nothing more to see than the occasional distant island and a wide vista of sky ever promising more bad weather. All the many unpleasant weeks of the journey, Braddon remembered why he hadn't taken to the sea like his father. To finally pass into the more protected waters of the Varisian Gulf was a relief, and when the Executioner passed beneath the Cyphergate, the sailors muttered prayers and kissed lucky coins with a fervor that said they weren't looking forward to the return voyage. When Braddon thankfully staggered down the gangplank to solid ground, one of the Chelish sailors, feeling sorry for the young halfbreed, took him aside and gave him the same advice Phil and Sarien had received: Try not to look like a newcomer fresh off the boat -- and patronize the Publican House.
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Although Malkith's family was bound for Ustalav, he found little trouble signing on with another caravan headed to Riddleport. Those with the Gift and their own set of cards are always welcome, both for luck while on the road and for attracting custom and coin in towns. As the wagons parked in Lubbertown to the north of the city, several of his fellow-travelers dropped by to ask him if he was sure he wouldn't rather stay with the caravan. The signs and portents had been clear, however, and he bade them a cheerful farewell. Starting down the riverbank into Riddleport proper, he wondered where he ought to begin. His family had been through Lubbertown many times but had rarely gone into the town itself, preferring to conduct their business among their own people than to risk being surrounded by outsiders and pirates while money was changing hands. There had been a few occasions, however, when the trading had gone particularly well and they had celebrated at a local tavern -- the Publican House.
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The journey had been Tendal's first by caravan, and he was not impressed by the experience. Unlike the carriages to which he was accustomed, the heavy wagons had no springs to cushion their riders from the bumps and jolts of the road; he got out and walked for as long as he could stand it -- the interiors of the wagons imprisoned some interesting smells -- but he was constantly outdistancing the slow draft horses and having either to stop and wait for them to catch up or to consciously slow his pace and both experiments were vexing. As for the company -- well, some of the girls were pretty enough, if rustic, but there was absolutely no privacy and far too many protective fathers and cousins and older brothers around. His relief when the interminable journey finally reached its end was tempered by his first view of Riddleport from the vast muddy campground peppered with precarious wooden shacks and lean-tos in the north. Gods, what a dump -- like all the worst parts of Magnimar crumpled up and tossed along the banks of a river. Up there, though -- his eye is drawn by some sizeable and elegant homes high on the western ridgeline of the city; yes, that doesn't look so bad at all. Surely Orik's father must be up there somewhere. In his pocket, he fingers the letter Orik had given him to present to his father to prove it had really been he who sent him, and he remembers his friend's advice: When you get to Riddleport, don't trust anyone. You take directions from the wrong man, and you'll find yourself led down a dark alley for all his friends to rob. Go to the Publican House; the man behind the bar will steer you right.
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Desna was smiling on Daynadrian; that was certain. Not only had he managed to slip past the sentries patrolling the perimeter of Crying Leaf, but as he exited the southern edge of the Mierani Forest, he had almost immediately fallen in with a small group of the Eight Quah of Velashu, heading to Riddleport to sell horses. The Horselords have no quarrel with the elves of Crying Leaf in general, and his well-known last name was all the reference he needed to be welcomed to join them as they travelled south. Unlike the young elf, the horse traders seemed none too pleased to be heading toward the city and responded to his eager questions about their destination with shrugs and noncommittal grunts. When after setting out from camp in the morning as usual, the Horsemen called for a halt in the early afternoon and began setting up camp, Daynadrian asked why they were stopping so early. "It's only about an hour's ride to the outskirts of Riddleport," was the answer. "We'll set out again at dawn and have time to complete our business and be on the road north again before the sun sets; we'll not spend a night in town." Despite Daynadrian's attempts to persuade them, the uplanders were immovable. "You'll be in Riddleport first thing tomorrow -- and welcome to leave with us again before nightfall if you've had your fill of it." It had been the longest afternoon and evening of his life, but at last Daynadrian stood in Lubbertown, watching the rays of the morning sun glint off weather vanes and glass windows and the oily surface of the slow-flowing Velashu River. The people! And the houses! And the smell! Gods, it was glorious. He happily set out down the river into town, recalling the parting advice of his travelling companions: If you must go into Riddleport, go to the Publican House. You'll be less likely to be drugged and robbed blind.
While the wharves to the south and Lubbertown to the north hum with the early-morning activity of those arriving and departing the city, the actual streets of Riddleport proper seem oddly quiet; many storefronts are still locked and dark. The structures along the river seem to be primarily small shops and mills. The distinctive stench of the city seems concentrated here; waste of all kinds appears to be dumped into the river as a matter of course.
The Publican House is a large building of clapboard and shingles, with great bay windows of leaded glass looking out over the river. A sign bearing the symbol of a dented ale mug hands above the door, and the name of the establishment is written discreetly beneath in gilt letters. The front door is propped open to let in whatever hot breeze may find its way down between the ridgelines on either side of the city. Within is a large open tavern room which looks even larger due to the fact that it is empty, with table and chairs pushed to the walls and stacked atop each other. In the light from the riverfront windows, a blond halfling woman in an apron is mopping the floor, her sleeves rolled up past her elbows to reveal strong, wiry arms. Despite the lingering smell from the river, the tavern is aggressively spotless, its well-worn wooden planks smooth from heavy foot-traffic and assiduous application of the mop. Above the shelves and hanging tankards behind the bar is painted in bright red letters, No Cyphermages.
The halfling looks up sharply without pausing in her chore. "Morning," she says politely but warily. "You'll be wanting the tea room. Through there." She nods to a doorway to the left of the empty bar.
Through the doorway is a smaller common room, with a shorter bar and several mismatched tables and chairs. Behind the bar is a bear of a man, dressed in street clothes and an apron, albeit with a notched sword swinging at his side. He nods cordially. "Morning. New in town, are you? What'll you have?"
A handful of dwarves is seated around the near end of the long, rectangular table nearest the door, a scattering of ale mugs in front of them, although there are still several empty chairs available at the far end. Despite the early hour, they have the grimy, exhausted look of men who have just put in a long day's hard labor. A large round table is taken by a group of men who are clearly sailors; the mood over their cups is quietly celebratory. In the far corner of the room, almost behind the bar itself is a small round table with just two chairs at it; one of these is occupied by a figure in a hooded cloak, a wine glass set before it. In addition, there are three tall stools at the bar and two empty tables, each large enough to seat six.
Sarien studies the exterior of the establishment for a moment, wondering just how trustworthy the sailors aboard the Rude Curse actually were. But the Publican House looks well-kept and comfortable and he decides that if the sailors had meant him ill they'd probably have acted while he was still aboard ship. Eying the sign forbidding Cyphermages with amusement, he walks in.
He carefully examines the room, noting the exits and tips the halfling woman a nod and a smile. "Good morning to you. Tea room, eh? I suppose that's a decent start."
He nods again and makes his way through the doorway, eying the mismatched furniture and the large man with his notched sword.
"Aye, that I am," Sarien says with an easy smile. "The lady out there says this is the tea room? I hope it's not too early for something a little sharper. I'd appreciate a glass of red to start."
He takes a seat at the bar, seeking a chair where he could keep an eye on the other occupants.
He carefully examines the room, noting the exits
Besides the front door and the door to the "tea room," the main room also sports an open doorway behind the bar. Sarien's educated guess is that it leads to a kitchen/storage area. A door behind the bar in the "tea room" most likely leads into the same room from another side. There is undoubtedly a back door for deliveries and such from the mystery room, as well as a staircase; there was a partial second floor visible over part of the tavern from the street.
"Aye, that I am," Sarien says with an easy smile. "The lady out there says this is the tea room? I hope it's not too early for something a little sharper. I'd appreciate a glass of red to start."
A grimace of almost physical pain crosses the big man's face. "That's Lalie's little joke," he explains with a glance through the doorway out to the main tavern room. "If there's any tea brewing in here, it'll have a dash of something stronger in it, you can be sure." He fills a glass and sets it on the bar in front of Sarien. "Where are you from? If you don't mind my asking."
"I have no idea how Markos can live like that. Thank Abadar for solid ground and civilisation."
Braddon tested the ground underfoot and waited for it to stop swaying, which it did soon enough. He thanked the Chelish sailor who recommended the Publican House.
"I'll be fine, many thanks. I've been here before."
A lie, of course, but a comforting one. A quick scan showed the Riddleport Harbour in all its glory and Braddon smiled to himself. While totally unfamiliar with Riddleport, he knew the Ostenso port well and recognised the shambling warehouses where danger awaited, the worn wharves where work could be found and the fine ships at the furthest end of the harbour, where his life was worthless. Whistling quietly to himself, he hid one dagger in his boot, sequestered the other in his belt and made sure his bastard sword swung easily from its sheath. He followed some locals up the docks then turned down the most trodden path away from the harbour and into the city.
The Publican House was easy enough to find and he took an immediate like to the atmosphere as he entered. Clean and quiet without being snobbish or boorish. Maybe too quiet, but after his time at sea he quite welcomed the thought.
"I must be getting old to think like that." He grinned.
His reverie was broken as the halfling cleaner addressed him and he turned to her in surprise.
"A fellow Chelaxian! Forgive me. It's just, I've just arrived from there and you're the first person I've met. Do you get many Chelish here?"
"Because the last thing I want is to flee Cheliax into one of their bloody taverns. Shoulda thought of that when the sailor suggested it."
The grin stayed fixed on Braddon's face.
"A fellow Chelaxian! Forgive me. It's just, I've just arrived from there and you're the first person I've met. Do you get many Chelish here?"
The halfling stops mopping and sizes him up, from his feet to the tell-tale elven features of his face. "Not many, no," she allows, "although we do get a Chelish ship in from time to time." She says it with the same tone she'd use to admit to the occasional infestation of biting fleas; if Braddon is faking his enthusiasm at meeting a fellow expatriate, she's not even making any attempt to appear pleased.
"Oh, that's a shame." Braddon's voice tends more towards glee and is without the slightest hint of regret. His grin eases into a smirk. "If you do have any devil worshiping, bounty hunting, Chelish slavers drop by that you'd like seen off I'd be only too pleased to help. Braddon's the name. What can you tell me about this fine establishment? I'm looking to not get found, ganked or ripped off. Not necessarily in that order. And why no Cyphermages? How are they worse than Chelaxians?"
As Tendal walks down the road from the tents of the caravansarai, his feet aching, the dust from several weeks of travel coating his clothes his mood swiftly sours from the elation of completing his journey, to a bone-weary funk. The increasing smell of fetid waste that accompanies any harbor in the known world was familiar, but unwelcome after the fresh air of the wilderness, and Tendal was soon stalking along, cane gripped firmly in one hand, the other pressing a worn lace hankerchief to his nose. That the attempt to buttress his nostrils against the stench was completely futile just made him more upset.
After asking directions from a patrolling guardsman, Tendal finds himself before the Publican House.
What a dump...I expect that they won't have anything reasonable to drink...but at this point I am so dry, I would even drink a Korvosan red!
On entering the tavern Tendal is immediately struck by the dichotomy between the exterior and the interior.
No Cyphermages...I wonder why...
The voice of the halfling causes him to blink for a moment. Then he walks over to her, ignoring the half-elf sailor, a trail of dust from his clothes and small flakes of mud from his boots trailing behind him.
"I do say...Chelaxian? Good on you for sticking it to them. I most certainly approve. If you ever get in a spot, let me know...anything I can do to poke my finger in their or their Korvosan stooges' eye." Then, as if he finally heard what she said, Tendal pats her absently on the shoulder, his hankerchief still held awkwardly in his hand, and heads to the indicated door.
Ah. Finally...and I do believe that there is wine in this establishment! Wonderful!
Tendal perks up a bit at the large man's greeting.
"Ah, yes. I am new in town. Believe it or not, a friend of mine directed me to you." Tendal pauses dramatically, but immediately sidetracks.
"You don't happen to have anything from '04 in a red or one of the '11s in a white? That would be too much to expect I imagine. If you actually had an '04, I would think that this was simply a dream, and that I was still stuck in the caravan making my way very very slowly north to Riddleport."
"Anyways, I was told by Orik that you could safely direct me to Saul Vancaskerkin, his father. I certainly hope that his home is reasonably close. I think that I didn't so much as travel the road from Sandpoint as much as pick it up and liberally spread it all over my clothes and myself...I could use a bath."
Braddon stares after the well dressed human increduously, then turns back to the halfling and looks down at her accusingly with his arms crossed.
"Not many Chelaxians, hey?"
Sarien pauses with his wine glass half-raised to drink as the other newcomers arrive, chattering away like a roost of magpies. He allows a taste to wet his lips.
"I'm just a traveler from here and there," he answers the bartender. "But it looks like you're a bit busy of a sudden."
It was a rare occasion that Malkith had ever ventured into Riddleport proper. Lubbertown was typically populated enough to conduct the business of his family's caravan before eternally moving on. This time, however, it was his own personal calling that drew him deeper into the town. Still relatively clueless as to the destiny that called him to this uncouth settlement, the Varisian decided to start out in the only place he could hope to consider familiar - the Publican House.
Accustom to encountering smells ranging from the strange and exotic to foul and offensive, Malkith paid little attention to the prevalent odor. Instead, he kept a wary eye open for trouble. Fortunately, there was none to be had before finding a haven inside the drinking establishment.
Upon receiving the halfling's greeting, Malkith raised an eyebrow. Am I expected? He took note of the displeased Chelaxian in the room as he made his way into the "tea room". The harrower had thought it might be too early for even the people of Riddleport to be drinking judging by the lack of occupancy in the tavern. He realized he was in error upon relocating to the smaller common room.
Finding an empty stool at the bar, he waited for the bar tender's attention. "No, I'm not new," he corrected the man when he finally came over, "but I don't exactly make it a point to visit more often than I have to. I'll have a glass of whatever is cheap. A cup of tea as well, if there's actually any to be found."
Braddon stares after the well dressed human increduously, then turns back to the halfling and looks down at her accusingly with his arms crossed.
"Not many Chelaxians, hey?"
She shrugs and moves to mop up the trail of road dust Tendal left behind him. "Like I said: we get in a ship from time to time. Name's Eulalie Makeckney, and this is the Publican House: neutral ground, not claimed by any faction. Everyone's welcome and supposed to leave their arguments at the doorstep. Well, except for the Cyphermages. Not a thing wrong with most of them, either. It's just that when someone's had a drop too much and smashes up part of the place, their bosses are good for the repairs -- and for straightening out their boys in the future. Elias Tammerhawk, he doesn't care; Cypherlodge gold is too good to pay for the curtains some drunk mage set on fire or the bottle of wine smashed when another clever wizard thinks it's funny to make it as slippery as soap in a washbasin. So, after getting nowhere with his complaints a time or two, Arnando added that." She nods up at the painted letters on the wall. "It'll paint over easy enough if Tammerhawk changes his ways -- or the Cypherlodge changes its management. You needn't worry about your safety here. No press gangs and nothing in the cups but what Arnando pours. It's his calling to make this the one place in Riddleport a person can enjoy an evening without worrying about being press-ganged or pickpocketed or finding a knife in his ribs courtesy of some enemy of his boss looking to send a message."
Sarien pauses with his wine glass half-raised to drink as the other newcomers arrive, chattering away like a roost of magpies. He allows a taste to wet his lips.
"I'm just a traveler from here and there," he answers the bartender. "But it looks like you're a bit busy of a sudden."
The barkeep grins before moving down the counter to take the orders from his new customers. "Why do you think we keep the morning room open? The ships come in, and the caravans arrive, and the night shift at the Gas Forges lets out; and everyone needs a drink."
He looks momentarily impressed by Tendal's oenophilia, but at the mention of the Vankaskerkin family, a stormcloud passes over his features. A quick rattle from the table in the corner reveals that the cloaked figure there put down its wineglass suddenly and has turned its hooded features to sneak a peek at the newcomer. The barkeep glances over toward the corner table protectively then asks guardedly, "Vankaskerkin, eh? You've arrived on an ... interesting day for his father. Quite a coincidence."
Malkith enters the "tea room," oblivious to the sudden tension, and makes his request. "" he shouts into the main room before seeming to remember the company and offering an aside apology to the occupant of the corner table, "Sorry, Lil; no offense. " He sets an ale mug in front of Malkith and fills a glass with white wine for Tendal.
"" she shouts back, " Men," she remarks to Braddon, shaking her head and leaning her mop against the bar as she heads into the back room, presumably to make tea.
"Coincidence? Well, it sounds like there is a bit of intrigue going on." Tendal beams a quick smile through the road grit. "This is what I am talking about, I have barely sat down in the tavern and I find out that something is afoot. Sandpoint was so boring!" the tone of his voice changes in obvious mockery, "Your cow defecated in my field...No it didn't, that is my field, my father bought it from your father way back in '91.." Tendal sighs and taps his cane against the bar. "Its good to be back in civilization."
Malkith represses a grin at the conversation taking place between the two rooms and graciously accepts the mug. As he samples it tentatively, he adjusts his perch to get a better look around the room, namely the individual in the corner to whom the bartender made apologies to.
Giving fond and sincere thanks and farewells to the Horselords, it is with a quick pace that Dayn makes his way into Riddleport. As the city first comes into sight the Elf stops short in giddy admiration. What a sight! It was even more grand than he had imagined!
Quickly making the last leg of the journey into the city proper, the last rays of the Sunset guide the ranger to his destination. Although he is savvy enough not to appear too new and, therefore, vulnerable he cannot help the occasional grin of pure joy that escapes as he gazes around his new home. Aware of the occasional appraising eye on him, a hand to the pommel of his well worn sword grip is fortunately enough to stem any further interest in his direction.
Finally coming into the Publican Daynadrian looks up at the sign and, appreciating its significance, nods in approval. Once inside, he again stops in surprise and admiration, this time shaking his head to himself. Why, this place itself is bigger than the pubs in Crying Lear all combined! Why by Cayden's frosty mug did I not make this journey Years ago??'
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As he takes a good look around, the young Elf feels a swell of pride as the benefits of all his long years of intense study pay off as wealth of information comes tumbling into his mind. Filling it all away for future speculation and/or advantage, he makes his way directly the room where all the action seems to be coming from and, stepping up to the bar, slaps a gold coin down addressing the barkeep "A mug of your finest man! For I feel as if I've just walked the breadth of Varasia and if my throat were any more parched I'd be breathing fire! Perhaps something Andorean? I hear they make on one of the finest ales known to man."
While waiting for his drink, he turns and leans his back against the bar, dropping his bag and bow by his feet-while making sure to loop his foot through them for security. Looking around once more, he opens his senses to all that he can perceive going on around him.
Perception: *+2 vs humans*
Sense Motive: *+2 vs Humans*
Knowledge (local): *+2 vs Humans*
"Men, indeed. Nothing but trouble. Which is why I prefer girls. Though come to think of it that's partly how I came to be here... Anyway, thanks for your time Eulalie. I owe you a drink. Maybe even tea." Braddon smiles and follows the others into the back common room.
The young man that enters is tall and wiry and his tousled hair is so dark it almost appears indigo. His hair falls almost to his shoulders but the fringe has been cut well back to reveal a pair of intense, green eyes that shine out of a boyish face. He has high cheekbones, a sleek nose and a set of perfect white teeth under a quick smirk. There are almost no wisps of hair on his chin. His sharp features and slightly pointed ears indicate his elvish heritage, while his human heritage is displayed by his lightly tanned skin and his well-muscled arms. Despite his lean appearance, his large cream shirt flows over some bulk, possibly a chain shirt, though if so his movements appear smooth and unhampered. A battered and stained light brown vest worn over his shirt appears completely redundant. A sheathed bastard sword hangs casually from his left hip, a dagger from his right and a belt pouch between them. Tight brown pants frame strong toned legs and thighs and are tucked into a pair of well worn, soft hide boots.
He strides up to the bar with an air of confidence, dumping his backpack at one of the empty tables for six as he passes.
"Arnando. Breakfast please. Anything cheap and filling. And a suitable drink. No rush, thanks."
Braddon pulls a gold coin from his belt pouch, presses it onto the bar between the people around it, nods at the fashionably attired Tendal who had ignored him, and makes his way back to the table where his backpack rests. He smiles at Daynadrian when the gaze of the elf passes over him.
Filling it all away for future speculation and/or advantage, he makes his way directly the room where all the action seems to be coming from and, stepping up to the bar, slaps a gold coin down addressing the barkeep "A mug of your finest man! For I feel as if I've just walked the breadth of Varasia and if my throat were any more parched I'd be breathing fire! Perhaps something Andorean? I hear they make on one of the finest ales known to man."
"Tastes like freedom," he agrees with a smile, drawing off a mug for Daynadrian. As he sets it on the counter, the mysterious patron in the corner rattles the wineglass deliberately on the table, and Arnando excuses himself from the elf with a friendly nod to go lean over the seated figure. When he returns to the bar, the expression on his face has hardened. "The lady requests the pleasure of your company," he tells Tendal, nodding to the empty chair at the corner table. His eyes convey the message that Tendal had better be sure his company proves pleasant.
He strides up to the bar with an air of confidence, dumping his backpack at one of the empty tables for six as he passes.
"Arnando. Breakfast please. Anything cheap and filling. And a suitable drink. No rush, thanks."
"Breakfast!?" he protests. ""
"" the halfling's voice responds from the kitchen doorway. ""
One of the sailors from the round table, listening with a grin, pushes back his chair and gets to his feet. "I'll just give Lalie a hand then, shall I, Arnando?" He moves confidently toward the kitchen, obviously familiar with the floorplan. "I wouldn't mind a bite myself."
"Fine, fine," the barkeep waves him on back with ill grace. "Just make something I can put a splash of booze in before it's served. 'Breakfast,'" he scoffs quietly to himself.
"Really? Well well, this is a pleasant surprise."
Tendal gets up from where he was leaning against the bar, brushes some dust off of his collar and turns to walk towards the seated figure, smiling as he walks over.
Approaching the table, Tendal sketches a jaunty bow, hooks the chair out from the table with his boot and sits, cane across his lap.
"It is my pleasure to join you milady. May I have the honor of purchasing you another glass of whatever vintage you are currently imbibing?", he asks, peering at the hooded figure.
I hope she is pleasant...I had enough of old Varisian aunties on the caravan...not that the daughters of some of the carters didn't posess as certain beauty, they just had really long knives...
Phillip accepted the sailor's advice without retort... though growing up in the shadow of the Sczarni he hardly needed suggestion to keep his wits about himself. Sharing the walk to the Publican House with Sarien he kept his eyes and ears active to drink in the city.
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Phillip greeted the halfling sweeper genially, but did not linger - instead continuing on to the Tea Room as bade. Smirking at the conversation between Sarien and the barkeep, Phillip shrugs out of his travelling cloak folding it over one of the struts that make up one of the stools before climbing atop it. Stretching his arms forward and then back akin to a cat shrugging off the rigors of a long sleep.
Smiling gamely he beckons the barkeep over and elucidates "I make it a point of knowing the name of those that would accept my money... I am Phillip" extending a hand in greeting to be shook before continuing after his name is proffered "Now that we are not strangers... I'd fancy a serve of whatever is local and strong."
As the others arrive and begin to talk, Phillip keeps his distance - focusing only on his drink and thoughts... though listening.
Sarien listens to the conversation swirling around him while he sips at his wine, a small smile touching his lips as he watches the flamboyant displays and words of the new arrivals, offering so much information about themselves without thought or concern. If Riddleport was as rough as the sailors of the Rude Curse warned, he wondered how long these newcomers would last.
Smiling gamely he beckons the barkeep over and elucidates "I make it a point of knowing the name of those that would accept my money... I am Phillip" extending a hand in greeting to be shook before continuing after his name is proffered "Now that we are not strangers... I'd fancy a serve of whatever is local and strong."
"Arnando Rolf," he returns the introduction, his large hand briefly swallowing the halfling's before returning with a mug of ale, "adherent and hanger-on of the Lucky Drunk. Pleased to make your acquaintance."
Approaching the table, Tendal sketches a jaunty bow, hooks the chair out from the table with his boot and sits, cane across his lap.
"It is my pleasure to join you milady. May I have the honor of purchasing you another glass of whatever vintage you are currently imbibing?", he asks, peering at the hooded figure.
I hope she is pleasant...I had enough of old Varisian aunties on the caravan...not that the daughters of some of the carters didn't posess as certain beauty, they just had really long knives...
The whiff of perfume that reaches Tendal's nose as he sits down is promising: an expensive scent favored by well-to-do ladies in Magnimar, not the cheap stuff favored by common streetwalkers. Equally promising is the slim, white hand that emerges from the enveloping cloak to gesture to the barkeep for a refill; long fingernails are coated in bright red lacquer, a recent fashion that hasn't even begun to spread to Sandpoint yet. Tendal recognizes the bottle that Arnando Rolf uses to replenish the woman's glass: the '04 red he had just inquired about. The barkeep takes another opportunity to give the wizard a hard stare before he returns behind the counter; he obviously feels particularly protective of this customer.
"They call me Lil," a warm voice purrs from the interior of the hood. "What do they call you?" She lifts the glass to take a sip, but the way the shadows fall in this particular corner make it impossible for Tendal to discern much about her face other than that it is conventionally humanoid. He does note that the cloak he assumed was black is actually a very deep red and made of a fine, expensive fabric.
Accepting the mug of Andorean ale with an even bigger grin Dayn laughs and replies "Yes! Freedom indeed!" then bringing the mug to his lips and finishing it entire in one long pull, he slams down his mug and sighs, the burps in satisfaction "Ah yes, Freedom indeed. Oh, and do pardon me my lady, but as I said, it's been a long and dusty road and I was mighty parched."
Knowing his gold to be more than good enough for more, he adds to the barkeep "If you kitchen's firing up and you've enough for one more, I'd sure appreciate a bite of two to eat myself, if not, I'll be fine to drink my fill. And by that I mean, another one of those fine Andoreans please."
Grinning his pleasure, and content to remain leaning against the bar for now, Dayn continues to observe the others around him, most of his attention taken up by the mysterious woman and the dandy in the corner table.
Finding the ale to be unoffensive and the bar getting gradually more crowded, Malkith slips off his stool. With mug in one hand and traveling pack in the other, he relocates to one of the empty tables. Setting his pack on the table, rather than the floor, he takes another drink before beginning to rummage through his pack. In short order, he pulls forth a velvet bag of dark blue that in turn divulges a deck of cards.
Another swig of ale preludes Malkith's shuffling of the deck. Once he's comfortable with the flow of the cards passing back and forth between his hands, the Varisian sets the pile face-down. One by one, he begins to reveal the top cards, arranging them intentionally on the table before him.
After a few moments of this, Malkith turns over a ninth and final card. This one he sets at the crown of the arrangement. The corners of his mouth curl slightly after a moment of intense study, seeming to indicate that he's pleased with something.
After replenishing Lil's glass, Arnando refills the elf's mug as well before picking up the two gold coins Braddon and Daynadrian deposited on the bar and jingling them in his hand. The elf's is a well-worn coin that's been around the settlements of Varisia a time or two, most of whatever device that once was engraved on its surfaces rubbed smooth, but Braddon's is a glinting coin freshly minted; the barkeep examines it and grins. "Well, if it's not Queen Abrogail herself. We don't see much of her royal devilship up here in Riddleport. This is too new to have filtered in from Korvosa. Ship must be in from Corentyn."
As he is still lookingly questioningly at Braddon, a new arrival comes through the morning room's door: a young half-elven woman with tousled red curls. Her human blood is clearly Varisian, as she sports a few tattoos common to the ethnicity on her face and neck. Although remarkably pretty, she also looks bleary-eyed and exhausted, and there's a dejected sag to her shoulders.
"Morning, Samaritha," Arnando greets her, a clear tone of sympathy in his voice. "I don't have to show you the door out of here yet, then?"
"No," she attempts a smile that comes out more like a grimace. "Still welcome here, sadly. You don't mind if I stay here an hour or two until the Lodge opens? I think I can scrape together enough for a mug of ale." She reaches into her pocket, but the barkeep waves her off.
"It's on the house, love. I insist," he precludes her as she starts to protest. "Look here," he displays the two gold coins in his hand. "One of these big spenders won't notice if I charge him an extra 4 copper for your drink, I'm sure." He winks.
She blushes, both grateful and embarrassed, then turns to survey the room for a seat as he fills a mug. She glances at the unused end of the dwarves' table, as well as the two tables at which Braddon and Malkith are seated. She offers the half-elf a timid smile over their shared heritage but also seems intrigued by the Harrow deck spread across the Varisian's table.
Having concluded the harrowing, Malkith looks up to update himself on the goings on in the common room. Although nothing of note seems to have occurred in the few moments he had turned his attention away, he does register the latest patron to have entered the room. He notes the red-haired woman staring at the cards still laid out before him and smiles kindly as he catches her eye. With a gesture to an empty chair next to him, he silently invites her to join him at the table.
She takes her mug from the barkeep and sits down across from Malkith with a smile, taking care not to disrupt his cards. "Da gero, irakurketa ona? Pozik dirudi. Samaritha naiz." She stretches her arm across the table to offer her hand in greeting.
Tendal smiles warmly at Lil, leaning back in his chair, nearly oblivious to the hard looks from the barkeep, his attention focused like a single ray of light on the woman before him.
"I am Tendal Deverin of Magnimar, recently of Sandpoint and now hoping quite fervently that Riddleport proves more to my liking than the countryside." He grins, his face showing every bit of his youth.
"So Lil, I have to ask, do you have the time to show a visitor around your fine town? I mean, I need to freshen up a bit first, and I need to call on Saul Vancaskerkin to present my credentials and his son's letter, but perhaps this evening you can show me around?" he asks hopefully.
Malkith accepts the woman's offered hand, "Est satis bene. Ego sum Malkith." He carefully collects each of the upturned cards and returns them to the deck. Without taking his gaze from the woman, he begins to shuffle the cards again. "Vis tibi cura legendi? Velim solum petuntur satis coin ad operiendum sumptu potum meum."
"Would you care for a reading for yourself? I would only ask enough coin to cover the expense of my drink."
Braddon returns the smile of the half-elf woman and tries to think of something witty to entice her to his table. By the time he has remembered the perfect verbal incentive, however, she is sitting with the harrower and the two speak intimately in their foreign tongue. Braddon sighs to himself in disappointment and weariness but off the Executioner he cannot remain glum for long. He swings back in his chair, eyes closed, listening towards the conversation of the dwarves and the sailors nearby.
"Arnando Rolf," he returns the introduction, his large hand briefly swallowing the halfling's before returning with a mug of ale, "adherent and hanger-on of the Lucky Drunk. Pleased to make your acquaintance."
Phillip sips at his ale after receiving it, noting it's quality and taste - letting Arnando go about his work a few minutes before offering a thanks "A fine brew... though I am sure that is no news to you." Phil fishes about in his belt pouch for his comb and slicks his unkempt hair back to some degree of neatness as he weighs the barkeep and takes his measure.
"I am Tendal Deverin of Magnimar, recently of Sandpoint and now hoping quite fervently that Riddleport proves more to my liking than the countryside." He grins, his face showing every bit of his youth.
"So Lil, I have to ask, do you have the time to show a visitor around your fine town? I mean, I need to freshen up a bit first, and I need to call on Saul Vancaskerkin to present my credentials and his son's letter, but perhaps this evening you can show me around?" he asks hopefully.
"This evening?" she asks, with a tone of surprise in her voice. "If you're here to visit Saul Vankaskerkin, you'll be otherwise engaged this evening, won't you? I couldn't help but overhear that you've recently come from Saul's son Orik? Is he well? We in Riddleport haven't heard from him in quite a while, and there was some ... unpleasantness just before he left town. We've been ... concerned."
Malkith accepts the woman's offered hand, "Nahiko ondo da. Malkith naiz." He carefully collects each of the upturned cards and returns them to the deck. Without taking his gaze from the woman, he begins to shuffle the cards again. "Zeure irakurketa bat egingo luke zaintzeko duzu? Bakarrik eskatzen nuke nire edari gastua estaltzeko nahikoa txanpon."
She is obviously tempted, her hand dipping toward her pocket, but she reluctantly restrains herself. "Ezin dut. Ez ez naiz, nahiz eta nire edaria ordaintzeko. Irakurketa bat dut horrenbeste ordaindu bada, ordaindu ez onartu ezezagunen karitatea." She offers an apologetic smile. "Nik hemen hainbat aste eta ez dute lana aurkitu. Nire poltsan da hutsik itxi."
Malkith nods in understanding. He continues to shuffle the cards as he speaks, "Karitatea, hala nola, jabeak baldintza oso ona izan behar duzu." He stumbles over his words for a moment as if trying to revise his last statement. "I Barkatu, ez dut esan nahi, beraz, iraintzen soinu. Esadazu, zer nolako lan bila ari zaren?"
"You must be on very good terms with the proprietor for such charity."
"I apologize, I didn't mean for that to sound insulting. Tell me, what sort of work is it that you are looking for?"
Malkith's apology isn't quick enough to keep Samaritha's face from turning redder than her hair, as she ducks her head to stare at the table. "Txarra badirudi ezagutzen dut. Zion ordaindu dut atzera kobrea behin aurkitu dut lana. Neska bat, ordu batzuk igarotzeko, eta ez da lanik herri bakarrik toki ... segurua da." The possibility that Malkith might be able to point her to a position overpowers her embarrassment, and she looks back up at him hopefully. "On Cypherlodge da Riddleport nintzen. Ikaslea edo eskribau bat: ezer nire oinetan atea. Baina ezin dut inor me eguneko denbora emateko. Orain ... taulak edo ezer itxaron nuen, nahikoa leku bat lo egin nuen frogatu arte Cyphermages, ordaindu lortzeko."
The telltale sound of a whistling teakettle from the kitchen briefly precedes the sailor's return to the morning room, carrying two loaves of heavy, golden bread and a plate of split fish; behind him comes the halfling, bearing a tray with a large teakettle and some crockery. "Arnando, duck in there and get the burgoo," she instructs the barkeep, her hands full, and grumbling a little, he obeys.
Eulalie and the sailor lay their burdens down on the mostly-empty table where Braddon is sitting, disturbing his reverie, as Arnando sets a sizeable pot of steaming porridge on the counter. Sniffing it suspiciously, he retrieves a bottle from beneath the bar and adds a good splash, stirring it in and nodding in satisfaction. "That's the hair of the dog," he approves, bringing the pot across the room to join the rest of the breakfast.
"Beer bread," Eulalie points out to him proudly, "and pickled herring. A little brandy in the tea, and Cayden couldn't possibly disapprove."
There is far too much food for Braddon alone, which proves to be a good thing. The dwarves paid little attention to the procession until the liquor was added to the gruel. Perking up, they murmured low among themselves for a moment before one of them left the table to approach the barkeep. Getting an approving nod in response to their request, the dwarves queue up in an orderly fashion to lay a silver coin each on the bar, then grab a bowl and fill it with the thick cereal before returning to their seats. A few of the sailors feel welcome enough to cut themselves a slice of bread and pile it with the smoked fish. For her part, Samaritha blinks at the warm food hungrily. "Is that ... breakfast?" she asks Braddon hopefully.
"Cypherlodge, eh? Ezin dut askoz laguntza han beldur naiz. Besterik Riddleport iritsi da gaur goizean, neure burua." He's about to say more, but pauses as an idea comes to him. As he continues, he begins dealing out a few of the cards, "Agian baimentzen me jainkozko patuak zuretzat dendan duzu?" He waves a hand at the woman. "Ez dut saiatu parte txanpon batzuk utzi duzu. Horren ordez, zure enpresa uzten nau prest izango duzu? Nik bakarrik arren izan da hemen gaur goizean baino denbora gutxiagoan, ostatu hartu behar dut, hori baino askoz luzeagoa sentsazioa daukat. Normalean, izarren pean out zor nuke, baina jakin ez dela osasun-aukera bat hemen nago. Bit baten inguruan me erakutsi ahal izango duzu agian espero dut? Agian gomendatzen reputable ostatu bat?"
"The Cypherlodge, eh? I'm afraid I can't be of much help there. Only just arrived in Riddleport this morning, myself."
"Perhaps you'll permit me to divine what the fates have in store for you? I'll not try to part you from the few coins you have left. Instead, would you be willing to lend me your company? Although I've only been here for less time than just this morning, I have the feeling I'll be staying much longer than that. Typically, I'd make due out under the stars, but I'm certain that isn't a health option here. I'm hoping you might be able to show me around a bit? Perhaps recommend a reputable lodging?"
At seeing the woman's interest in the food, he smiles. "Perhaps you could grab a bit of food for us both while I prepare the cards?"
Tendal leans back a bit, eyebrow quirked.
"Orik? Orik is doing just fine for himself. Cutting his way through the society of Sandpoint, or what passes for it."
I wonder if she fancies Orik...?
"Mostly he and I were doing what gentleman typically do, a little gaming, a little drinking and a little exploring. He was much to busy with the business for anything more substantive than that." he adds, reassuringly.
"Returning to the matters at hand, you said something quite cryptic a moment ago. Something about being too busy this evening? I assure you madam, my schedule is quite empty at the moment, I just arrived in town only a bare hour or so ago. And while I am quite good, it does take longer than that to start receiving invitations to events. Unless, of course, there is something so prominent going on that I can expect to be invited, despite of the short notice?" Tendal asks, curious.
A few of the sailors feel welcome enough to cut themselves a slice of bread and pile it with the smoked fish. For her part, Samaritha blinks at the warm food hungrily. "Is that ... breakfast?" she asks Braddon hopefully.
"How many people am I feeding here?" Braddon glares at the sailors while pointing at the dwarven silver. He turns back to the food, fills a plate and overfills another, then heads over to the half-elf woman and slides the smaller plate in front of her.
"It appears my elven friend and I," Braddon gestures towards Daynadrian at the bar, "have already bought you a drink, so allow me to provide breakfast. If your friend wants some," Braddon jerks his now free thumb at Malkith, "he's welcome to ask the elf."He smiles mischievously at the red haired woman, begins to return to his table, then pauses, turns and instead sits down at Malkith's table next to the woman.
"If the elf's too tight fisted, I'll cover ya," he addresses Malkith by way of a peace offering. "Braddon's the name. Braddon Hu... Hunter." He smiles, pleased with himself and begins to attack the impossibly large pile of food.
Phillip pays the delivered breakfast no mind, he rarely hungered until the sun was high in the sky and so the ale was more than enough to fill his desire for sustenance for now.
Pursing his lips as Arnando busies himself elsewhere he considers a thought before deciding to play upon it. Rustling within his shirt he retrieves his Calistrian symbol of worship, and seeks to make it clearly noticeable without making it overt...
Sleight of Hand:
...and drains his tankard, coughing slightly as he swallows the great volume of fluid remaining quickly.
When Arnando returns near, Phillip holds up his tankard "Another if you please good sir." drawing attention to himself and hopefully Arnando's eyes to the Calistrian symbol hanging around his neck. As the amber fluid is returned to his tankard Phillip makes small talk "It is a fine place you have here Arnando, quiet as it is with the morning trade. Does she get more lively of an eve?"
Malkith stares at the newcomer as he sits down. "I have coin enough to pay for myself," he states blandly. As Braddon begins feeding himself Malkith collects the cards he has spread out before him. Addressing Samaritha, he says, "Harrowing zuretzat geroago egin ahal izango dut. Nire eskaintza oraindik dago, onartu ahal izango da."
Leaving his pack on the table, but tucking the velvet bag that once again holds his cards into the scarf wrapped about his waist, the Varisian makes his way towards the food. He adds a gold coin to the pile of silver ones on the bar before picking up a plate and cup. He soon returns with a modest helping of food and a cup of steaming tea. Foregoing the tea for now, Malkith continues to sip from the mug of ale as he begins to eat.
Daynadrian smiles to himself as he sees most of the bar express interest and head on over to the food. Once it seems everyone has eaten their fill, he also heads on over, grabs a bowl of porridge, and stacks some fish on a couple pieces of bread then heads on back to the bar.
Grabbing a stool this time but still keeping his pack and bow close by, he begins to eat heartily. He glances over at the Halfling, smiling and giving wink as he notices the medallion. He directs his words to Arnando though as he says "I couldn't help but notice your sign out front friend. Have to say, it makes this Elf feel right at home, knowing he's in a place sacred to the Lucky Drunk!" and he enphasizes his statement with a cheer with his mug towards the barkeep, taking another big gulp, almost emptying his second mug.
He then launches into his pitch "So, what would you recommend for an enterprising sort to find some action around town mate?" purposefully leaving his question open-ended, to allow the barkeep to interpret it as he will.
As Malkith heads to the bar, Braddon leans into the half-elf.
Braddon's eyes widen as Malkith adds yet another gold to the counter. When Malkith returns Braddon explains, "Actually, I was originally expecting change from that. Now I'm just curious to see how far I can get before Arnando asks me for more."
Braddon scoops some of the thick cereal onto the bread, tops it with some fish, then asks, "What're the cards for?" before stuffing the food into his mouth.
Samaritha seems a little dismayed by the tension between the two men but smiles gamely and offers her hand to her new neighbor. "Samaritha Beldusc," she introduces herself, "and this is ... Malkith." She trails off as the Varisian steps away to get his own breakfast and shrugs at Braddon helplessly.
Braddon scoops some of the thick cereal onto the bread, tops it with some fish, then asks, "What're the cards for?" before stuffing the food into his mouth.
She appears startled by his ignorance. "They're a Harrow deck," she explains, searching his eyes for some recognition. "They can tell the future, or, well, give you some guidance, anyway, depending on the giftedness of the dealer. How far away are you from?"
"Andoran," replies Braddon swiftly. "Ostenso might as well be Andoran"
"I'm here on business." "Business of getting the nine hells out of Cheliax."
"Though I wouldn't pass up a bit of extra work." "Well, any actually..."
"So, Samaritha. What's in your future?"
When Arnando returns near, Phillip holds up his tankard "Another if you please good sir." drawing attention to himself and hopefully Arnando's eyes to the Calistrian symbol hanging around his neck. As the amber fluid is returned to his tankard Phillip makes small talk "It is a fine place you have here Arnando, quiet as it is with the morning trade. Does she get more lively of an eve?"
"Aye," the barkeep answers, eyeing the three-pointed pendant curiously, "after dark, we'll have the common room full. We won't be as busy as the taverns in the wharves, of course, but half the crowd in those is only there to prey on the other half. I won't have any of that in here: no drugs or poison or knife-fights." He smirks at Phillip. "It's a select crowd, especially in Riddleport. But there's enough out there that value having a place where a man can have a drink and a pleasant evening without worrying about waking up dead or in chains who'll honor the sanctity of a holy place." He nods to the holy symbol displayed around the halfling's neck. "You in town to visit the House of the Silken Veil?"
Tendal leans back a bit, eyebrow quirked.
"Orik? Orik is doing just fine for himself. Cutting his way through the society of Sandpoint, or what passes for it."
I wonder if she fancies Orik...?
"Mostly he and I were doing what gentleman typically do, a little gaming, a little drinking and a little exploring. He was much to busy with the business for anything more substantive than that." he adds, reassuringly.
"Returning to the matters at hand, you said something quite cryptic a moment ago. Something about being too busy this evening? I assure you madam, my schedule is quite empty at the moment, I just arrived in town only a bare hour or so ago. And while I am quite good, it does take longer than that to start receiving invitations to events. Unless, of course, there is something so prominent going on that I can expect to be invited, despite of the short notice?" Tendal asks, curious.
"'Sand-Point?'" she asks, amusement in her voice. "Bucolic little country town, I take it? I can just picture him do-si-doeing with the farmers' daughters at the barn raising. How very wholesome. Hm? This evening? You haven't heard? There's only one event in Riddleport this evening, and it's the grand opening of Saul Vankaskerkin's latest business venture. Everyone's invited; the only question is who's going to show up."
"So, Samaritha. What's in your future?"
"Malkith was just about to tell me," she glances at the Varisian across the table, her eyes dancing, "before breakfast was served."