Logs:Snooping Around Fort Sea
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| RL Date: 9 June, 2012 |
| Who: E'ten, N'rov, Millie, Thom |
| Involves: Fort Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: E'ten and N'rov go snooping around Fort Sea trying to locate the missing Boll tithes. |
| Where: Fort Sea |
| When: Day 4, Month 13, Turn 28 (Interval 10) |
| OOC Notes: ST'd by Ali |
| It's early evening in the Fort area, the perfect time of night for dragonriders to come gliding into the area unseen. The Whisky River is a well known bar, frequented by the crews of ships who have put into Fort Sea - and tonight, it's packed. Not only are there sea crafters (and, perhaps, some less 'official' sailor types), it's filled with many of Fort Sea's local residents, barmaids are quick with calls for a drink, scullery maids scurry around, and that /other/ sort of maids, as well. Over in one corner some sailors are playing a game of dice, to loud and raucous name calling of the dice thrower. Seeing as how N'rov doesn't sound like a local, though he's getting better at faking it, their options are limited: don't let him talk, which might be convenient for E'ten but pretty unlikely to last more than, oh, half a minute... or come up with a reason. The muffled grunting or, at the least, tongue-biting, can be saved for another time, because just now he's dressed in a set of genuine sailor's garb that even has that salt-air smell, and reaching over to push at the shoulder of the pseudo-healer ahead of him. "You can do it," he says. "Go on in. The girls won't bite." That would make two of them. Not sounding like the locals, if that's the same as being sea hold bred. Otherwise, E'ten plans to have a good cover story. If he can refrain from rolling his eyes upwards at the murmured comment. Really. "Shouldn't I be saying that to you," comes the remark as he glances over one shoulder, voice dry as he steps into the room to scan and take note of those present. Alright. It's an empty spot that he's looking for, striding forward before signaling the bartender for a drink. Hopefully, N'rov can keep up. "I might hit the gambling tables first. It'll be awhile before we're on land again." Him? Dressed in healer colors, but more sailor-like. A few of the locals glance over at the pair's arrival - an older gentleman by himself at the bar, and a group of 'sailors' quietly muttering to each other, the latter more suspicious than curious. Empty spot? Well, there's a few next to the loud gamblers, mostly because people who actually want a conversation don't want to have to yell over the noise. The bartender spots E'ten's gesture and, a few minutes later, sends a barmaid over with a pair of shot glasses, whisky in them. Apparently that's the default drink, home grown, and it's /harsh/, and /bitter/, but also /strong/. "In your dreams," N'rov mutters amiably back at him, and lowers his oilskin hood before following E'ten inside, staying a little behind like any dutiful wannabe-henchman. No attempt to hide the slightly widened eyes of a young man seeing a new place: he's far too busy with the slight lift of his chin by way of a nod to those who notice them, with unbuttoning his coat, with not stepping on anything too untrustworthy that might be on the floor. He has a, "Yessir," for the pseudo-healer's stated intentions, a quick smile and a, "Thanks, miss," for the barmaid, and another gawk around, whisky still in his hand like he's somehow forgotten it. It's not like they're going to be serving klah in places like this. Nevertheless, E'ten notices some of the looks given their way with a resigned sigh as he leans forward against the bar and taking the shot glass into one hand. "You'll want to enjoy this. Just think, you can tell your friends where we've been after a few months on the seas," he remarks to N'rov, lifting the glass for a sip. Deliberately short, a whistle is soon to follow as he looks towards the maid but more at the assistant with him. "That'll cure all that ails. If you're going to hit the cards, I'll stay here awhile. Find out the latest news before we ship out. If," he notes ruefully. "There's anything we need to know." The floor's rather a bit... sticky, come to the think of it. That's probably why a scullery maid pushes around a mop rather listlessly (and uselessly, some might say), more interested in the patrons than the work. Despite the appearance, the whole place screams /thriving/, and it appears to be rather a standard night. The barmaid gives a wink to N'rov for his thanks, before moving along the bar to place a couple more glasses down in front of some locals who have taken the seats on the other side of the Fortians. "Yessir," N'rov repeats, with a rueful slide of his eyes towards the bartender, seeing as how the barmaid has absented herself: crafters, don't they just go on? "I thought you said you'd visit the tables, sir? I can see how the game's going if you'd rather, though," where /see/ implies /lose his few marks/ just as soon as the locals can fleece him. "Just remember what he said, don't go nowheres without me." E'ten jerks a thumb in the direction of the table where the card players are still in progress before his lips lift into a smirk. "I'll wait for their current game to end," he remarks, already pushing away from the bar with the shotglass held between his fingers. Fine. He'll go. But those are the ones who might be willing to take his last mark and they won't have anything to show for it. The card players are obviously regulars, joking and jostling one another in a way that bespeaks familiarity. E'ten's approach is met with a growing silence and a wary look or two. One - the dealer - tips his head and gives E'ten a head-to-toe inspection, before grunting, "Make some room, Thom," gesturing at one of the grizzled older guys. He grunts, glances up at arrival, then shifts over, making just enough room for another chair to be inserted at the table. Meanwhile, over at the bar, once E'ten has departed, that barmaid comes back down, ostensibly to refill N'rov's drink with a smile, but she lingers to rub at a nonexistent spot on the bar's surface. "In town for long?" "Thanks." It's more of a murmured sort of a word from E'ten as he takes a seat, literally. One chair from another table to be added to the card dealing group. Turning it about so that his arms fold along the back as he sits, one mark piece is set within his reach on the surface followed by his glass. Where did he slip that from? Somewhere on his person. "What's the entering bet?" Thom eyes the mark piece sidelong, then flicks gaze up to E'ten, grunting, "Minimum ten marks, boy." There's a bit of scoffing and amusement from around the table suggesting that's not quite true, and it's only after a lengthy pause that the dealer amends, "Two mark buy in," looking at him expectantly. The barmaid relatively plain looking, but when she smiles she has a sort of innocent prettiness that probably keeps her in tips from sailors. "Don't nurse it /too/ long," the girl winks. "I can help you with a stealthy top up or two, if the boss is distracted." She glances over her shoulder at the bartender. "Oh, it's always packed in here." Either she doesn't understand the question or she pretends not too. Likely the former. "Can you?" N'rov's smile is slow and genuinely appreciative. "He's standing my drinks, seeing as how I'm the one who has to keep an eye on him, but surely he wouldn't begrudge a man a little something." He drinks, the muscles in his throat working, and sets the glass down again with a smile that much warmer. "Actually, you could do something else for me, if you'd take pity on a man," his voice teasing and his hands kept on the right side of the bar: not going to leap over and at her, anytime soon. For a moment, E'ten does look like that green healer who hasn't gotten his sea legs with both brows lifting. Not one. It's enough for him to down the rest of the whiskey, closing his eyes against the sting before putting another mark on the table. "Fair." The mark. Not the card game. All's thrown away when the game gets fully into play. "Which game?" What? More than one? He doesn't know about these sea holders. He doesn't get fully into the swing of idle chat until determining whether or not the green guy - literally and figuratively will pass muster. "Seven card stud. Ante up first," the dealer gestures towards the pot in the middle and glances to E'ten, as he begins to shuffle the cards for the next round. It's not until the dealer's put up everyone's cards that the group settle down into their usual banter, "Did you hear about Rickon?" "No, what?" "Broke his leg on the way down from Tillek, some sort of clash with pirates," more laughter, incredulous, "That's what /he/ claims, anyway." More scoffing. "Babysitting is no fun," the barmaid's pouting and sympathizing with N'rov's predicament. She glances sideways: no one else is calling for top ups and the bartender's engaged in another conversation, and so she leans forward, across the bar, deliberately giving N'rov a very good view down the front of her top. "I'd /love/ to help you." N'rov's just a man, and his indrawn breath comes flatteringly quickly, the lift of his eyes to smile into the barmaid's rather /less/ quick. "And a kind woman you are," he says at last. "Here, tell my fortune?" He's got a partial mark that he offers her, not high enough to try and be buying her, high enough to be a good tip. "Tails says my captain finds the cloth he's looking for -- weaver-make it's got to be, cotton and wool -- and heads, well, we'll head home all sad. Flip?" Easy enough. That's almost a trademark thought in E'ten's mind as he tosses the two marks into the pile before folding his arms along the back of the table while the cards are dealt. The talk that resumes has him asking, "Pirates. Nasty sort from what I've heard. If that didn't happen, then what did?" There's a brief silence as everyone contemplates their cards, and the dealer expertly flips out the next round, everyone staying in, then, "Yeah, they've got him sitting on cargo-protecting duty. And he can't even get to games, since he can't /leave/, so he's more grumbly than usual." Amused snickering all around. Poor Rickon, except none of the men at the table seem to feel particularly sorry for him. Thom, beside E'ten, scoffs. "Knowing Rickon? Probably tried to rip off some holder and got chased away with a pitchfork, fell down some hole or something." The laughter's amused all around. The barmaid's eyes widen as they fix on the mark, the smile that follows as much for that look (it's probably not the first time it's earned her a good tip, after all) as the marks. "Well, honey, I'd hate for you to head home /sad/, so I'll have to go for tails." She watches the coin in N'rov's hand with a fixedness. The barmaid's eyes widen as they fix on the mark, the smile that follows as much for that look (it's probably not the first time it's earned her a good tip, after all) as the marks. "Well, honey, I'd hate for you to head home /sad/, so I'll have to go for tails." She watches the coin in N'rov's hand with a fixedness, manages to not-quite-snatch it, then with a wink at him, flips the coin upwards, slapping it onto the back of her hand. A gaze to make sure N'rov is watching, and she lifts her palm. She might be a good guess, or maybe it was a trick. Either way, she called right. "Well, there you go! Looks like you're getting lucky tonight, honey." N'rov /is/ watching, admiringly so. "I do like to get lucky," he tells her. "You tell the /best/ fortunes." He looks away only to reclaim his glass and finish off his drink, and then as an afterthought to check briefly on whether anyone's gotten near and might be listening: not surreptitious, just keeping tabs on the territory. "Don't suppose you'd know who a man might talk to, to find out where he could find trade goods like that? I'm good for staying in port longer," especially now, says his widened smile. "But if I can make that fortune come true, and make my captain happy? So much the better. Bosses get so /grumpy/ when they don't get what they want, don't they," this last confided in a conspiratorial tone in case /her/ boss wanders by. That coin disappears somewhere down where N'rov's eyes might enjoy following, briefly, the barmaid laughing pleasantly as if he's said the most amusing thing. With a sidelong look at the bartender, she nods sympathetically. "Where? Well," she frowns briefly in thought. "I guess you'd want the storage rooms out near the docks. Not sure who's on duty, it changes all the time, normally. Those guys," she gestures towards the group playing cards, "Would probably know." "Those guys?" The ones playing with E'ten? N'rov's lost his pleasantly distracted look, or at least most of it, in favor of vacillating. Out loud, "I wonder if I should tell him to ask. Interrupting his game wouldn't make him so happy, and he'd probably take the credit /anyway/, but," N'rov is a man and men do wise and noble things for the benefit of their community. Such as looking at the barmaid, all wistfulness, as though her own wise and noble self would shed enlightenment upon him. Or possibly just more whisky. Noble might be stretching things a little. But the barmaid comes up with an answer, nevertheless: "Surely you can tell him later. I mean, it isn't as if that stuff's going anywhere anytime soon. Their ship was headed out Ista way. And," she leans over, a bit more, her gaze fixed on N'rov and intentions crystal clear: "I have a break soon." Luckily? Unluckily? The bartender calls out sharply, "Millie! Over on table five." With the briefest of pouts, the barmaid murmurs, "Back in one moment," grabbing a bottle, glasses, and heading over towards one of the tables adjacent to the card game. "Shells. Whose poor ship is he stationed on? I don't think that I want to be there unless..." It's not right to knock an entire ship because of one person. Even E'ten knows that as he regrets having downed the shot so quickly before. "Well, it's a good crew and captain, isn't it? But I shouldn't go courting trouble," he remarks, shrugging absently as he picks up the cards to review what he has and doesn't. Discarding two and leaving them face down, he pushes them out to be replaced for now. Another round of cards, and a couple of the players drop out, although old Thom is still in. He gives E'ten a slightly suspicious sidelong look, then gives a non-committal grunt. One of the players who folded, barely older than E'ten, answers, "The Mayberry. They trade all over, if you're looking to travel. But they're not exactly legit--" he gets a nudge from Thom, flushes and goes silent. "Not courting trouble is best, boy," Thom amends, gruffly. "And you'll do that by steering clear of that lot." "Thanks, miss," N'rov calls after his favorite barmaid of the day, and goes about staring at what's left of his un-topped drink: the picture of a man with heavy things to think about... in the bottom of his glass. Vhaeryth, meanwhile, altogether too eagerly informs Adiulth, « /He/ found out that what we want is here. May be here, » the bronze amends. « Or something like it! In /storage/, but they should ask somewhere else where that is. The cloth whirls around the center. » There will be no disagreement from E'ten, whose earlier shrug is reconfirmed while placing the two cards into his fanned out set of cards. Held close so that no one gets any bright ideas, he nods to Thom in agreement. "Not planning to. Do they get anything worth a decent trade? I have a sister back home and she's just of the age..." To drive him nuts, goes unspoken. Meanwhile, Adiulth hears the information and will pass it along at some point but not before adding his own information. « The ship we are to find is The Mayberry. They might have a storage area here. » The last is a tag onto his rider's thoughts, plucking the concept from his mind so that it makes sense. The barmaid, Millie, flitters from table to table, so it takes her some time before she finally makes it back to the bar. "It's Millie," she says, resuming her perch-and-lean in front of N'rov. Reaching for the bottle, with a glance over her shoulder, she leans to refill his glass. "So, about that break-" Another round of cards, and more players drop out with grunts of dissatisfaction, until only Thom and E'ten are left. "Cloth, maybe? Don't know. Go ask Rickon. Not like he has anything else to do," there's snickering from around the table. "He might be so grateful for the company he'll give you a discount," another player puts in. "That break," says N'rov, with another of those slow smiles that's becoming a grin, curling his fingers around the glass where they just might be able to brush against hers. "You have the best ideas, Millie. I wonder how long /he'll/ be playing," and his gaze tracks towards E'ten: on duty, but surely he could be convinced. Vhaeryth, though: « Mayberry. Yes. He says they should go now, because otherwise it will take much longer, » this with decided amusement underlying the young dragon's thoughts. « Tell your rider to get him and go, or he will not be responsible for the delay. » E'ten didn't expect to be the last man standing as it were, across from Thom with a rueful smirk and shake of her head. "My sister better be thankful for what I go through for her sake," he remarks with a glance towards N'rov. Who said he didn't have a radar when it came to people on duty? Or he has a dragon relaying the information that informs him. Glancing at the cards, marks and Thom in that order, he remarks, "Do we finish or do I go and collect my assistant?" Because he's getting rather chummy. Adiulth remarks to Vhaeryth, « Does he wish to be delayed? » Such a statement from the dragon, it must have been influenced. « Mine comes to collect yours. » Ambivalence from Vhaeryth: « I have told Him, » with borrowed-from-Bijedth emphasis. Entertained, yes, but there's something, something underlying it, shadows dimly seen through glass. "Hopefully /just/ long enough," Millie says, and as she's called away by the bartender, hastily whispers, "I'll meet you out back in about five?" with a wink, she sashays away to help with refilling of other people's drinks. "Call it," Thom says, gruffly, showing off his cards. He seems relatively certain of himself: it's a decent hand, but it could be beaten by a good player. So N'rov sits there on his stool, swiveling back and forth, his breathing just a touch restless: let's go, let's go, let's go already. Or.. not. And if E'ten doesn't interrupt him? In about two-to-three, he's walking out that door. Called. "Keep the marks," E'ten remarks as he stands with a smile which likely is good natured to fit his image of being a good lad. To a point. Swinging his leg from over the chair, he reveals his own cards, not bad for a seeming beginner as he will catch his assistant it seems. Just in time. And Millie? N'rov will have to try to catch her eye with a wave, and give her a hugely apologetic grimace complete with pointing at E'ten's back: it's all /his/ fault. [Due to lateness and combined player exhuastion, the rest of this scene was done via discussion/OOC. In summary, they find one 'guard'.. who has a broken leg and is fast asleep in a chair. If they're quiet enough they won't wake him. The storage room is pretty expansive, but they'll eventually find crates marked with the stamp of Boll, and inside they'll find cloth of the same make as that received at Fort. There's only a couple of crates left, so undoubtedly they've sold off the rest during the intervening Turn, as well as anything else they've taken.] |
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