It's been a bad month.
Klaus Bergholm had the sort of fame you get by being so good at your job that only the best have heard of you. He was one of the first mercenaries when the Free Companies started up, and the toughest captains of the best Companies are proud to boast of earning their blood -- learning everything they knew, in fact -- with grizzled ol' Bergie. Too bad, they'd say and shake their heads. Too bad he couldn't keep away from the drink. Too bad that when he drank he couldn't keep his opinion about the hobs quiet. Never made too much of himself as a result. Most of the boys he trained up left quietly to found their own Companies, or take a job with a more reserved captain, using skills earned under Klaus in politically safer places. The rest of the fools stayed, learned too much from him, and found out exactly how much sympathy the Empire had for men with less talent than Bergie and mouths just as big.
Which is why he had space in the Free Company -- the very outfit that gave the rest their name -- for you. Captain Bergholm (which is all you were allowed to call him) didn't care about your background, or your race, or if you were social misfits, or even if you could fight. That, as far as he was concerned, you didn't know anything about, and he was going to teach you. And that he did. You hadn't been in the company long, but he'd taken you quickly from raw recruit to a seasoned mercenary that anyone would have been happy to take.
Then, on a milk-run bandit-shoot, on the fifth day of Firstmonth, 2064 DM, he took an arrow in the eye. St. Celestine soothe him and take him to his rest.
Now, six weeks later, you're starting to notice an unpleasant trend in the talk. Klaus Bergholm wasn't the sort of man to be felled by some brass-penny outlaw, the Companies mutter, and you've gone from being "the soldiers who were with Bergie when he fell" to being "the youngsters who saw Captain Bergholm die." You know how rumour works, and there's a feeling that it isn't far to go until you reach "the rookies who got Klaus Bergholm killed." Those tentative not-quite-offers of better positions in other companies have faded like mist, and when you enter the taverns the other mercenaries seem to leave not long after. The message is clear: you're bad luck.
Luckily for you, though, the Free Company was the last Company with the old-style charter. Captain Bergholm might be gone, but the Company lives on, and with it you've got a chance to prove yourselves again. All you have to do is get a broker to give you a job.
Which is why you find yourselves making your way through the narrow streets of Brindisi, padding over rounded cobblestones while making your way through the early morning fog (always look for work in the mornings, taught Klaus: mercenaries might be late-night drinkers, but brokers are businessmen. Get in early and you'll have first pick of the jobs, and the brokers will respect you and treat you proper). You're on the way to the office of Markus Ditchdigger, right off Southgate Stalls. Ditchdigger's name was on the top of the list of brokers you found while clearing out Klaus' room in place of his non-existent family, and you remember that a fair number of the contracts you've worked on came from him. Captain Bergholm didn't have anything nice to say about anyone, but he had less to say about Ditchdigger. It seems like the best place to start on your new life as the Free Company.
OOC: Please give a quick description of your character in your first post. Anytime mechanics become relevant, please post the relevant stats at the bottom of your post.
Gwythyr Vaughan was a dark, stormy character long before bad things began happening to the company. Bergie's death hasn't affected him as much as might be expected, but then, what's one man in the face of a nation? A few plucked strings here, a note in a longer song ... but no ballad. Not that yet.
In fact, the stocky, tired-looking dwarf seems much the same now as when he joined, wearing an almost aimless expression as his dark eyes scan the streets warily. His hair is black, but kept beneath the hood of his cloak -- no reason to sell all your secrets up front. The cloak is decent quality, but doesn't scream wealth. Dark brown, instead of the rich black a wealthy man might choose to express his own moodiness. Boots, clean, sturdy ... but not expensive. Still, the quiet jingling of chain beneath the cloak hints that for all of his aloofness ... Gwythyr learned a few things from Ol' Bergie.
As the the group works their way through the early morning streets, Rudi's tiny clawed feet scamper to keep up with his taller companions, scratching softly against the stonework below. A muddy black cloak is draped over his shoulders, its bottom trim notably wet simply from picking up dampness from the cobbles as it trails behind the diminutive kobold, the hood pulled up to obscure most of his head, although the crocodile-like snout filled with jagged sharp teeth still juts out some distance past the edge of the fabric.
Beneath his cloak can be seen a well-oiled chain shirt covering Rudi's chest, while the blade of a small and somewhat jagged hatchet is visible with every other step, tucked loosely into his belt.
Occassionally the kobold looks up at his companions, as if to verify that they're all still present, but he eschews conversation, instead simply scurrying along towards their goal with silence only broken by the rhythmic scraping of claws upon cobbles.
Walking alongside the dwarf, Mesina ab'Sidir is a cheerful presence, bright and energetic in the morning and every bit a businesswoman herself. This can't be seen so much under her silken white veil, but is clear in her manner and the slight tune she's carrying while she walks. With a white silk wrapping protecting her red hair, she's eying up the roads as they walk with a sharp perceptive gaze. Hidden within her voluminious white dress was dozens of pockets, straps holding various bags and satchels, all kept carefully within reach. Even her dear pet Shiva came along, carefully riding along her shoulder with practiced ease. Despite all of these knicknacks, her motion made hardly a sound, her brown boots both soft and thick, protective yet obviously soft soled from how little noise they seemed to make.
At a glance, she would seem as any normal merchant, perhaps accompanied by a crew of protectors. A deeper look would notice a small bow carefully tied against her back. A sword might even find her little secret, a treasure passed down from her parents made from trading deals long since forgotten: A carefully maintained mithril shirt that molded quietly to her form, allowing her the protection of fine armor without any obvious signs of wearing such. Slipped into one of those many pockets was the list on Bergholm's contacts. They'd likely need it later. If she stayed in the business anyhow. It did pay better than merchanting though, right now.
"I think we're almost there," she suggested.
Mesina's comment proves an understatement, as you step out into Southgate Stalls even as she speaks.
Brindisi is a worm-eaten block of wood, with narrow twisting alleys cutting their way through dense looming stone edifices, suddenly giving way to the one of the multitude of sprawling open-air markets that are its foundation. In better days, before the War, they say that the markets would have been even more impenetrable than the crowded streets, packed with stalls, tents, carts and pack animals, merchants and even more customers. No more. Southgate Stalls, sitting before the gate to the road to Fars Ia, has been hardest hit, and it is now an echoing, empty courtyard, with weeds and even the occasional sapling pushing their way up between the catspaw paving stones.
Ditchdigger's office is just off the Stalls on Low Road, which comes off the eastern edge of the market. You've entered from the north, off Booker's Lane. It'll take about four or five minutes to get to the office from where you are.
Marcelo rolls his eyes, obviously mocking what seems to him an inane statement from the halfling as he strides behind the others, a condescending smirk currently showing on his lips where the others could not see.
It was just common sense to not antagonize the people your life could depend on (Bergie's corpse taught him that, though to be fair it's not like he'd have wasted money on a scroll for protection from arrows even if he'd liked the old codger), and besides, he could amuse himself seeing his height tower over the much shorter beings that his companions were if he stuck to the back.
True, it was the sort of thing that made him a more viable target in the heat of battle just as much as his desire to be in the thick of it, but here and now, it was just a source of small amusement, and what was life without those little pleasures? It was all they had in the world since the hobs took over, after all.
Those thoughts in mind, the man simply trails behind the others with a slow leisurely gait, dressed in brown earthy colors with dabs of muted red and black here and there to keep the clothing from being too boring while still remaining practical.
That was how he liked his clothing, really.
Practical.
His loose-fitting outfit was obviously designed for ease of a wide range of movements, with hints of the shiny chain shirt armor showing through the neck of his coat. Some scars were also visible, predominant amongst them is one along the side of his neck, creeping upward towards just under his left ear. Probably there is quite a story to tell there, but not one this human would be likely to share, even with close friends, assuming he was ever to consider someone among this group such a thing.
Still, that one scar was perhaps the most visually defining feature on Marcelo, in spite of the number of other smaller scars across the lenght of his body, most on his arms and hands, as was normal of an experienced swordsman. Indeed, a scabbard hung across his back, a large sword's hilt jutting out just behind his head, occassionally slapping against the bridge his bandaged fingers made while pressed against somewhat cropped black hair, messy strands of the locks falling all over the place.
His hazel eyes once more fall upon his companions, observing them for the thousandth time perhaps, and he restrains a rough laugh of amusement as always. Well, they were all damaged goods with the codger dead, including himself, and nobody to rely on but each other. Having no interest in going back to his former bandit ways at this time, the plan the others concocted of just trying to strike out on their own certainly interested him for now. If nothing else, he couldn't wait to see what mayhem there was to cause without ol' Bergie trying to control their every step.
It's a bit of a relief to leave the Stalls and get onto Low Road. Even with the market empty, Low Road is still busy. Stallside of Low is the financial district, and the avenue is already beginning to teem with early morning life.
It takes a bit of elbowing to get to Ditchdigger's office. His is a discreet oaken door marked only with a small brass plaque, set back in a tiny alcove beside the office of an usurer. As it's Firstday, there's already a line out the moneylender's door, mostly of people cap-in-hand to ask for extensions, you expect.
The door is open, and leads up a tight spiralling staircase to the broker's office on the first floor. The entry of the office itself is a small room, barely large enough for two chairs, a desk, and the drawn, prim-looking woman sitting behind it. For all of its tiny size and lack of ostentation, the room is well-furnished, with the floor (oak again, you note) well polished, the desk finely crafted, and the chairs well upholstered. There is a door just behind the desk, presumably to the office of Ditchdigger himself.
There is no door at the top of the staircase, but judging by the echoing as you climbed the stairs, the sounds of the street when you opened the front door likely carried right up to the reception. Regardless, the secretary is already looking up as you enter the room. "Welcome," she says briskly, in a surprisingly low voice. "May I help you?"
OOC: Forgot to mention, Rudi casts Undetectable Alignment on himself every morning (it lasts 24 hours), leaving him with 6 first level spells available to cast. Just in case it becomes relevant.
"We're looking for work," the kobold in the group replies, his atonal voice shifting oddly in speech like a human child's does during puberty, and terminating abruptly with the merest hint of a growl that's then cut off with a faint high pitched... beep, for lack of a better term.
Pulling back his hood, Rudi exposes a long and scale-covered head, his flesh mostly brown but mottled with black here and there. Darker brown eyes with not a trace of white surrounding them protrude outwards above his toothy snout, both of them fixed upon the secretary. "We're the Free Company," he then adds, a hint of a reptilian chuckle heard behind his warbling speech.
The secretary looks you over carefully. "One second, please," she says, and those inclined to notice such things register that her voice has become, if anything, more neutral. Rising, she slips through the door so smoothly you cannot catch a glimpse within.
Mesina waited, a frown not allowed to reach her face. Hopefully this would turn out.
Marcelo gives a slow yawn while the secretary goes fetch Ditchdigger...or maybe some muscle to show them the way out? It'd be funny if she tried that, just because she'd heard those rumors about ol' Bergie's group. Not to mention a good opportunity to show off that the old codger wasn't needed for them to be a useful mercenary force right on their own.
It's only a few brief seconds before the secretary returns, and this time she holds the door open. "Master Ditchdigger will see you now," she announces a bit stiffly before returning to her desk. And so, obligingly, you all file in.
Ditchdigger's office is no larger than the reception. It is, in fact, identical in layout, except that the walls here are lined with cabinets. Sitting behind the twin of the secretary's desk is Markus Ditchdigger, who looks up briefly and nods a quick acknowledgement, managing to convey with his eyebrows that he will be be with you as soon as he finishes scribbling down his current thought. They're impressive eyebrows, too, sweeping black bristling things that seem to have taken it a challenge to compensate for his bald pate.
He does not leave you waiting, and quickly puts the quill down. "Yes?" he inquires. His voice is rough, but the tone polite.
"Hello, Mr. Ditchdigger," Mesina stepped a bit to the side so she wasn't fighting with looking over the desk. "We seek a contract for our company, the Free Company."
She didn't bring up their former commander, knowing he would've heard the news and not desiring to start defending rumors demeaning them until she was sure that they'd been told.
There is a long silence, as Ditchdigger looks the lot of you carefully over. When it becomes clear that you aren't about to be the first to break, his eyebrows begin an impressive rise up his gleaming forehead, and he leans forward on the desk, steepling his hands in front of his face. He's an enormous man, with the soft bulk that comes from great strength gone to seed. Dressed in the respectable green of the business elite, it's an impressive sight.
"And?" He asks.
"And we felt that you would be the best person to see for such a contract," Rudi speaks up with a faint hissing in his tone, standing far enough back from the desk that Ditchdigger should be able to see him easily enough in his current forward leaning posture.
"Mister Bergholm may have handled the business end of things previously, but we've worked for you before often enough, and I believe it must have been satisfactory since the jobs kept coming." He pauses a moment and flexes his tiny clawed hands together, a faint scraping heard as the claws slide over his scales while inhuman eyes regard the broker. "Mister Bergholm may have passed on, but the Free Company will outlive him. There is no reason we cannot come to a mutually beneficial arrangement."
There's a short pause, and then Ditchdigger roars with laughter, not unkindly. "Well spoken, kobold!" he bellows, his manner less now that of a respectable businessman and more of a rural Maredian. "It is too bad your so-nice manners didn't make you check how these things are done first, heh?" He winks broadly. "You come in here altogether, under arms! as if to say, 'We will fight for you, or with you!' You do not tell me your skills, or the sort of work you wish to do, you only say, 'Give me a job!' as if buying bread by the road. Oh, yes, many brokers would not give you the time of day.
"But still," he adds jovially, rising to his feet, "I was the same, once, and Klaus, well... if I was not prepared to show you how it was done, then I would be repaying him poorly, heh? Besides, I like your thinking, kobold. Trust! You trust me to give you a job, and so I will trust that you will do it well. On such was Maredia built!"
As he speaks, he has gone over to one the cabinets and has started to shuffle through the stacks of paperwork within. His voice is muffled, so it's rather a good thing that he's loud enough that it makes no difference. "So first, you show me your charter. You have it, yes? I gave Klaus his last job -- bad business, bad business, St. Celestine soothe him -- and so I will have the records to prove the charter is yours. And while I find them you will me tell me your skills, and your name, too, for if we are going to trust each other, I cannot just call you 'kobold and company'! And then we will talk about contracts."
"Thank you, good sir," Mesina followed up, providing the requested document. "We aren't used to it, as Berginer used to handle it all. We're still the Free Company, as our charter states. I'm Mesina ab'Sidir, skilled in archery. Marcelo," She gestured to the tallest member of the company. "is a deadly bladesman and sorcerer."
She turned slightly, introducing the dwarf. "Gwythyr here is also of a wizardrily bent, though through his songs and mace. And..." She turned to the kobold standing a bit back so he can be seen over the desk.
OOC: *leaves for introduction by Rudi
"My name is Rudi," the kobold replies, drawing in a faintly hissing breath. "Just Rudi. My own skills lie in the use of magic to... settle, conflicts," he smiles toothily, as if pleased with his euphemism.
"As you can see, we are a small group, but one with a diverse and formidable command of the arcane. Perfect for jobs that require both flexibility and subtlety." He glances around the room guardedly for a moment before venturing forth, "I myself have a particular interest in hunting down the aberrations, as they are called. Much can be learned from the bones of such beasts..."
Ditchdigger grunts. "Ah, here we are," he says, pulling out a piece of paper at last. "Klaus named Gwynthyr Vaughn successor on his last contract," he pronounces, reading it over. Then reaching out to take the proffered contract, he continues, "And you have the contract of the Free Company, which descends to Klaus' successor. So, Mr. Vaughn, you are very quiet for the new captain!" He laughs at his own joke, and then looks around furtively in an exaggerated way. "It means very little," he confides hoarsely. "Klaus changed his successor on almost every contract. I cannot think it was because they all died!"
Straightening, his brow furrows, and he begins to pace. "So, small Company, skills of more subtle nature. But, also, you are untested. I do not mean poorly by this, understand, but you have only done work under Klaus, and Klaus was Klaus, heh? How much of what you have done was done by him?" He snaps his fingers, then, and strides over to his desk. "Ah, I have just the thing! A small thing. Along the Coast Road, the pearl caravans to Brinitto have been losing outriders. No harm has come to the caravans themselves, understand, or there would be much more concern, and the job would already be done, heh? When one caravan guard leaves, well, perhaps he found a pretty girl, or other things better to do. But this is more than one or two, and so the merchants wish to know why so many vanish so soon after one another. The pay is 1,500 gold for finding the explanation, plus another 1,500 gold should you solve it."
"Sounds simple enough. We supposed to be replacing these missing caravan guards while we check things out, or that just up to us?" Marcelo asks, piping in after Ditchdigger explains the basics of the job.
"It is not part of the contract," Ditchdigger shrugs. "Only investigation of the problem is covered."
"Well, it is good to be clear. Anything in the contract against us posing as such, or getting paid as such while we're doing it?"
"Posing? No, it is not against the contract, though you would need to talk to the caravans to arrange this. Getting paid for it? A second contract at the same time? I do not have that contract, so you would need to find the broker who does. And I will tell you this about doing your job, ab'Sidir: if you take a contract to guard a caravan, then you must guard it, beginning to end. If you go running off to solve the mystery that is your first contract, how do you finish the second, heh?"
"Mmm, understood," She took the advice gracefully. "Is anyone acting as contact on the merchant's side that we should get in touch with upon arrival?"
OOC: Anything else we should be handling before we head off? We've got the price for the task, where it is, what it is, general agreement to do it, and I'm asking who if anyone we need to talk with on the other side. All that's left I think is saying 'We'll handle it Mr. Ditchdigger' and heading off for the area in question to begin investigating.
Gwythyr finally breaks from his silence at the back of the loose cadre. "Words are a sparing coin," he says quietly. "But we are united in our purpose. It seems that the proposition is acceptable. Let us not all lose our heads in the unfortunate manner of friend Klaus. One assignment, one success, one foundation to begin anew. Priorities. Though you know it, I have not given it, so my name is Gwythyr Vaughn of Maggydd." He pauses, dark eyes scrutinizing Ditchdigger. "Is a signature required?"
"Ah, yes," Ditchdigger says. He's a bit hesitant, clearly put off a bit by Gwythyr's strange manner. "The paperwork of the Empire. Give me one second," he says, regaining his normal brusqueness as he heads over to a different cabinet. "I must hunt for this, you understand. Only the Free Company still uses this form still. Ah, here we go!" He pulls out a sheaf. "So, here i fill out this bit," he heads over to the desk, "where I put down that the client was Enrico Puggliaci, on behalf of the pearl merchants, and that I brokered the contract." After scribbling for a few minutes, he holds the pen out to Gwythyr. "And here is where you sign that you have accepted the contract, and also you must name your successor. This is the odd part of the form, you understand, as other Companies may not pass on their charter. You may check the terms are as I said. Any goods you find in the course of your work are your own, no advance payment, 1,500 gold for solving the mystery, or 3,000 for ending it, heh?
"While you do that," he adds, drawing out a blank sheet of paper, "I will write for you a letter of introduction to Puggliaci. His offices are in Diver's Jetty, though I am not sure if he himself is in Brindisi at the moment. Regardless, anything you might need to begin you will find with him."
"This is known," Gwythyr says softly, signing his name and company listing. "My successor, also named." Gwythyr has not discussed this with her, but then, Klaus had never brought it up with him, either -- the successor is listed as Mesina ab'Sidir. Though he does not announce this to anyone, he doesn't take special care to hide it. "Your services are invaluable as always, Ditchdigger, in navigating the unknowable barrens of imperial paperwork. Gratitude is given."
He pauses, then surveys his companions. "Or is something forgotten?"
"We've got a long walk to Brinitto, and it won't walk itself," Mesina agreed with making their way off, mentally making a note to pick up some things to sell along the way.
"Ah, here," Ditchdigger says, handing his stack of blank forms to Gwythyr. "Take these with you. Many brokers no longer keep them, and you would not wish in the future to lose a job because you could not fill out the paperwork, heh?" He winks broadly. "For myself, I will get more, but for others, you bring them with you.
"Now, good hunting, heh? Your trust in me has been borne out, now I must trust in you!"
"Excellent," Rudi bares his teeth in a reptilian smile as the job is accepted. "We will discuss the issue with Mr Pugliacci or one of his representatives at the Diver's Jetty, and return to you when the job is done, Mr Ditchdigger."
He turns his attention to the other members of the Free Company, "Let us be on our way, yes?"
Gwythyr nods at the kobold absently, carefully stowing the paperwork in his scroll case with his sheet music.
Mesina had a relieved look on her face as they made their way out of the office. While it was only the first of those they could've gone, having things get back onto the right foot was a relief, and negative momentum could've easily gotten ahead of them and ensured they never worked this trade again. Trade was as bad as ever, and she didn't want to stoop to petty thievery to keep things in the black. Her thoughts though were kept to herself, hidden behind her veil as they began their walk towards Diver's Jetty.
The first thing to do clearly was meet with the client. Undoubtedly they had legwork done of their own before funding such, and if not, recognition and cooperation between client on their group would be a boon in investigating the missing guards. Handling it entirely was not much of a question in her mind, as much as the first impression with a new customer was important for more than just the customer in front of them, how they handled this certainly would be critical in turning around the reputation of the company, and a job half done would only solidify the rumors of them being neophytes.
OOC: Agreement for moving in nonhostile situations should be almost unnecessary :)
OOC: General layout of Brindisi: Brindisi has three main gates: Northgate at the road up to Imperia, Southgate on the road to what was once Fars Ia, and Rivergate, which is a combination of the docks and the road to Brinitti. Each gate has one of the three major trade markets right in front of it: Prince's Market, Southgate Stalls (which you've just left), and River Market, respectively. The three are connected by a triangle of roads forming Brindisi's major highways. Clockwise from Northgate, they are River Causeway, Low Road, and High Road.
Diver's Jetty is one of the many, smaller speciality market-places of Brindisi, for pearls, fish, ships, dockyard contracting, and the like. It's just south of River Market, up Low Road from where you are now.
On the chance that you might want a chance to talk IC amongst yourselves, I'm going to wait to post next until either everyone has posted either IC or OOC saying "ready to move on," or tomorrow morning my time.
OOC: I'm ready to move. Don't really have anyhting to add at this time.
When you leave Ditchdigger's office, the day is well begun. By now, you've lived in Brindisi well enough to become used to the need to elbow people aside to make your way up Low Road. It's no longer as busy as it once was, the old people say. Certainly, compared to River Causeway, which is the only of the three main roads that still carries caravan traffic, Low Road is a simple, easy stroll. Brindisians, however, live their lives on the street. The towering buildings that crowd the avenue are built to withstand the storms that sweep in from the Shifting Sea. Stone, with tiny shuttered windows, people seize every opportunity to spend time outdoors. Shops spread their wares out, business meetings are conducted on the walk, laundry, cooking, play and romancing and squabbles, all whenever possible on the streets and in your way.
Diver's Jetty is very Brindisian. Facing seawards on a branch of the River Indigna, the buildings which line it are actually a stormwall, with heavy doors and no windows. The biggest of them are used as shipyards; the rest are warehouses. All the rest of the business takes place in the half-circle courtyard between the city and the docks. Tents and stalls shade middlemen who haggle over pricing with merchants with their wagons and caravans at the same time as they send underlings off to negotiate with the sailors and divers in the spread around their ships. As the seat of the pearl trade, Brindia's only native resource, Diver's Jetty is still teeming with business.
Ditchdigger's letter of reference didn't include an address beyond "Diver's Jetty," which is hardly surprising. Space in the Jetty is first come first serve, every morning.
With cheerful abandon, Mesina somewhat lead the way into Diver's Jetty, casually gossiping and chatting with the local merchants as they walked, taking a look at the products coming through and even making a few quick purchases. While her path was a bit winding, the party found itself remarkably quickly approaching what was the current tent hosting Enrico's business and his associates. Entering, she politely inquired if Enrico was available.
The only person working at the desk at the moment is a long, sallow man, with a receding hairline and forgettable features. At Mesina's question, he puts aside his paperwork and looks mournfully across at her. "May I ask who is enquiring?" he sighs.
"The Free Company," Gwythyr says, a sardonic smile playing about his lips, almost hidden in his beard. "We are here to fulfill a contract."
"Certainly," the man sighs lugubriously. "Well, I am the caravan-master, so you'll report to me. Do you know to which caravan you were assigned?" He begins to shuffle through his paperwork.
"This contract is not to escort a particular caravan, you understand," Rudi speaks up, hissing softly as he runs his tongue over a row of tiny sharp teeth. "We have accepted a contract through Mr Ditchdigger to investigate the disappearances of those who have been providing such escort in the past."
The man continues to page through the papers as Rudi speaks, nodding absently. "Ditchdigger, Ditchdigger, yes..." He looks up, a fleeting expression of surprise chasing the permanent gloom of depression from his face. "The contract to investigate the deaths? Well. Um. Yes, well. That contract is not my responsibility. Ser Puggliaci is here, in our warehouse, and you should speak to him. But I expect you'd find that you'd just be better off asking me questions." That doesn't seem to be pronounced with any smugness or arrogance, but rather some sort of fatalistic gloom.
OOC: Ser/Sera is the Berevian for Mister/Mistress. Both are in common usage, though you might be able to deduce something about a person by which he uses. Neither get used if the person has no family name.
"Deaths?" Rudi repeats, sounding oddly... eager? "Ser Ditchdigger only said they had went missing, does this mean bodies have been recovered?" he asks, rubbing his clawed hands together before him.
"No, we've found no bodies," the caravan-master replies slowly. "There are always a few guards who find the life difficult and choose not to finish their contract." There's an implicit accusation here that the guards don't know what a really difficult life is like. "But ten in a month? With none of the other guards suspecting they were going to run away? No, something happened to them, and that can only be death."
"It must be making things hard, especially if word gets around that your traveling guards are repeatedly vanishing," Mesina mused considering it a bit from their side. Sure, the murders were tragic, but if they soon found themselves unable to hire guards, they'd swiftly become targets for every bandit group with an ear to the ground and a thirst for easy profit.
"Where did these vanishings occur?" She questioned businesslike. "Were they in either city along the routes or during their travels? Have any guards talked about any circumstances of note surrounding the disappearances, or the how and when they discovered they were gone? Being able to narrow down the facts of the disappearances as you know them, will help us speed a resolution of it."
"No," the caravan-master disagrees, "there's been little commotion so far. Death is quite common among the caravan guards, even on the Coast Road. The mystery, as it were, is not that the outriders are vanishing, but that they're vanishing and the caravans themselves are not."
Pushing aside most of the loose paper on his desk, the caravan-master reveals a large map of Brindia already spread out. "All of the disappearances happened within fifteen miles of Brindisi, with none on this side of the Indigna Maze." He points out the region he's indicating on the map. "The outriders simply did not report back to the caravan after scouting outwards. No sign of them was seen afterwards, though this isn't really surprising. Standard policy in such cases, as I understand, is for the guards to pull in closer to the caravan in preparation for an attack."
He pulls at his lip thoughtfully. His gloom and lethargy seems to have vanished in the light of this discussion, replaced by a grim energy. "I did some investigation," he adds, "and checked with some of the caravan-masters along the Imperia route. They'd seen quite a few incidents of the same nature over the past year, ending some time before the first of our caravans was hit."
OOC: From your experience, the caravan-master's comment about "even on the Coast Road" makes sense to you. Aberrations from the Waste have to cross either the Imperia route or the Indigna Maze to get on the Coast Road. Both those areas have a lot of travel, which means a) less of the Aberrations survive to make it across to the Coast Road, and b) a lot of people die trying to keep the other areas safe.
The Indigna Maze is the name given to the complex set of channels that happens when the River Indigna hits the rocky terrain on which Brindisi is built.
"And these previous incidents, no one ever found any clues as to their cause?" Rudi asks thoughtfully. "Or what could have made them pause before resuming on your own caravans?"
Mesina spent a moment in thought, putting things together as Rudy took a turn questioning the caravan master. It was almost certainly not bandits, for they would not leave the trade goods untouched. Similarly with any rogue mercenary elements. It could be a killer who simply enjoyed the challenge and stalking of a lone trained warrior and moved around to avoid leaving too big a trail in one spot. Her instinct told her that wasn't the case though... it had to be an abomination. Probably not a large one if it didn't simply storm the caravans outright killing everyone. It must've come from the wastes, feeding on lone individuals while avoiding any groups of size. It headed steadily coastward, killing along the Imperia path and then silence during its journey until it encountered another path with easy pickings. Perhaps what would make this most clear though was whether any single traders vanished along the routes...not that many would travel without guards or have ways of keeping track, but it was worth checking on as it'd definitely rule out someone doing it for the sport.
The caravan-master scratches his chin mournfully. "No clues," he said. "Two of the outriders had horses that were lost as well. Understand, though, no-one went looking for clues. I can give you a map with the sites of the incidents marked, however."
"That would be very helpful. Have you heard of whether any travelers traveling alone vanished along those routes?" It was a far shot, but worth asking.
The caravan-master blink dolefully. "No," he muses, "I don't think so." He shuffles some more paperwork before taking a spare piece of paper and starting to sketch out the map. "The price of pork has gone up, though, while vegetables have stayed the same and the price of sheep has gone down. It might be worth talking to the grocers."
Mesina nodded. "I'll ask them then. Thank you for your help."
She waited for and acquired the map and notes he had been jotting down to aid them in their quest. "Could we please see Ser Puggliaci to let him know the job is being dealt with."
OOC: Want to move over and see Ser Puggliaci, being polite about it in intent.
"Of course," the man says gloomily. "Well, he'll be in the warehouse. First on the right off the Rivergate entrance." He sighs, handing Mesina the map. "St. Daphne smile on you," he mutters, and then turns back to his paperwork.
With that apparent dismissal, you head off. The caravan-master's tent is near the west entrance of the Jetty, though it's not a far walk to the Rivergate entrance. You'd never know which was Puggliaci's warehouse without instructions, though it's easy to spot. Apparently a caravan is getting ready to set out, as the massive oaken cargo doors are spread open. It's a comparatively small caravan, Mesina sees, only five wagons. As you get closer, you can also see the mercenary guards, apparently bored and lounging about. They see you as well at he same time, and there is a shift to readiness as they spread out to put themselves between you and the wagons. You don't recognize any of them, though given the recent past, that might be for the best.
Just behind them you can make out a red-faced man, dressed richly in purple and fur, bellowing instructions, orders, and insults at the harried porters loading the wagons. There's a lot of bustle, but less progress.
OOC: St. Daphne is the patron saint of perseverance.
Mesina walks forward casually, giving a slight wave to the guards to indicate no harm is meant. Knowing how such merchants generally worked and that if she waited for him to be free, they'd be there well past mid-afternoon, she bellowed for his attention, waving him near. "Ser Puggliaci, we're here from Ser Ditchdigger in response to your request. The case shall be handled," She informed him, waiting a second if he had a question or not. He was obviously a busy fellow, so likely no more than letting him know they were there and were handling the task was important to him.
The guards don't let Mesina close in. Not surprising, as their job involves not trusting people.
"What?" Puggliaci breaks off mid-rant, and turns around searching for the interruption. When he spots Mesina, his face impossibly grows redder. "What? Don't waste my time, formicaio! I'm bleeding money as we speak, and the reason I'm letting you have any of it is so you can stop me losing more! Talk to Bonivace! Can't you see I'm busy?"
OOC: Formicaio is a Berevian slang term for halflings. It might be construed as insulting.
Marcelo rolls his eyes. 'Well, here's a suspect already. If he treats everyone like this, little wonder people vanish on him,' the hexblade think, looking at the client with disdain.
"Our apologies, Ser Puggliaci. We shall leave you to your oh so important business then, so you can ensure you actually have the money to part with when we finish the job."
With a small, mocking bow, the mercenary begins to step away after those words.
ooc: apologies for the lack of postage.
Among Puggliaci's talents, perception seems to rank around diplomacy. Apparently satisfied with Marcelo's attitude, he turns back to harangue the porters. The guard nearest Marcelo rolls his eyes and shrugs, as if to say, 'money is money.'
Mesina smiled at Marcelo's response, declining her own retort to the overpuffed pigeon-man. "Well, we should be off as well, and to the roads, I think."
The little halfling turned and headed out through the marketplace, stopping and chatting pleasantly with the grocers a tad on the way through to see if they had heard any rumors of lost lone travelers.
As they made their way out of the market, she wondered aloud to the others. "Does anyone have any ideas prior to traveling out on the trade roads ourselves?"
OOC: My goal at the moment is just to get a quick rumor if it exists (or any others). Gather Info 7. Also, I have a plan...and therefore rather than launching into it and moving along it in the same practice, I'm opening if others want to voice stuff/do stuff in town before we go. I think we should go ahead and get out on the road with whoever our 'fastest escaper' is playing bait as a roaming guard. I think this actually ends up being me with Expeditous retreat memorized and having an actual spot/listen check to avoid getting surprise fragged. If someone else wants to be bait though, I don't mind ^_^
Rudi seems entirely unperturbed by their employer's manner as he silently follows his larger comrades away from the caravan. At Mesina's question, he speaks up in a thoughtful rasp, "We know of the rough area where the disappearances are occuring, but it is still a large area. Perhaps we should follow the caravan as it leaves and wait for one guard to... fail to return, before we investigate in that direction?"
"Seems a touch heartless," Not actually upset with it at all, just disagreeing. "And I don't think it will be that hard to find if we try. Whatever is out there is hungry and regularly hunting. Beyond that, it definitely isn't going after everything since if it did, there'd be a lot more ruckus then simply out of Piglaccio. If we mimic a roving caravan and a lone hunter, we should eventually run into it."
"Likely," Gwythyr muses, studying the marketplace, "our perpetrators are more than beasts. Puggliaci does not seem the sort to make friends fast, either. My suspicions are that someone is upset with him. A businessman's reputation is his life, however. If Puggliaci only delivers on a single route, I think we should look to merchants he's worked with ... at cost to them." He raises an eyebrow and turns to Mesina. "Merchants are tight-pursed, but often loosen their tongues easily enough with the right performance. I will ask them; can you investigate who in this city might be able to get information on Puggliaci's caravan to know when to pursue him?"
It is entirely possible, of course, that it's not a humanoid perpetrator, but it'll be much harder to question local merchants and people of questionable employment once they're already on the road.
OOC: Assuming the party is agreeable and everyone takes a bit of time to do their own thing, Gwythyr is going to make a Gather Info roll specifically targeted at the merchants to see if anything obvious about Puggliaci's history comes to light. Gwythyr is a social monster, and gets +13 to his GI roll. 'I's a sad dwarf. LOVE ME! O_O'
After spending a while chatting with the merchants while 'considering' various merchandise, Gwythyr returns to the assigned meeting place to discuss matters with his colleagues. "From what I was able to determine," he says slowly, "our ... employer," 'benefactor' and 'patron' are both too kind of words, here, "has made no real enemies. As you can guess from his ... distinguished ... personality, he also has no real friends. He was fortunate in the eyes of other merchants to hire Ser Bonivace, who by merchants is among legend. His own mental ability is likened to that of the beasts that pull the wagons." He pauses at this, stroking his beard thoughtfully.
"Ser Bonivace also has an idea that may revolutionize mercantile practices among pearl vendors. The main opposition to it is the most awesome opposition the world can muster: the pride of our employer. There are five major pearl vendors, and aside from this obstacle, they express firm interest in this idea -- an idea I suspect the Empire would not enjoy." He gives his companions a meaningful look, being cautious that there are no obvious eavesdroppers for this comment.
"As to the attacks, I have found tales of ten among pearl merchants, six of them targeting our employer. A single family by the name of Ferri has gone unmolested, though, Ferri is in truth owned now by ab'Hazzir. Additionally, I have discovered a metal goods vendor who had an outrider suffer an identical fate." He eyes his companions then, and shrugs. "Make of it what we will."
"Interesting...though I don't think it relates to the killings. The grocers mentioned that some of theirs went missing, and that the hunting has been a bit lean of late," She petted Shiva as she thought, the cat purring gently. "I don't think the answer is going to be simply in the city. If it was, we'd see more gains being made on it, as outside of a lone murderer, there's not much to indicate any wealth has been acquired or that serious efforts at hindering a business have taken place."
Not that the ab'Hazzir shouldn't be talked to in a bit, but now was not the time and place for such things. It was an unlikely business deal anyway.
Marcelo sighs. "You know, all this running around isn't getting us anywhere," the hexblade grumbles. "We might as well try out the kobold's plan, it's simple enough and has us -all- at least doing something if we're keeping an eye out on the guards."
An emphasis is placed on that 'all', showing how the arcane warrior would like to feel like he was at least doing something semi-useful, but mostly to stave off boredom while the others did asking questions. He could join in, to be certain, but the intimidation tactics he'd feel more comfortable using wouldn't earn him many friends in town, and he'd like to be able to stick around the place from time to time without worry about who'd want to jab a dagger in his back and twist it.
Well, more so than the usual worry anyhow.
"Of course," Gwythyr says absently, his eyes distant. "I doubt anything will come of it yet ... but it does add to the total knowledge we have of the situation. I would expect anyone behind it to be more discreet, regardless." His eyes suddenly focus on the kobold. "Your plan calls for action, and at this point, we must act to know more. I agree with Marcelo ... though I think we should be careful. Letting the guards know that we risk their lives to uncover this situation will win us no friends. The tidbits I've garnered probably mean little, if anything, but will make good fodder for the curious guards who wonder at our role."
He pauses suddenly. "I did not think to ask. Did Ser Bonivace notify the caravan guards as to our purpose?"
"No mention was made of telling the caravan guards, though whether such occured regardless I cannot say," Rudi shrugs eloquently, seemingly unbothered by his comrade's inability to use his name. "Likely they will have inferred our purpose from Ser Pugliacci's tirade, however."
"Not all caravans are being attacked though, Rudi, even of Pigliacci's crew. By joining with one, we have a good likelihood of simply traveling unmolested. Moreso, have any of you been studying tracking? If we use another as bait, it'll do us no good if we can't find them. Why go through the ruckus when we could simply head out on our own?"
Marcelo shrugs. "Alone, or with a caravan it makes no difference to me. All I'm certain is that we're more likely to find answers out there than here."
"I agree with Rudi once more," Gwythyr says with a frown. "But it seems that pearl merchants specifically present greater targets, unless it is simply an unlikely coincidence. If we travel as a group, not escorting anything even potentially valuable ... I expect that we will encounter nothing, which will then equal our pay."
"Ah, but it is not the caravans themselves that are targeted, is it not so?" Rudi asks. "It is the guards who always happen to be well out of sight of the caravans at the time, yes?" He then shrugs, hissing softly, "I admit there is no guarantee of us finding our prey out there even if we have the disappearance of a particular guard to focus our search, but if any of you can offer a more certain method I would be agreeable to pursing it."
OOC: Ye doin' it to~ Rudi.
IC:
"It has too many strings attached and seems less certain to me to be attached to a caravan that will keep going, instead of using the map that the caravan-master gave us of incidents," She produced his jot up of earlier. "With one of us as bait, we can ensure that we have no false signals to go by, and whoever is playing bait can be outfitted with potions or whistles so they could let us know immediately a problem is occurring. Worst comes to worst, we can hire a local tracker in the area if it seems too much for us once we're out there. Is that agreeable, Rudi?"
OOC: you see it enough times and you start to get confused...
"Is that you volunteering to be bait, then, Mesina?" the kobold asks with a trace of dark amusement. "This way will probably be quicker, but carries more risk. If you're willing to shoulder them, so be it," he agrees.
OOC: Very fairly said. =)
IC:
"Well... I can prepare some escape spells. That'd probably be best. Very well, I'll volunteer for the bait. We'll use message or signal whistles to note if I'm being chased and the rest can ambush it, ideally." Mesina replied while walking towards the city gates.
Gwythyr nods wordlessly at this, falling in step beside Mesina, but pausing to glance at Marcelo to gauge his reaction.
Marcelo merely shrugs and grins as he likewise falls in step with the others. Hey, if someone wants to act as 'bait' knowing full well what such a job entails, who was he to stop them? Personally, he'd prefer seeing someone he didn't know suffer the potential pitfalls, but as long as he wasn't the one suffering, he could live with getting on with the job.
It isn't quite a direct path to the city gates you take, with a quick detour by your lodgings to pick up your weapons and travel gear, but you're out of the River Gate by noon.
Travelling to the other side of the Maze often takes about two hours, even though it's a distance of only five miles or so, and today looks to be no exception. The Coast Ride zig-zags at this point, weaving from ford to narrow bridge as it cross the various off-shoots of the Indigna. Traffic on the bridges is always a problem. Most of it is, as usual, fearful parties of villagers making trips into the big city, with slow ox-driven carts that take up most of the road. But as you come up on the last bridge, your way is blocked by the bulk of a caravan.
Marcelo cups his hands in front of his mouth as their group approaches, shouting ahead, "Hey, what's with the road blockage??" even as he scans the situation to try to make out the answer on his own.
OOC: Hitting post helps, I find. *eyes work computer*
IC:
Mesina looked over the map as the caravan carried on, trying to figure out if it was still a long ways off until they were near the spots where guards had vanished in the past. If it was, it might not be bad to have some company for the journey.
The disappearances have been spread out over a range of about ten or fifteen miles from where you currently are, with no particular order to them.
The caravan (which is inwards bound to Brindisi) is moving, but slowly. At Marcelo's question, the nearest of the guards shifts his bow slightly from the ready to spit on the ground. "It's a small bridge, boy, and we're doing big business." He glowers at you. "Wait your turn."
It's pretty obvious that he's telling you the truth, as far as it goes. You're approaching the bridge from an angle, and it's clear that there's nothing slowing things down other than the confusion of trying to get the wagons across the bridge, which is only wide enough for one wagon at a time. However, it's also clear to you that it's been made worse because the caravan has pulled itself in, wagons and guards closer together for protection.
Spinning a coin between her fingers, she considered the scene ahead. It could be just a case of paranoid caravans. They do have good reason to be so during travel these days and she remembered plenty of times of seeing similar behavior. But even so, it never hurt to find out.
"Roads quiet enough up ahead?" She wondered conversationally at a different guard as they protected the slowly moving caravan.
Seeing that the caravans are going to take a while, Gwythyr waits until the caravan they are traveling with comes to a full halt, then sets up with his lap-harp, eying the guards and the caravan and playing something inconsequential, almost tuneless. But nerves are short and tempers are hot, so if there's any discernible theme to the piece, it's that it's soothing. Once he's settled into the tune, and the guards can be confident he's not trying anything else, he lets the tune fade off, then starts a rendition of The Narrow Pass -- really a dance song, but also the story of dwarves who found trouble with their 'perfect' tunnel system when the main connection was too narrow for more than one pair of dwarves at a turn. The lyrics aren't perfect outside of the dwarven language, but it's close enough.
OOC: Inspire Competence to give the caravaneers a +2 competence bonus on crossing-related activities. This probably won't accomplish much, but it may set them at ease and make them easier to talk to.
At first, Gwythyr's melody seems to have the opposite of his intended effect, as the caravaners slow down, drawn in by the music. But haste was making waste, and as people relax they get less in each other's way. Soon the tail end of the caravan is in sight.
The guard Mesina approaches is one particularly enthralled by the dwarf's music, who's come off the path (and, coincidentally, stopped wandering in front of a particularly skittish ox) to pause to listen. At her question, he too spits in the grass. "Quiet for the moment," he says. "Lost Roberto, though, so we didn't stick around to see if that'd change." His efforts to sound tough are a little put off by his voice breaking.
"Roberto? Another guard? Did something happen?" Sympathy was clear in her voice, even as she pumped the man for information.
"Vanished, about two miles back." The guard swallows, his prominent Adam's apple bouncing. "Heard a scream."
"That's dreadful! Near the road? We were heading out that way ourselves."
"Just north of it, I think he was." The guard swallows again, clearly nervous. "Good luck to you, but you're a fool for risking it." There's a shout from the caravan, and he jerks, then runs back to his place without another word.
Turning back to her compatriots, she gave a slight nod of appreciation to Gwythyr for his pleasant tune and cautious aid.
"It seems we are in luck. Perhaps baiting may be entirely unnecessary. We're a mere two hours from where the last victim was. Let's try and find signs of him and maybe it can give us an idea of what we're dealing with."
"It's a sound lead," Rudi agrees thoughtfully. "I'm surprised they were close enough to hear a scream and didn't investigate, though... from what we've been told, the victims have simply vanished with no clue nor trace."
"They're paid to keep the caravan safe, not be heroes. Why would they risk their necks and their caravan?" Mesina shrugged. "We're at least getting paid for the trouble and don't have to come back to a caravan that wouldn't have appreciated sticking around with something dangerous nearby."
"Fortuitous," Gwythyr agrees, stowing the lap-harp carefully. "I suppose onward, then, to see what may be discovered?"
"Indeed," Mesina lead them off, keeping attentive for any signs of a struggle as they walked together.
The final stragglers of the caravan finally clear the bridge, and you set off down the road. It's about noon by now, and the sun beats brightly on the Indigna, the swift current making flickering jewellery of the light.
Apparently, it's your turn to block the narrow bridge, as there's a man standing at the foot of it just as you come to the end.
The man in question peers ahead, a gauntleted hand shielding his eyes from the sun. He takes the time to turn to the party, his heavy, full body plate armor gleaming. Sweaty black hair sticks close to his head, the upper blade of a large ax peeking out from over it, strapped to his back. "Good day, good day," he calls, his tones kept friendly. "Aaah, the Free Company?"
"We are indeed," Gwythyr says with a tight nod. "You don't look a messenger. How can we be of service?"
His tone may be friendly, and there may only be one of him, but Rudi is still wary.
Only one of him that they can see, anyway.
Remaining unobtrusive near the rear of the group, the Kobold scratches a few faint runes onto the scales of the back of his hand, sonorously whispering words of power into the air.
OOC: Casting False Life for 1d10+4 temporary hit points that will last for 4 hours or until beaten out of me.
"I know your boss." He shifts his shoulders, the ax on his back bobbing. "He gave me descriptions of the group of you." He pauses, taking a sack from his waist. He opens it, fishing out a letter. A bit worse for the wear, perhaps, but still intact. "It's St Gregor's own fortune I ran into you here."
"Fortune indeed," Mesina took the letter, opening it and reading it. "When did this get to you?" She wondered slightly at one who to all appearances hadn't heard head nor tail of the unfortunate end of their former employer.
It would seem to actually be two letters. One of them is a straightforward letter addressed to Bergholm, naming its bearer as Enrico D'Amata. Not much else in it, and it was obviously written by a scribe: while the text is in a fluid, beautiful hand (and in Berevian), the name "Piotr" is written in the same hand but signed only with a heavy, crude cross.
The second, older message is written in the slow, careful writing of Bergholm, giving Piotr a summary of the current complement of the Free Company and inviting him to send D'Amata along. Your descriptions are succinct, accurate, and perhaps a little cringe-worthy. About what you'd expect from the Captain.
"You must be...Enrico D'Amata? Here to join up with our company?" She finished perusing the letters and summarized the important elements in her questions as to his identity.
Marcelo quietly examines the potential new member of their company, looking him up and down. Finally he simply shrugs.
"Well, if he is, we do admittedly have an opening now that our former boss is no longer amongst us," he drawls out, waiting to gauge the reaction of this Enrico fellow to the news. Perhaps he's already heard the rumors regarding the state of the Free Company? If not, it'd be interesting to see his reaction.
"Poor, poor ol' Bergie."
"Yes." A single word is all Enrico's smiling face has all the time to get out, before he turns his gaze to Marcelo. "Did something happen to Bergholm?"
"Yeah, the ol' man got sloppy," Marcelo replies drily, as he lifts up his left hand, starting to make a fist, but leaving his index and middle finger pointing straight, and then making a jabbing motion towards his eye, stopping right before it as he makes a whistling noise in imitation of an arrow. "If he'd been lucky, he'd have just lost an eye. Ol' Bergie? Didn't get to be lucky that day."
He gives a barking laugh.
"You see, what you've got right here, my good friend....Enrico was it?"
He doesn't even wait for an answer as he now makes a grand sweeping gesture with his hand, encompassing the entire group. "What you've got here is what's left of the great Free Company right here in front of you," he says.
Clasping his other hand on the man's shoulder, the hexblade warrior giving his most charming and welcoming smile. "But don't you worry. Even without Bergie, we're still the best. And while I have no damn clue what what you can do for us yet... hey, we'll find a use, I'm sure. Welcome aboard!"
Mentally, he starts making a countdown in his head for an explosion from either his companions for his blunt approach, or a flustered or indignant reaction from Enrico. '3....2....'
"Oh...ugh!" Enrico listens and settles into a grimace of distaste, "AN ARROW?" He holds a hand up to his eye as Marcelo 'shoots', palm out to block. "How horribly, horribly pedestrian! There's no skill behind one of those, only accursed luck to land a good shot. It's a weeping tragedy."
Despite these words, his smile regenerates as he thinks. "Yes, quite a tragedy. But yes, you're short an axeman now?" His eyes shift to the side, as if trying to glance at the axehead poking out from it's place on his back. "At least that can be filled, thank St. Gregor. It's essential." He seems to linger on this, clicking his tongue. "How have you managed without one?"
"Poorly, I'm sure," Mesina quipped. He seemed an odd sort to be sure, and far too hung up on rather eccentric notions at a glance, but having someone who drew attention like that and was willing to get into the thick of it had its uses...particularly when hunting things. And the man had come seeking them, good enough chance to see if he might be a long term contributor to their new business company.
A small bluish cat sniffed and scurried around the man's feet.
"If you're ready, why not join us now, Enrico. We're on a contract and at this point we really shouldn't dally, or else we might have an even harder time finding our target. You'll find we're a fairly democratic bunch."
While having someone else to share their commissions with does rankle somewhat, Rudi is well enough aware how understaffed the Free Company is. Besides which, if Bergholm requested this man, then he probably has something going for him.
"Yes, even if you might be the newest member of our little band, you needn't worry about us using you as bait or something like that," a sidelong look from the kobold to the halfling, "That position has already been filled."
Enrico bowed his head, eyeing the feline at his feet. He suppresses a sniffle, stepping well back. "Excellent. Smaller people make better bait." An idle look to the halfing as well to that, "Well then, Marcelo, isn't it?" Approaching and falling in step, "The more reason to stay close to you. Anything we need to bait will also likely need a good axing." AFter that, "Oh yes, that reminds me. You're hunting something right now?"
Mesina twitched slightly, not too noticeable under her veil. "Yes, as Rudi crudely hinted. Though that may not be necessary now," Mesina walked along down the path. "Somewhere in the nearby area is likely the source of recent missing guards, which we've been hired to identify and deal with."
"Yes, I think I have some information on that. I ran into screams and bloody footprints about two miles north," Enrico gestures vaguely in that direction. "Really rather an unpleasant sign."
"Hurry then, lead us there, Enrico. There's no time to lose," Mesina encouraged haste, picking up her cat from along his feet and hurrying after him.
"So you heard screams and did nothing to help, huh? Good survival instincts there. Not something that encourages me to trust you to watch my back any time soon, but still, do gotta say, good survival instinct," Marcelo comments with a raised eyebrow in regards to Enrico's statements. "We're not here to be heroes after all."
He pauses and then adds with a grin, "Well, actually, I suppose we are here to be heroes in this particular case, but at least we get paid for it."
"The song will be sung for generations," Gwythyr murmurs as the party makes its way. "The noble quest for coin, and the Free Company's mission to make it theirs. Heroism or not, by axe or song, claw or wiles.... Hm. Perhaps there is something there."
Enrico takes you about three miles further along the road before pointing you off the road. It takes about an hour to get there; while the Coast Road is paved, maintenance has rather notoriously been slack in the time since the Wasting War, and it''s rough going in a few spots. Still, the road is a happy memory once you swing north. This part of Brindia is hilly and wet, and you're running against the general slope of the land. Few tall trees stand, but the steep hillsides are carpeted with gorse just coming into bloom.
By the time you finally reach the clearing that Enrico mentioned, you're rather unhappy, covered in mud and no small share of scratches from accidental trips into the thorn bushes, and perhaps only an hour, hour and a half away from dark. The lack of blood, footprints, or just about anything, really, in the clearing might be construed as unfortunate.
Staying towards the middle of the group as they'd made their way through, Mesina had come out only moderately mud covered, letting the bigger folks take the lead in brushing through the bramble and smashing through the woods. Her headpiece seemed to have gained hints of blue, though a close observer would notice her cat curled up on her head, taking an even easier route.
"Are you sure this is the right spot?" She wondered at the lack of signs of even a struggle here.
"It should be," Enrico looks about himself, mentally making sure this is the right place. It would be rather embarrassing if he made such a mistake!
OOC: I'm just making sure Enrico thinks he's in the right place before he opens his big mouth again. <_<
Bjorn: roll 1d20
* Hatbot --> "Bjorn rolls 1d20 and gets 10." [1d20=10]
Turning to glare at Enrico, Mesina's eyes are caught by a glint of the last light of the day off something by the edge of the clearing. As she stares at it, she realizes that it's a gold tooth, half-hidden beneath a bush. Mostly a tooth, anyway. The few splinters of actual tooth remaining are held in place only by the cap.
Exploration of the clearing is a logical next step, somewhat frustrated by your inexperience with the Brindian wilderness. It doesn't take much to suspect, however, that someone has been here and cleaned up. The ground here is mostly mud, with none of the grass you might expect. It could be a mud wallow or something, possibly, but there's no sign of trails in or out of the clearing. Including, Enrico realizes, the swathe of botanical destruction he inflicted on his trip to this clearing.
"What sort of beast would clean up after itself?" Rudi wonders aloud as his beady little eyes take in their surroundings with clear suspicion. "Perhaps it is more likely that we are dealing with a... deranged woodsman?" he hazards.
"An intelligent foe? Perhaps an intelligent animal?" Enrico ponders aloud, scraping his mind. Surely such a scandalous thing would be known of in Brindisi? He idly reaches behind his back to the handle of his axe. Surely something both smart and vicious will need a good axing.
OOC: If possible and relevant I'd like to make a Knowledge: Local check on this to know if anything matches up. I'm basically fishing, I admit. Modifier is +4
Nothing comes to Enrico's mind specifically, though Aberrations have known to be intelligent in the past. The nasty ones.
After a moment of handle touching and chin rubbing, "It could be some sort of....Aberration," Enrico muses. "The nastier ones can be intelligent enough to do this."
"So..." Rudi hisses softly, turning an inquisitive look towards Mesina. "Shall we continue with the original plan, then? At least we know our quarry is in the vicinity, though it may be too bloated to pursue a small morsel at this time," he notes with a sharp-toothed grin.
"That seems reasonable enough," Gwythyr says, frowning at the scene. "We can discuss on our way back to our posts.... Still, considering what we know, intelligence seems a reasonable assumption. And either some form of compulsion, or a great deal of guile. It never seems that there's a struggle, or any kind of yelling that makes it back to the companions of those who vanish. And unless I miss my memory, it is always men who are taken." He pauses. "Is that correct?"
He shakes his head. "No matter; it is mostly men who take such a job, I'm sure that means little. But I do think that the victims are lured away with some innocent seeming before...." He eyes the churned up mud. "Before whatever, one supposes. I wonder how much of the missing guard is beneath the ground, here?"
"You think he was hidden in the mud...or buried?" Mesina looked distastefully at the notion of digging for the body.
"Does it really matter? If he was buried, eaten, or whatever...well, too bad for him," Marcelo comments bluntly, with an accompanying shrug. "Just wish we had a fortune teller or some tracking hound, or something more useful than the usual speculations we got here."
Pausing, he turns to look at the new recruit. "...no chance of you having somethin' up your sleeve that will magic us up a direction to go on?"
By this time, the sun has set. Somehow, though, off to the east, the light has not completely vanished. Nestled away in a tiny vale between hills, you see a little ruddy glow that might be that of a campfire.
"We should make for that campfire over there. While it is probably not the being responsible, it'll likely draw their attention," She suggested, putting her feet to motion as she started off.
"Feeling less eager to play the part of bait, now?" Rudi cackles softly, though he doesn't protest as he starts scurrying along in the indicated direction.
"Free bait is free bait," She snarked back.
Gwythyr rolls his eyes, but says nothing for the moment, falling into step with his companions.
Marcelo chuckles quietly as he also follows along with the others. "Perhaps we'll get to see what you can do for us soon, Enrico. I do hope we find what we're looking for."