PhoenixAsh
First Post
Carly lopes along the back streets of Stormhome. Crouching among garbage bins, she moves with animalistic grace through the back alleys of the island city, most of which boasts lavish inns with grandiose entertainment ready to please any and all of the senses. A bastion of paradise in the midst of an ocean of near constant storms, Stormhome brims with the rich and idle, a vacation spot and refuge of wealthy nobles and merchants from all over Khorvaire.
But Carly is not afforded the opportunity to trim the fat from Stormhome’s elite. The young shifter’s prey is the coin of the common laborer, her hunting grounds the hole-in-the-wall hideaways and dark taverns where laborers and servants come to unwind. Her keen ears pick up conversation spilling out of the doors of The Brass Covey. Experience has taught her that people who are engrossed in talking are people who are not paying attention to their purses.
Carly slips through the kitchen entrance of the tavern. The chef, lost in his own concerns, doesn’t notice the shifter as she moves on all fours behind the preparation tables. Bright light from the chef’s lantern lights her face only for a moment, drowning in the long purple bruise across her temple.
Joseph is most violent when he is worried. Since she had covered for Errol the day he disappeared, it is only natural that she felt the brunt of that worry. Carly swallows the lump that rises in her throat. She misses Errol. Joseph said he was probably dead by now. Killed by someone, or worse, taken by the Fury himself for running off.
Joseph had worked them all mercilessly the last couple of days; demanding that they bring in Errol’s share for collection day. But collection day had come and gone and no collector had arrived at the back of the dingy bakery, their home and hideout. Joseph’s temper grew, and Carly took to the streets to stay clear of his path.
The dining area of the tavern is filled to capacity. Dimly lit and smoke-filled, Carly works her small frame unnoticed between a patron’s feet. Crouching next to the table support she examines the footwear of those around the table, trying to determine whose purse strings she should risk cutting. Conversation drifts down around her and she listens, eager to bring home news that might interest Joseph and divert his worries and his fist.
“And then he said, ‘Eyls in Sorre, eels in a special thick sauce. The recipe has several secret ingredients that I refuse to reveal lest someone seize this fine dish that I alone can make.’ I’m not kidding, just like that!”
Several of the dockworkers around the table chortle, glancing back to the kitchen as their server impersonates the Covey’s head chef. He leans in, grinning knowingly as he pitches his voice low for best effect with his rapt audience.
“Then he serves the House Special, you know what I mean.”
There are several winces, knowing nods and shaking heads, and the server waits for them all to lean in closer still before continuing.
“So the judges all take a bite, and I swear half of them passed out in their chairs and the other half ran for the privies! It nearly came to blows over who would get there first, the Host as my witness!” But the dockworkers are no longer listening, banging their fists on the table and laughing loudly at the chef’s expense. Carly’s alarmed squeak at the rancor is hidden by the sound of a loud crash from the kitchen and an angry face yelling out from the doorway.
“Chard! You useless… miserable…” The chef fumbles for words before reasserting his face into a scowl. “I have a whole crate of onions that will not peel themselves, get on it!”
“Yes Chef Mewldon!” answers the server, wincing at the prospect of onion duty but knowing his tips tonight will be very good. Picking up his tray he leans down to speak before leaving the table, “That isn’t the half of it, from what I hear, they took on a warforged cook! Have you ever heard of that?” Animated discussion begins anew on the merits of this bit of news as the server goes off to attend to his far less favorable duties.
Carly’s knife, if the battered piece of metal could be called such, whisks up with precision. In a deft movement she severs the strings and ties the ends to the chair. The missing coin-purse goes unnoticed as its owner loudly argues that a warforged can’t possibly be a cook because they can’t taste a thing.
Carly edges out from under the table and surveys the room. A loud voice from a corner booth catches her attention and she moves towards the drunken and angry source. Ale splashes on her face as a halfling in the booth pounds his mug against the table. Carly’s eyes sting, but she manages to make it to the dark space under the table. Crouching in an awkward position between the feet of the occupants, she pauses to wipe her face with the ragged edge of a shirtsleeve.
The halfling nurses his fourth ale and complains to a bored looking pair of dwarves across from him. “I tell you it wasn’t fair, wasn’t fair at all! Why, that big old half-giant couldn’t even push that dumb crate on his own, how’d they expect me to?”
“Eh, you said they tried out a half-giant for a deckhand?” One of the pair leans forward, a clerk at one of the local House Kundarak banks, suddenly interested in the halfling’s rambling drivel.”
“I hear one of them was able to move those huge crates, wasn’t it…?”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah… some orc named Crash or Bash or something, but they didn’t take him for some reason, I think they took that half-giant and some others. But see, see, I could have done better peeling potatoes if they would just have let me…’ Both men groan inwardly as the halfling continues his diatribe on the ills of House Lyrandar’s hiring practices.
The halfling, an easy target, looks to have a light purse. Carly does not bother the bankers. While better dressed than the dockworkers, they always have a tight hold on their money, and the dwarves in particular are known for having nasty surprises for potential pickpockets. Just before she moves on, a spark of light catches her eye: the buckles on one of the banker’s boots! Blackened and tarnished, one sports a scratch that gleams silver. Carly carefully cuts away the fastenings on both boots. The man will not notice it until he stands to leave, if she is lucky.
Carly slips behind the row of cloaks hanging on the wall next to the bar. Her deft hands work through the garments; searching pockets, as she listens to banter across the mug-strewn counter.
A couple and one of the bartenders are in the middle of a debate. “I was there at Castle Lyrandar, they needed some extra servers for the banquet, I tell you Ruel’s act was the best! You wouldn’t think a wizard could dance like that, and his magic! Why, the whole room thought he had plucked dryads from the forest to dance for him, it was amazing! The bard was good, but she couldn’t hold a candle to him.”
“Well I saw the bard at that benefit concert, we both did, and Kashandi was by far the better performer then… isn’t that right dear?” The woman looks up at the bartender; trying to get the tired looking man on her arm to support her argument.
“Hmm… well I’m sure they are both very talented, but I’m more interested in the theft from the Vidari’s.” The husband, still dressed in the livery of one of House Medani’s sentinels, leans in at a curious glance from the bartender.
“Its not supposed to be common knowledge, but the proceeds from the Vidari’s benefit concert, you know, that are supposed to go to building an orphanage, were stolen. We haven’t been able to find out who did it, but I hear the Vidari’s ‘enforcer’ is supposed to be on the passenger list for the Liralen now. Me, I think he’s the one who took the gold in the first place. It’s awful convenient for him to be leaving now, if you know what I mean.”
Carly’s breath catches, these people have been to Castle Lyrandar! Perhaps they have the coin to reflect such status. She measures up the couple, and quickly realizes the risks are far too great. A Medani sentinel and his wife and there is little in the way of cover by the bar. Carly discards the idea and scampers out into the night.
She will try other spots before dawn. The gossip at the Brass Covey is centered on what most of Stormhome has been fixated upon – the airship Liralen – who made it on as crew, who the passengers are on the maiden voyage, and the controversies and politics that surrounds the ship like a woven shroud. It would have no interest to Joseph. She turns down a dark alley in search of comments more in tune with the life she knows. The darker taverns are more dangerous, but Carly does not want to go home and lie next to Errol’s empty pallet.
As she passes the dock where the Liralen is moored, she catches the scuffle of footsteps and faint voices. Curious, she peers through a crack in the fence surrounding the great airship. It is just some of the crew loading crates into the cargo hold, but the sudden sound of triggered Alarm spells sends her struck back as if a scorching hot iron touched her. Panicked, Carly looks back and forth down the alley and shoots off the way she came in search of the nearest cover from what is she sure will be hordes of Lyrandar guards after her.
But it is not the young shifter’s curiosity that triggers the Alarm and shatters the peaceful night…
But Carly is not afforded the opportunity to trim the fat from Stormhome’s elite. The young shifter’s prey is the coin of the common laborer, her hunting grounds the hole-in-the-wall hideaways and dark taverns where laborers and servants come to unwind. Her keen ears pick up conversation spilling out of the doors of The Brass Covey. Experience has taught her that people who are engrossed in talking are people who are not paying attention to their purses.
Carly slips through the kitchen entrance of the tavern. The chef, lost in his own concerns, doesn’t notice the shifter as she moves on all fours behind the preparation tables. Bright light from the chef’s lantern lights her face only for a moment, drowning in the long purple bruise across her temple.
Joseph is most violent when he is worried. Since she had covered for Errol the day he disappeared, it is only natural that she felt the brunt of that worry. Carly swallows the lump that rises in her throat. She misses Errol. Joseph said he was probably dead by now. Killed by someone, or worse, taken by the Fury himself for running off.
Joseph had worked them all mercilessly the last couple of days; demanding that they bring in Errol’s share for collection day. But collection day had come and gone and no collector had arrived at the back of the dingy bakery, their home and hideout. Joseph’s temper grew, and Carly took to the streets to stay clear of his path.
The dining area of the tavern is filled to capacity. Dimly lit and smoke-filled, Carly works her small frame unnoticed between a patron’s feet. Crouching next to the table support she examines the footwear of those around the table, trying to determine whose purse strings she should risk cutting. Conversation drifts down around her and she listens, eager to bring home news that might interest Joseph and divert his worries and his fist.
“And then he said, ‘Eyls in Sorre, eels in a special thick sauce. The recipe has several secret ingredients that I refuse to reveal lest someone seize this fine dish that I alone can make.’ I’m not kidding, just like that!”
Several of the dockworkers around the table chortle, glancing back to the kitchen as their server impersonates the Covey’s head chef. He leans in, grinning knowingly as he pitches his voice low for best effect with his rapt audience.
“Then he serves the House Special, you know what I mean.”
There are several winces, knowing nods and shaking heads, and the server waits for them all to lean in closer still before continuing.
“So the judges all take a bite, and I swear half of them passed out in their chairs and the other half ran for the privies! It nearly came to blows over who would get there first, the Host as my witness!” But the dockworkers are no longer listening, banging their fists on the table and laughing loudly at the chef’s expense. Carly’s alarmed squeak at the rancor is hidden by the sound of a loud crash from the kitchen and an angry face yelling out from the doorway.
“Chard! You useless… miserable…” The chef fumbles for words before reasserting his face into a scowl. “I have a whole crate of onions that will not peel themselves, get on it!”
“Yes Chef Mewldon!” answers the server, wincing at the prospect of onion duty but knowing his tips tonight will be very good. Picking up his tray he leans down to speak before leaving the table, “That isn’t the half of it, from what I hear, they took on a warforged cook! Have you ever heard of that?” Animated discussion begins anew on the merits of this bit of news as the server goes off to attend to his far less favorable duties.
Carly’s knife, if the battered piece of metal could be called such, whisks up with precision. In a deft movement she severs the strings and ties the ends to the chair. The missing coin-purse goes unnoticed as its owner loudly argues that a warforged can’t possibly be a cook because they can’t taste a thing.
Carly edges out from under the table and surveys the room. A loud voice from a corner booth catches her attention and she moves towards the drunken and angry source. Ale splashes on her face as a halfling in the booth pounds his mug against the table. Carly’s eyes sting, but she manages to make it to the dark space under the table. Crouching in an awkward position between the feet of the occupants, she pauses to wipe her face with the ragged edge of a shirtsleeve.
The halfling nurses his fourth ale and complains to a bored looking pair of dwarves across from him. “I tell you it wasn’t fair, wasn’t fair at all! Why, that big old half-giant couldn’t even push that dumb crate on his own, how’d they expect me to?”
“Eh, you said they tried out a half-giant for a deckhand?” One of the pair leans forward, a clerk at one of the local House Kundarak banks, suddenly interested in the halfling’s rambling drivel.”
“I hear one of them was able to move those huge crates, wasn’t it…?”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah… some orc named Crash or Bash or something, but they didn’t take him for some reason, I think they took that half-giant and some others. But see, see, I could have done better peeling potatoes if they would just have let me…’ Both men groan inwardly as the halfling continues his diatribe on the ills of House Lyrandar’s hiring practices.
The halfling, an easy target, looks to have a light purse. Carly does not bother the bankers. While better dressed than the dockworkers, they always have a tight hold on their money, and the dwarves in particular are known for having nasty surprises for potential pickpockets. Just before she moves on, a spark of light catches her eye: the buckles on one of the banker’s boots! Blackened and tarnished, one sports a scratch that gleams silver. Carly carefully cuts away the fastenings on both boots. The man will not notice it until he stands to leave, if she is lucky.
Carly slips behind the row of cloaks hanging on the wall next to the bar. Her deft hands work through the garments; searching pockets, as she listens to banter across the mug-strewn counter.
A couple and one of the bartenders are in the middle of a debate. “I was there at Castle Lyrandar, they needed some extra servers for the banquet, I tell you Ruel’s act was the best! You wouldn’t think a wizard could dance like that, and his magic! Why, the whole room thought he had plucked dryads from the forest to dance for him, it was amazing! The bard was good, but she couldn’t hold a candle to him.”
“Well I saw the bard at that benefit concert, we both did, and Kashandi was by far the better performer then… isn’t that right dear?” The woman looks up at the bartender; trying to get the tired looking man on her arm to support her argument.
“Hmm… well I’m sure they are both very talented, but I’m more interested in the theft from the Vidari’s.” The husband, still dressed in the livery of one of House Medani’s sentinels, leans in at a curious glance from the bartender.
“Its not supposed to be common knowledge, but the proceeds from the Vidari’s benefit concert, you know, that are supposed to go to building an orphanage, were stolen. We haven’t been able to find out who did it, but I hear the Vidari’s ‘enforcer’ is supposed to be on the passenger list for the Liralen now. Me, I think he’s the one who took the gold in the first place. It’s awful convenient for him to be leaving now, if you know what I mean.”
Carly’s breath catches, these people have been to Castle Lyrandar! Perhaps they have the coin to reflect such status. She measures up the couple, and quickly realizes the risks are far too great. A Medani sentinel and his wife and there is little in the way of cover by the bar. Carly discards the idea and scampers out into the night.
She will try other spots before dawn. The gossip at the Brass Covey is centered on what most of Stormhome has been fixated upon – the airship Liralen – who made it on as crew, who the passengers are on the maiden voyage, and the controversies and politics that surrounds the ship like a woven shroud. It would have no interest to Joseph. She turns down a dark alley in search of comments more in tune with the life she knows. The darker taverns are more dangerous, but Carly does not want to go home and lie next to Errol’s empty pallet.
As she passes the dock where the Liralen is moored, she catches the scuffle of footsteps and faint voices. Curious, she peers through a crack in the fence surrounding the great airship. It is just some of the crew loading crates into the cargo hold, but the sudden sound of triggered Alarm spells sends her struck back as if a scorching hot iron touched her. Panicked, Carly looks back and forth down the alley and shoots off the way she came in search of the nearest cover from what is she sure will be hordes of Lyrandar guards after her.
But it is not the young shifter’s curiosity that triggers the Alarm and shatters the peaceful night…
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