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Message: <blockquote data-quote="rpgramen" data-source="post: 4769557" data-attributes="member: 49052">From what some might call a heathenistic land wrought full of daemons, devils, and fiends of all varieties, Crispin Jeggare -- Scion of the same named House -- stands amongst the denizens of a diseased land. Simpletons, indeed, would be putting it lightly, presuming little to no inflection was placed upon the meanings themselves. A land rife with imbeciles, barbarians, and generally uncivilized beings should never be one such as he's destination for any substantial length of time, but such was the misfortune he now found himself in. Since before his journey from Chelish territory, this current fiasco had been nothing but that. Having your proverbial allowance cut off by daddy dearest didn't make the trip any easier, suffice it to say, and the current affair only seemed to be degenerating into an even more deplorable state than it had originally been in. Frankly, Crispin wasn't expecting to spend too much time amongst the Varisian barbari and blood-thirsty vagrants, his goal clear-cut and obvious. Imagine then that the entire purpose for the clearly superior scholar had been uprooted, making his visit -- and all of the expenses, both monetary and personally entailed therein -- moot, null, and void. Gaedran Lamm was dead, killed by upstart locals of all things; Crispin was not happy. Truth be told, he could have cared less about Lamm himself, as he was just another pitiful peon amongst a throng of his own kindred. No, no. Crispin was distraught over the fact that he hadn't had the chance to "interrogate" the gentleman, to warp the vernacular. To further complicate matters, Gaedran was his only viable sentient lead as to the whereabouts of his purpose: Malacia Thrune, a Scion in her own right. Indeed, with her tarnished notebook damaged beyond legibility, the leather-bound documents left little hope as to divuldging any other potential clues as to her whereabouts... presuming, of course, there were any and she simply wasn't dead by this point. Regardless, Crispin was ever vigil in the act of unearthing the truth, grim as it may be. His task had only changed slightly, in the grand scheme of things. With Lamm out of the picture, it stood to reason that if anyone in this two-bit, one-horse Varisian town of Korvosa knew anything about anything at all, it would most likely be the rabble-rousers who'd finally decided to do something about Gaedran, and therefore they had become the wayward scion's next clue in unraveling this most disturbing mystery. It wasn't exactly cryptographically challenging to locate the clergyman in question as the town buzzed and gossiped of him and his comptariots' pathetic exploits in ridding a small-time murderer. Sauntering through the Korvosan streets in as a refined a manner as one can muster amongst such brutish people, Crispin's journey to the local temple in question doesn't take too long sans inquiries for directions and descriptions of the individuals the Chelaxian intellectual was looking for. With a confident stride and a hand lazily palmed over the hilt of his only means of physical defense, Crispin Jeggare shoved the door of the worshipping establishment open with all but the faintest of squeaks resonating from the force, an equally high-pitched wail echoing its breathren as the door shut after the auburn-haired and finely-clad gent had strode beyond the threshold. The smell of sacreligious alcohol and wafted just enough throughout the establishment to be detectable, garnering a grimace of chagrin and disdain from the refined socialite as he surveyed the room. "You there!" Crispin demanded with practiced flair after winding his way through the hallowed halls, a single gloved hand pointing inexplicably towards whom he could only presume to be a young acolyte in the service of whatever deity was worshipped therein. "I'm looking for the cleric known as Khadmeade. Where is he?" he ordered, harriedly harrassing the poor choirchild with scorn-worthy gazes and a harsh tone.</blockquote>

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