Moral Machivelli wrote:"Would it not be best, however, to split up? As a group, we do not exactly blend in."
The bard nods (grudgingly) in acknowledgement of the Borcan's words, whilst mentally rolling his eyes at his "ally's" articulation of the obvious.
As if the locals haven't
been gossiping non-stop about the Maison's weird visitors, since the gathering's first attendee set foot upon the dock. "Retired merchants",
indeed! Academic and small-town mindsets: each naive in its own way, yet so alien
to one another, they might as well be on different Clusters....
Still, parting company for the nonce isn't an adverse suggestion. Aside from changing out of his casino-won garments -- hardly suited to a trek through bug-infested marshlands, and still soaked from the storm; even had he known Kaspan's trick for drying off, such an overt use of magic in the town would be unwise, despite the community's tacit toleration for bards over other arcanists -- it will allow him to jot a few notes on his recent observations, as well as tend to his disguise.
Roeccha's method of travel, in particular, warrants documentation; the VRS spy has heard of such spells, by which powerful mages and even a few maestros of his own calling could venture through the realm of shadows, but so far as memory serves, he has never before experienced such a journey.
The trip's inadvertant revelation about the
shalach-ti's nature, though bizarre, merits a note as well. Already, it has relieved both his itching wrists --
See now, Crow-my-lad? Not even the Fraternity's
membership-standards are as sordid as that;
don't let old fears bias your judgment -- and his nagging uncertainty as to how a darkling could have managed to slip the Core's bounds and come here.
"We all appear to have somthing to get done in the city. Why not have Sister Kingsly investigate this guide at Le Coq Noir? Brother Serd will want to find his own man and I have a few items left in my rooms that may be useful, if we encounter hostilities."
Another good point, considering how the confiscated possessions of the other three might not have been returned. If Buchvold or Serd -- or the professor for that matter, improbable though it seems -- should have any magical trinkets to retrieve from their lodgings, the bard is all for it. With the Borcan still frustratingly reticent about his own arcane capacities, the Lady Scalpel's spells most likely scholastic rather than combative, and the odious Richemulouise's magics largely unknown (not to mention possibly
necromantic, hence nothing Serd would dare use in front of the rest of them), Crow is uncomfortably aware that
he may be required to cast spells of his own, should their party meet up with danger. Having so few options to choose amongst, he'd prefer
not to reveal any more of his limited spell-repretoire than he already has; if at all possible, he'll let the wizards cover that angle in a pinch.
"Do you know of anything, ot more pressingly, anyone, who may be of use to us, Brother Crow? If so, could you kindly deal with them. Let's meet ... at the gambling hall? If the good Sister has not found her guide, we could then proceed to White Magnolia Hill"
The bard shrugs, a casual gesture bordering on impertinent, the better to deflate the Borcan's forced politeness a bit. In all candor, he has no idea how to locate a guide to navigate the swamps. Prior to the meeting at the Maison, his discreet queries in town had concerned his
hosts' doings, not the backwoods, and with Ceatsã at his beck and call, he's not in the habit of traveling cross-country with an escort.
"Fair enough," he remarks of Buchvold's planned rendezvous. "Don't let's be too
long, mind: the sooner we're done with this errand and back to civilization, the better. Comparing the voracity of bayou mosquitoes at dusk with that of the swarms at dawn is
one line of inquiry even our hosts at the Maison had the wisdom to omit from their Survey, and I've no desire to rectify
that oversight!" He winks wryly at Kingsley -- the only one of their quartet with the good sense to veil herself against the pernicious insects -- so as to uphold their tentative, humor-facilitated rapport. Despite the clear enthusiasm of which her stance has boasted, since first the name 'Chicken Bone' was uttered, Crow wouldn't want his own urge to make this venture a brief one to set them at odds.
The corner of the Zherisian's lip rises momentarily, whether at the bard's quip or one of the humorous internal musings which, he gathers, she uses to build up her determination and courage. A moment's concern strikes him as she takes her leave of the group -- some of Port d'Elhour's streets are hardly the place for an unaccompanied foreign woman to go strolling in the dark -- but he knows that Kingsley, proud of her autonomy, would likely resent an offer to tag along. Nor does he dare to let Serd learn of their nascent friendship ... to say nothing of whomsoever the
Fraternity officers may have tasked to monitor their foursome's progress. A sober bow and a silent wish for her good luck is all he can offer, as she sets out.
"Seems to me that any further planning will have to await our reunion, gentlemen," Crow observes, nodding to the professor's departing back. "As we won't know until then if we've a guide or not. If anything overly-distressing should transpire in the next half hour, you can track me down at the Two Hares; else, I'll see you both at the rendezvous ten minutes after that." He briefly meets Buchvold's gaze, his gray eyes glittering in the flash of lightning over the harbor.
He starts to turn away, then pauses, reaches into a pocket, and fishes out the pouch of coins Roeccha had entrusted to him. He hefts it twice, as if testing its weight, then abruptly tosses the purse to Draxton Serd.
"Probably best if
you carry this, sir -- it's
Serd, correct? -- as I've a bit of a poor record at hanging on to money. Setting me loose in a town with this many
gaming halls isn't the shrewdest of moves for someone who's just handed me their
purse, you see. If you're as prosperous a merchant as your reputation suggests, Brother, you surely know how to resist such temptations."
His eyes shift from the Richemulouise to the Borcan, and harden slightly.
"No offense to
you intended, mind you, Brother Buchvold. I'm just not the greatest fan of banks and moneylenders. Give them your pocket change, they'll hold back one coin in four for fees. And if Brother Serd's
bodyguard should know of a potential guide, he'll need the funds to hire one directly, in any case."
Not that I don't appreciate the show of confidence, shalach-ti,
but I'd be a fool indeed not to be wary of my own
tricks' use against me! Even if the Fraternity's bards wouldn't know a Listening Coin from a tin raven-claw, it might just be easier to scry on a man who's carrying something you gave
him ... and, believe my sorry Requiem tale or not, there's no way you'd leave 'Brother Crow' unwatched, just now. So if you are
working through that purse, perhaps the 'old goat's' naughty necromantic hobbies will keep your prying eyes occupied, and out of my hair.
Having divested himself of the potential divinatory link -- and taken a first step in playing nicely with the Richemulouise, while sniping at Buchvold in the process -- the bard bows again (a touch more sardonically than for Kingsley), and sets off for the Two Hares Inn, to check if he's been left any messages before proceeding to his
real sleeping quarters.
As he walks off, he whistles -- showtunes again, this time an insipid coda called "Broken Hearts Restored" -- and feels the gratifying tingle of magic upon his skin, as the meticulously-crafted, rain-imperiled artistry of his makeup begins subtly Mending itself.
[OOC: Okay, so
Mending doesn't normally work like that ... but Crow's is a variant of that spell he's used IMC for ages, and Nathan told me via pm that it's okay to use it here too.
Plus, I'm assuming Crow and Buchvold had planned enough covert cues so the Borcan will know to expect the bard ten minutes early (= one minute less out of four). Thirty minutes should be plenty of time for him and Buchvold to finish what they're doing, and forty, for Kingsley and Serd to meet their respective contacts and stop off at their own hotel rooms.]