The Taking of Ruzzan

The Taking of Ruzzan

Postby highawaywoman » Mon Aug 03, 2015 12:50 pm

The highwaywoman abhorred gaming hells. They were filled to the brim with people that wasted good money on the promise of more money. To her, it was a waste. While she was a creature prone to her own devices, she was very thankful that gambling hadn’t been one of her hobbies. A bottle sat before her at the bar, two tankards in front of her, but the spot next to her empty of company. Occasionally, a brave individual made to sit next to her, with a drunken greeting – but a nudge and dark look soon sent them packing. She was waiting for one individual in particular.

It didn’t take long for him to arrive. The promise of making more coin and free booze was enough incentive to bring Blort away from the tables and up to the bar of the Floating Dragon. The one-eyed informant was pleased as he sidled up to the bar, casting his single eye to his companion.

“Old and Homely! Tis been a while.” He sat down, taking a deep sip from the tankard she’d already filled for his drinking pleasure. “Good stuff they sell here.”

“I’ be as fooul as ‘orse piss lef’ in the stall ‘oo loong.” Despite her contrary manner, Ailova gave him a friendly smile as she gingerly sipped from her own mug.

“Indeed. Well, better ya stay at the tavern then, better drink to be had there. Is this visit business or pleasure?” Blort winked with his good eye, though it remained a matter of speculation if his patch was a necessity. Ailova could have sworn that it switched locales more often than a tinker moved his cart.

“Business. Ye ‘eard o’ this man named Naramy? ‘e lives ooff Mark’t Square. Appears well ooff, dresses loike a dandy. Froom wot I gath’r, ‘e appreciates foine ‘orseflesh?” The bandit had lowered her voice to the barest of whispers, ducking her head so to whisper to her companion.

“Shite. Yes. That bastard loves to gamble. Even comes in here – when the finer establishments refuse his vouchers. What ya want with him?” Blort wiped his mouth, helping himself to another helping of the vile whiskey.

“’e goo’ somethin’ tha’ belongs ‘o me friend. Gonna see aboou’ gettin’ I’ back froom ‘im.”

“That don’t sound like something your new lawman beau would approve of!” Blort chortled, finding much humor in the scandalous courtship of lady bandit and constable.

“Then I cannae be simply ‘akin’ wot is owed, can I?” No shite. Gloria had left out too much information recently while drinking with Perilat. It couldn’t be as simple as banditry. It would call the law down.

“Bed him. Bed him soundly. You have the look of a woman who could get it done. You bed him? He won’t care what you do for your friend.” The informant reveled in teasing his employer – until she snapped and blackened his eye or broke his finger.

“Pig. Ye give a man wot ‘e wants? ‘e stoops wantin’ it.” As she should know. Soundly and completely. “Noow. I need infoormation oon ‘im. Where ‘e gooes ‘o gamble. Whoom ‘e fecks and where they goo. Anythin’ and everrathin’ o’ interes’.”

“Got it.” Two shillings were handed under the bar, but Blort did something that surprised Ailova as he accepted the coins. He squeezed her hand, raising it to his lips and brushed a kiss to her knuckles. “Don’t do anything rash.”

Before she had the chance to do something rash – like rearrange his face? Blort took off out of the Floating Dragon and set about to gather as much information as he could about this horse-loving fop.
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Re: The Taking of Ruzzan

Postby Rance » Mon Aug 03, 2015 5:42 pm

The delivery comes to Ailova Smith a day later. Blort is, if anything, efficient; he'll let no coin burn too long in his pocket without a reason for having earned it. Money, after all, is only as reliable as the work tendered in return. But not being a man of unnecessary words, the folded parchment is only a map of Myrkentown proper with a few spots darkened by kohl.

One spot at the intersection of Dyer Avenue and Ravensridge.

Another at the general store along Merchant's Row.

Tinier marks pepper the page at various places: the teahouse, where ladies of particular reputation are purchased and enjoyed; the shore along the East Mavoiir, where the word FISHING is unceremoniously scrawled; three dots mark the fields south of Lothbury, all three of them marked HORSING.

But the biggest mark rests amid the gravestones of Lychfield, and Blort's handwriting is as curious as the question floating nearly off the page:
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