RP:The Runner Plays Sleuth
Part of the Tales from the Row Arc
Synopsis: Finn slips into Cenril incognito in an attempt to discover whether or not Grot survived the damage he took in escaping Rynvale.
Characters: Finn, Fibs, Npc Barkeep.
Location: Cenril; The Whaler
Fibs slips surreptitiously into the bar, finding the wafting scents of the sea and cacophany of shouts to be to his liking. Carefully he mingles with the noise and distractions, the door opening and shutting in a very brief movement. The small halfling remains cloaked under what one might assume to be a tattered sheet, and from beneath a corner of clothe he surmises the patrons he now finds himself amongst.
Finn tugged the dark knit cap down further over his ears, and sun browned hands lifted to tug the collar of his overcoat up around his neck. The tell tale burnished hues of his hair were well and truly concealed. Gone too were the finer materials of his merchant’s garb, and hanging loosely from his lips a hand rolled cigarette dangled. Smoking. He’d given up the dammed habit and the objects were only ever dragged out when he had need for subterfuge-and venturing into the dammed Cenrili hell hole these days, necessitated subterfuge. Dressed in the rough, dark woolens that layered the impoverished and criminal element of the war torn city, Red could easily be taken for just another sailor looking for a drink at the local watering hole. Save perhaps for the barely there bulge that would give away the presence of a pouch of gold in the interior lining of his coat. Gold, was useful for loosening tongues, and it was information that he had come to Cenril to procure. Information about one god dammed Razor, and if he’d lived through his injuries. A Hellcat wanted to know. And it wouldn’t hurt to know for himself if this war was far from over.
Fibs directed his gaze over the patrons in an unobtrusive, yet discerning way. They found little intrigue in the demeanours of the common tavernfolk, absorbed in their drink and mirth as they were. As could be construed by his well-worn garments, Fibs had seen better days, and ones with alot more food in his gut too. Slowly his attention keens upon Finn, and the para-psychology of an experienced thief begins to start working; although the man was nothing outstanding, Fibs could tell by his expression, belittled as it is, he had other things on his mind than protecting the obvious bulge in the breast of his coat. His preoccupation didn't concern the halfling, rather could prove quite advantageous for him. Fibs began to weave throughout the labyrinthine course of tables, chairs, and patrons, oblivious to all but his most recent mark. Hunger and poverty can prove to be fine motivations. Feigning haste and inebriation, the short fellow dropped his hood and started to stagger about, brushing one sailor here and knocking into another over there, until finally drawing nearer to Finn. Nary a hesitation precedes his sleight movements, and kicking himself in the heel, he fell into his mark, arms a-flailing. The man's height proved an added challenge to reach for the five foot nothing halfling, but in his mock plight he reached as far as he needed to. Long, thin digits of one hand probe the enticing confines of the man's coat whilst the others clutch distractedly at his arm. "Ahem," muttered Fibs in a fine drunkard's voice. "Sk-sk-scuse me sir." Swiftly his hand delved into the folds of the man's coat, pinching softly in an endeavor to relieve him of but a small portion of his clinkage. As a means to further distract the man so as to be able to remove his thieving fingers unnoticed, he pulled sharply at his arm, feigning an attempt to right himself. "Ah'm a lager'ead," he explains.
Finn had grown up in the rows, had lived and worked the streets for a long time. You didn’t do that, and climb into the defacto position of leader of one of its factions without honing a keen awareness of the scene around you, even when distracted. He was fully aware of the halfling. Fibs was, after all, a halfling in a primarily human haunt. The halfling was also making considerable disruption as he wove and staggered in the smuggler’s general direction. Finn was on hostile territory, and the enemy of a man who’d used a dog sized cleaver to cut men’s heads off. He was, needless to say, more than alert. He was also, however, incognito as your average not particularly aware sea farer and therin lay the rub. A snarling bark met the halfling as he plunged forward. “Oi..watcher self mate!” the tones nothing like the warm drawl for which he was known. “Gidda damn watcher if ye canne hold yer drink yeh..” and hand would lash out, just enough to keep the halfling out of thrust range if dagger was incoming. In an instant mental computation occurred. He felt the first brush of contact against his coat, registered the absence of weapon and the halflings ragged state, and permitted the collapse of Fib’s body against his own-just long enough that prize could be taken before the male was shoved crudely away and shaken off. These were hard times..times none had asked for. And he’d never blame a man for working for his living. An unseen twitch of his lips occurred, before he turned away, calling to the barkeep. “Oi..what’s it take a man to get a glass of piss in this hole?..” And he was drifiting off to the bar. Eyes swept the room..looking for a mark of his own. Who would know? More to the point..who would give up the intelligence he wanted?
Fibs remained naive, unduly confident in his own skills. Perhaps he was too overtly tugging at the man's lapelle, or maybe he didn't sleight his motions enough. More likely the cause was his mark's awareness that had a beat on him; after all, the man did well to guise his true nature, and a thief is the most difficult to thieve from. The drunkard routine was an old and blatant one, clearly not the most creative diversion for sure, and possibly one of the most precarious to attempt. Nonetheless, Finn was generous in his tolerance, allowing Fibs to lift a hefty bit of coins. He would continue his display of drunken antics, pushing past the man to collapse theatrically on a stool of his own. He offers the coins no mind after pinching so as to not forsake his own guise. Surrounded by the kind that they are, unscrupulous being the mundane commonfolk in these times of hardship, it was tough to say who was genuine and who was not. Still, Fibs persists with his antics, hiccuping a bit too falsely as he continued to watch Finn, ears and senses sharper than they might seem, picking out what information and conversation they can that might benefit him.
Behind the bar, the eyes of the keep flickered over the approaching sailor, eyes derisive. A nobody. “If it’s piss mate, reckon you can take yerself off to summer you figger on getting’ better yeh. What’ll it be?” Already a glass was being slammed onto the bar top, and Finn could count himself lucky if it was a clean one. The server was at the end of his shift, a double header too. It had been a long dammed night and the morning relief hadn’t showed. Probably dead in a corner somewhere, way the damned city was going. And he’d not mind if it wasn’t for the fact that there’d not likely be pay for the extra shift. Good thing Kingsley had been generous. Bastard was a good sort, even if trouble followed him like a rat did garbage- like it had last night with the looker Grot was wanting to commission to stir up shyte for the southern crew. Not that a word of it would pass from his lips..good way to get dead in these parts. Red was leveled with a bored stare. Finn slipped into place at the bar, a grunt his only reaction to the keep’s crankiness. “Rum..black..” he muttered, lifting a begrimed finger to scratch at the base of his ear. Why waste time? Anything that someone in the bar might know..would not have gotten past the keep..but he’d have to be careful about it. Tavern keeps were harder than hell to get intel out of.unless it didn’t seem to be intel. The offered glass was lifted in laconic salute, and the contents tossed into the back of his throat. “Damnn..” it was a burner. Finn blinked, and swallowed the cough that threatened. Shyte rum. “Lookin’ fer work..Hear tell Kingsley’s hirin’..seen im around?” There. Casual, wasn’t like the whole damned Cenrili row didn’t know of the man and he wasn’t one to lay low. If he’d died it’d be on the streets..and eventually in the bars. The keep poured another, eyes fixed on the stranger. Yeah, he knew his regulars..this bloke wasn’t one. He grinned, a show of slightly yellowing teeth. “Might have..” he muttered. “Real hard like to see in here most nights..smoke..gets in the eyes.” Bullshyte. It would cost the sailor if he wanted anything out of the keep. That much was made clear.
Fibs alighted somewhat, keeping his eyes and ears open to as much of the jaunts and din around him as he can. The halfling's hole-pocked masquerade all but relinquished, he leaned forward across the bar so as to gain better vantage over the barkeep and Finn. It wasn't like him to stick around after a dip, even if he did deem it a successful one, but for a simpleton of these parts this bloke carried a heavy coffer with him. Foolhardy, maybe, but there seemed to be an allure to the man, the kind that Fibs had grown up admiring; there was your everyday riffraff, but the ones that were tactful, that had a certain kind of charisma, didn't necesarily draw attention to themselves. And from what Fibs had observed -from inside the man's pocket and the inquiry he posed to the barkeep- he was here for something. "Lookin' fer work..." Fibs made out through the noise, which only served to pique his interest more. Nervously he scratched at his neck. He knew what those words meant, especially in an atmosphere like this, and people don't just go asking an irritable bartender if he's got employment opportunities for him. His breathing slows, as if he might pick out more of their words that way, and his hand toys with the coins beneath his tattered garb. That sure was alot of clinkage for a man in these parts, he thinks, and it isn't long before his mind starts to percolate on the possibilities. No, Fibs hadn't an iota of the company this man truly kept, but he was starting to reject the front he's put on. Every other word hardly clear enough over the boisterous patronage, Fibs also knew the baiting of a bribe when he heard it. His blood starts to flow a little faster, a little hotter as his mind starts accosting him for being so bold as to linger. Finn was going to reach into his pockets and discover them a little lighter than when he came in, unbeknownst to him that the man was already keen on his bump and lift. Deep breath; what to do? Stick around and try and pick up some intel on some local jobs? Or try and evanesce into the crowd of rowdy seamen for fear of being caught? His curiousity being overwhelming, he would indeed linger, even if it was just long enough to get a lead. Fibs has been on the outs of the local dealings for a while now, after all.
Finn was aware of the game. He’d lived by the rules for a long time. He was also increasingly aware of the fact that the pickpocket had not left. Now that..was curious, and worth thinking about. Later. He’d noted the face, as much of it as could have been seen in a bounce and tumble..but really Fibs race and shock of red hair would be more than enough to spark remembrance in the future should the need arise. “Yeh?..” came the biting, sarcastic tone from the runner as he remained true to his guise. So far from the approach he would otherwise have taken were he here as the smuggler he was known to be. “Figger a bit o shiny might help clear them eyes?” he added, leaning forward to grab hold of his drink again. And there was the other rub. How the hell was a broke man looking for work supposed to bribe anybody? It’d raise too many questions about who he really was. “If I git sommit lined up, I’ll cut ye the first half of my pay,” he offered. And he began to tap along supposedly empty pockets for some incentive to offer now. The runner had access to items rare enough in the row, now that poverty and desperation reigned sovereign. In some places a cigarette was as good as gold. He hoped this was one. “An’ ye can have me ciggies. Lifted em off a nob on the docks. Here tell they come from some’s queen’s still in the sage. Good shyte.” A package was procured, and nudged across the surface toward the man. The bar keep’s fingers stilled in the task of pouring. He’d heard about them Larket made cigars..flavors and everything. Hell, he could seel em for 500 gold a pop if he could find a buyer. The dammed nobody didn’t know what he was giving up. He almost snickered, reaching out to snag the brown paper wrapped package. “Yeah.. I seen him. Was in here last night, yaking up a storm bout some healer or the other. Was with a bint, real looker. I’m figurin’ he might be open to handin’ out work..but I’ll not be sayin’ why if you catch my meanin’..” And that was all the runner was going to get out of him. “Nother round?” Finn leaned back, a thoughtful expression skittering across his face. So the bastard had lived..had been healed..and if what the keep -hadn’t- said was anything to go by, was recruiting muscle. None of it was good news. Another grunt, and a waving off of the offer and he was pushing to his feet. “Nah mate..thanks. Reckon’ I can take it from here. Be seein’ you if it works out..” And with a nod, and a quick, almost amused look the halfling’s way, he was headed for the door and the unruly streets beyond.
Fibs comprehends little of the man and the keeps' interaction, partly on account of the great din, in part on account of their sailor-speak, but mostly because the names and incidents mentioned therein were meaningless to the halfling. Ah well, he made good today, certainly enough to get his blade sharpened and put some grub in him for a while. Work, well that's something you have to make more often than not. He watched the man leave with a definite sense of relief, and all-too eagerly he got to spending his coin. "Hey, 'keep!" He shouted, no more fake drawl of intoxication. "'ow's some rum here!"