RP:Exposition

Summary: After a chance encounter in the Broken Barrel, Mahri walks away with some information that might lead to answers about the Mayor of Cenril’s mysterious vanishing.

Broken Barrel Inn

The laws of the land do not apply to this establishment, yet somehow there is order among chaos. Aged, abused by the weather, the Broken Barren Inn stands defiantly against the stormy shores of Rynvale just off the dock, but it is a place far from welcoming. The split, oak carved sign hangs sideways on only one chain, irony not quite lost in the words tarnished by rain. Through that open door barely sitting on it’s hinges, the light of a blazing fire reflects across a dingy interior made to look more wealthy with trinkets. The walls are covered with artifacts and cheap glamour from other worldly locations and ports; rusted weapons and sea-monster fishing lure, ship wheels, a gold-braided rope, the mounted bones of an aquatic creature with seven limbs, tapestries and carvings of various culture, and instruments that no one could know how to play. Centering all of this is Redbeard’s Maiden, herself: a sultry, golden-haired mermaid bust with red painted lips and a beckoning smile, caught in a net draped to the rafters. Mounted to the wall not far behind, a fish-like tail adorned by flawlessly painted emerald scales stretches out behind her. For every first tankard bought in the Broken Barrel she is afforded a salute, a custom that Simon, the bar’s general, has not allowed to die over the years. Dominating the center of this room is an impressive four-sided bar, flanked by booths along all ways, each lit by a hanging candelabra of worked iron. Gatherings of shady sailors and outlaws collect in groups, keeping the atmosphere noisy with harmonica and bagpipe while others plot their next dastardly scheme. While invited to venture upstairs, wandering toward the cellar door might earn you a few dirty looks.

Valrae || Hawkwood was a man of few pleasures. He’d like to think himself simple in the way that more folk could stand to be. A good drink, a pretty woman every now and again, and above all gold. While work was easy to come by in Cenril, it was always healthy to revisit old haunts and branch into wider pools, which is what brought him to Rynvale. The afternoon’s work had been easy enough, making sure the less than legal shipment of juvenile chimeras arrived to some wealthy high elven merchant who dealt exclusively in rare creatures with supposedly high pedigrees. He’d found no trouble along the way and because the afternoon sun was hot and he was thirsty he’d stopped at the Broken Barrel. The ale was cold, the company didn’t ask questions, and he was enjoying running cards at table with a few other long toothed travelers. The game seemed to go well, the men joking amongst themselves as coin exchanged hands and cards were played. That was, until two other men in old fashioned long tunics of black and silver entered. They approached Hawkwood shortly after ordering their own ale and made themselves at home at the table, though neither seemed interested in a game. As the mood shifted, the other men slipped away from the table one by one as they bowed out of the game, until it was only the three of them speaking in hushed tones.

Mahri had become more of a regular at the Barrel than usual, so Simon isn’t the least surprised to see the woman meander towards the bar and order herself an ale. Like many who were spending a few hours in the Inn before going home, the she-wolf thought to enjoy something cold before heading home – or rather where she stayed on the beach more often than not. The card game had caught her attention, but it was mostly the three with their heads together after everyone else had abandoned the table that kept it. Silver-grey eyes sought out the Innkeeper and a tilt of her head towards the trio asked silently if he’d seen them around recently. They smelled…different to her and she knew she’d not seen them before. At least not recently. Simon just shook his head, but that could mean he had no idea who they were or what they were up to or that he wasn’t sayin’ shyte to the Rogue. Idly, she sipped at her ale and toyed with the pendant hanging around her neck while keeping one ear tilted towards the quieted conversation. Her hearing, being what it is, might catch a snippet or two of information. She was always looking for information in the form of gossip or secrets. And those three seemed to be sharing an awful lot of one of those.

Valrae || Hawkwood hid a scowl behind his drink as the thinner man leaned over. “...You’re out but…” A scoff. The shorter, older man leans in to add, “No, he’s back for sure.” Hawkwoods broad shoulders shrug and the thin man whispers again, “...not like before…” The older man adds behind him, “Money is even better this time. We’re talking pounds of gold.” Hawkwood did not appear moved by this. “I’m not interested.” Hawkwood’s voice rose, louder now. “Whatever you zealous witch hunters,” He spat the word like a slur, “Have cooking up has nothing to do with me anymore.” This was met with looks of confusion. “We’re cutting the head off of the snake!” The taller, thinner man objects now. His own voice was raised. “We have the gods damned leader of the biggest coven on the mainland sitting in-” The shorter man cuffed him on the back of the head before he could finish. Hawkwood slammed his ale down on the table, the cool liquid wasting as it splashed over his white knuckled grip on the mug. “I will only repeat myself one more time.” His tone was sharp with warning. “I am not interested. I don’t want to know.” The two men looked between each other for a moment before scowling at the mercenary. “Always were a greedy drunk,” The younger sneers. “Never in it for the cause, only the gold.” Hawkwood’s golden eyes cool to chips of amber. “Never claimed otherwise.” There was a pregnant pause that followed, one thick with the promise of hardly contained violence, before finally the scraping of chairs as the two men stood up. They left the ale, casting one final look of bewildered hatred over their shoulders before leaving the bar altogether. Hawkwood cursed, tossing down his cards. “Left me with the fracking tab I assume,” He murmured to himself.

Mahri is pretty good at acting when she wanted to be and anyone who knows her, and many here do, knows that one ale isn’t about to tip her over into her cups. But, as the two robed figures walked past her, their spines ram-rod straight with indignation at the unsuccessful meeting, Mahri let out a laugh like Simon had said something extremely funny before stepping back into the witchhunter’s path and turning abruptly, sloshing her beer all over those robes. Feigning surprise and remorse, Mahri starts apologizing profusely, swiping at the robes and sloshing ale all while searching for pockets to pick or a bag to lift deftly, even missing a thumb on her left hand. “Oi, s’sorry, s’r’s, didn’ mean t’ dampen ye lovely coats. ‘Ere, lemme help dry ye off,” she slurred her words, stumbling a bit into the one who was mostly dry and not smelling sharply of alcohol. “F’rgive me, been a long day, eh? Jus’ enjoyin’ t’e cool ‘n ‘ere, jus’ like yeselfs. Right, right, don’ lemme keep ye fr’m ye b’sniss. Take care,” and she’s pivoting away, possibly with a coin or two, possibly with more, and makes her unsteady way to the table the two had just left. Once they were out the door, however, and with neither the wiser and a bit lighter hopefully, she takes a seat at that table, propping her booted feet on the chair nearest and nodding at the cards. “Interesting card-fellows you have.” The nearly empty cup of ale is brought to the now very sober she-wolf’s mouth to finish it off, peering over the rim at Hawkwood before waiving down a serving girl for a refill. “And his, get him one on my tab, would you, love? Thanks.”

Valrae || The thinner of the two men takes the brunt of Mahri’s spilled ale. It sloshes over the silver hammer embroidered on his long, robe-like tunic and he lets out a string of curses even as she apologized. The heavier man doesn’t curse but casts her looks as if she were little more than a mild annoyance. These men were not the kind to take women very seriously, and as such were easy marks for her quick sleight of hand. When they left, they were several gold coins short and she might have even managed to lift a small and well worn book written in old elvish. They would be well on their way to the docks before either might notice though… Hawkwood watched with his wolfish eyes and scratched idly at his unkempt beard as the she-wolf approached his table. He didn’t stand to greet her, he wasn’t such a gentleman, but he did nod curtly in greeting. “Interesting act you have,” He counters, grinning at the dropped slur and clear eyes that she met him with. He didn’t protest the free refill, seeing as he was already three down thanks to his “friends”. The mercenary reaches into his pocket to pull out a steel cigarette case and set of matches. He lights one before offering it out to his newest table mate. “Should I be watching my coin purse around you or would you prefer to play me for the gold?” He tapped the cards between them.

Mahri hadn't yet looked at what she'd looted, shuffling the coins and book into one of the deep pockets of the duster she wore, always. "I'm out of practice, really," she demures, offering a half smile at the compliment. "I'm not good at cards, actually." Their drinks arrived and Mahri offered the young girl a smile, then recognized her as the newest server she and Lita had saved from some slobs some weeks ago. She'd give the young woman a generous tip. "And, I also have no designs on your coin purse. I do, however, have an insatiable curiosity about what the three of you were talking about, what they wanted you to get in on?" If he believed she might want to take his place, that would be fine and work in her favor. It wouldn't be true, but the male with the gold eyes could think what he wanted as far as she was concerned. She'd accept the offer of a cigarette, calling a bit of fire to the tip of her finger to light it. "Thank you," she saluted him with the bright cherry.

Valrae || Hawkwood narrows those gold eyes her way as she levels with him and takes a long drag for himself, buying time and considering her anew. “Those aren’t men you want to tangle yourself in,” He decided to warn, though he wasn’t often in the business of telling others how to handle their own. “They don’t like women very much.” He nods his thanks to the serving girl as well, flashing a charming smile her way. Hey, it never hurts to look, right? And he did look as she walked away. “Especially not women who can do that little trick…” His eyes find her again. Smoke rose between them. “They’re zealots, fear ridden dogs of the worst sort.” He picked up the cards, shuffled them in his hands. He had no intentions of holding on to any information, the group he’d left long ago he held no loyalty toward, but he wouldn’t be sending another woman into their fold any time soon. It was a mistake he’d only make once. “Whatever gold they offer, it’s not worth it.”

Mahri || The corners of her eyes crinkle with a wide smile before Mahri tips her head back on a laugh. A genuine one this time. “Oh, I’m not looking to join them. I’m trying to find someone I overheard them say they might have someone that I might also be looking for. You seemed to know them rather well even if you weren’t on friendly terms.” The ale is brought to her lips for a drink, the cigarette smoked. “If you want gold for information, I can arrange that. Or, you can point me in the right direction out of the kindness of your heart, and obvious dislike of their kind.” She had dealt with zealots before, that would be nothing new. “I promise, they don’t have to like me and my little tricks. I actually prefer that they don’t.”

Valrae || Hawkwood finds himself baffled for the first time in a long time as Mahri’s rich laugh rings out around them in the smoky Inn. He couldn’t have stopped the small tilt of the corner of his lips in return, though he hid again behind his drink. “Well,” He answers slowly. “If it’s information you’re lookin’ for…” Then it was his turn to laugh. “I don’t have very much goodness in my heart,” He warned her. “But I have a hell of a lot of hate for those bastards.” He stamps the butt of his cigarette out in the nearby copper ashtray. “So, I’ll tell you what little I know…” The next round he ordered for both of them was on him. As he tucked into his third glass of ale, he told her of the so-called Knights of the Hammer. A group of fear fed men who hated women, magical women most of all, whipped up by Larket and a mysterious shrouded figure who called himself Cramer. “I didn’t ever buy what they were sellin’,” He tells her, almost defensive of his former choices, “But the gold was too good to turn down…” Or that’s what he’d told himself. Until he was sent to kidnap a witch and bring her to a camp they’d had right here in Rynvale. “This was before the new… ‘Management’, as it were.” He clarified, his gold eyes twinkling. “After that, I was out. I don’t know much more about their movements, only that the island stopped being hospitable to their… Cause.” He rolls his broad shoulders. “Those two come in here, take one look at me and tell me Cramer is back. Gold is better than ever, they have some high stakes witch they’re gonna string up for everyone to see.” He holds up a finger. “I don’t know who, I didn’t want to know.” Because he didn’t want to feel. He didn’t want the responsibility of stopping it. “I still don’t want to know.”

Mahri’s listening, sipping the ale and stamping out the butt of her own cigarette. By the time Hawkwood was finished, her amusement was no longer in evidence. Silvery eyes narrowed as she filed away the information. “Do you know where their camp is?” A glimmer of a plan was forming. An infiltration plan to see if the witch is the one the Rogues had received a letter about. If he gave any indication that he knew how to find this sect of witch hunters here in Rynvale, she’d follow with, “Think you can get me in?” The book set heavy against her hip inside the pocket. The cover was in a writing she couldn’t decipher. She’d have to get it translated. Just for the hell of it, she reaches into that pocket to pull it out, the small tomb fitting in the palm of her hand. “Can you read this?”

Valrae || Hawkwood shakes his head. “The old one?” He seems to hesitate. “I know of it but…” But he wasn’t eager to feed these men anymore victims. “They wouldn’t use the one in Rynvale,” The mercenary worked through it aloud. “They were raided by some man with silver hair. A warrior type, real quiet and real deadly.” He’d given Hawkwood a nasty scar, as a matter of fact. “They wouldn’t be keeping anyone important on this island, that much I know…” He hoped this would be enough to keep her away from the ruins they’d been calling home. His golden eyes slide down to the small book she holds out and narrows. “Malleus Maleficarum.” His tone darkens. “Their holy text.” He leans over the table, getting a closer look. “Old elvish,” And he could read it, but if he would was another question. “It holds information on spotting, torturing and killing witches.” He rolls his shoulders again. “If there are any notes in it, they aren’t likely to tell you much.” But he couldn’t promise that. “There are other camps, other hubs. Any major kingdom, city, town… You name it.” But there was more, more he didn’t know if he wanted to share. He holds his hand out for the book. If offered, he’d thumb through it before coming to passage on the best methods for disposing a witch, permanently. There were scribbles there, in common. “He who has three enemies must agree with two.” He reads aloud, though it only causes his dark brow to furrow in confusion. “I don’t know anything more.”

Mahri didn't know a man with silver hair but she'd curse him for making her job harder now. She'd hand the book over and let him look through it. "Will you translate it for me?" She wasn't sure she agreed with the sentiment about enemies. If Hawkwood wouldn't translate or offer any other assistance, she'd hold out her hand for the return of the book. Maybe Lita could read it, or know someone who could. Someone here should be able to considering the former governer herself had been a High Elf. "I appreciate you sharing what you do know." She paused, "If you think of something else, or learn something. Please, send a note to Simon. Or find me at the Jolly Roger."

Valrae || Hawkwood finishes off his ale and watches her for a moment, considering. “I could. It might take me a while,” He warns, not knowing if she would be willing to part with it for the fortnight it might take. “But whatever, whoever you’re looking for… Those answers won't be in that book.” Of that much, he was damn near sure. “Whatever they’re planning, it sounded like it would be coming to a boil sooner rather than later.” He passes it back to her and stands. “Thank you for the drink and the company,” And he was surprised to find he meant it. “If I have anything else, I’ll be sure to send it your way.” Tossing a few more coins down on the table, the mercenary heads out into the summer night.

Mahri leaned back in her chair, propped her feet back up and tucked away the book again. "Anytime," she replied and meant it. "Much appreciated." As she watched the stranger leave, she sighed, and then cursed herself for not at least getting a name.