RP:I Spy

Part of the Surface Tension Arc

Synopsis: An unusual amount of elf activity in the very public Frostmaw Tavern grabbed Gevurah's spy, Zendor's, attention. He reports to Gevurah what he knows. She tells him to dig deeper.

The Grand Temple of Vakmatharas

Zendor nearly blends in with the clergy here in his black robes and hood, or so he thinks. His sleeves look fused together because of the way his hands hug, and unless you get an angle from shorter than him, you wouldn't even be able to see his face. Trying to be a good mercenary, he sits in a pew like she did last time, but a DIFFERENT one so there's no suspicion. The only people around him are strangers and people that keep his knife close to his hand; he always goes alone. While waiting, he whistles a familiar little tune.

Gevurah isn’t here right now. In fact, Zendor would be hard-pressed to spot any drow here at all. Vampires and ghouls as far as the eye can see, as well as humans whose parents didn’t love them enough, a bitter divorceé or two, a wraith, a small pack of evil lycans, but no drow. A minute passes, then five, then ten, and if Zendor is patient enough for the fourteenth minute and doesn’t fall asleep (who could?) he’ll spy his first drow. She’s young. By human standards, a pre-teen, which means in absolute years she’s about Zendor’s age. Her priestly robes boast no ornaments or rank. A basket swings gently on her forearm. She meanders in Zendor’s direction, stopping often to sell goods from her basket to other worshippers. The items are small and hard to make out in the dark. At last she reaches Zendor’s pew and asks, “Deep salamander?” Her accent in common tongue is thick, and her grammar unpolished. “Fresh catch Underdark in today. Good for Vakmatharas to witness many kinds of the sacrifices. Authentic! 3 gold each.”

Zendor is collapsing into himself out of boredom by the time the little girl arrives. He's become like the D.A.R.E. Blob girl who couldn't stay above the influence. Once the little girl arrives, his vertebrae slowly realign themselves. The effort causes in involuntary grunt to escape him and instantly echo across the hall. "Uh, yes! I'll take two." He gives her 5 gold coins because they're on sale. The salamanders are just put in his pocket for later, squirming around together and possibly making more salamanders. They only have moments left! Then he makes the connection. "Oh! From the Underdark?" He leans in closer and whispers, "Did the matron send you!? How much longer til she gets here?

The girl smiles toothily as she makes the sale. Zendor’s self-authorized discount meets no objection. The salamanders were marked up to make room for haggling anyway. But when he leans forward to whisper, she lets loose an alarmed shriek and beats her tiny fist over his big, dumb, ugly head. “NO!” She shouts, and, if he doesn’t hold her, she runs away from the adult human male. Temple guards look at Zendor to see what he’ll do next. If he gives chase, he should be prepared to be deported with violence, from this temple or from his mortal coil. Zendor’s choice. If he leaves the girl alone, they’ll judge him for being a creep. When evil religious fanatics are judging you for being a creep, it’s best to stay down. The drow girl’s other customers form a neat queue at the altar to sacrifice their salamanders along with larger beasts. When in Vailkrin… do as evil do…

Zendor just pushes her away so she stops tapping him lightly on the head. "Freak..." he says to himself before noticing the infinite stink-eyes directed at him. So he quickly shouts after her, "If you don't have a certificate of authenticity then how am I supposed to know where these came from!?" He looks over at one of the weirdos and says, "Am I right?" Shaking his head, he gets into line. As it ticks down, the salamanders get it on even more frantically in his pocket. The line ticks down, and eventually it becomes his turn. He reaches his hand into the salamander pile and pulls them out along with a pile of goop. He slaps them on the altar ruthlessly, holding them both under his hand so the only evidence of them is the mess and a couple slithering tails poking out between different fingers. Then without warning, he hammers down on his goopy hand with his other hand, squishing salamanders and squirting splooge and blood all over the altar. "When in Vailkrin." He says somewhat psychically.

The stink-eye weirdos are split between being sticklers for authenticity (and agreeing with Zendor) and leaving children alone (still stinking up their eyes in Zendor’s direction). A soft music plays over the queue, similar to the pacifying music humans play while waiting for, well, anything, only instead of major chords the enchanted music has darker minor tones. No one seems to be enjoying it, except maybe the bitter divorceés. Zendor’s bashing method is met with nods and low cheers of approval. As the crowd continues to revel in the gruesome kill, Gevurah joins the main temple from a pitch black hallway behind the altar. The high priestess cuts in line directly behind Zendor, to the protests of none, and quickly slaughters a squealing pink piglet, prays, then leaves the way she came. She makes brief eye contact with Zendor as she passes. If he follows, he’ll be led to the same private sacrifice room as last time. Notably, her guards are not with her today. And like last time, she won’t speak first.

Zendor does his best to tune out the music, finding it tedious and without enough percussion. After his percussion episode, he wipes some gunk on his robes and peers over his shoulder subtly at Gevurah, just enough to confirm that it was her who cut in line and not somebody pleasant. He waited a moment after she left, gathering up some things at his pew. He moves past her and sits on a chair, leaning his cheek on his hand. "That elf is still the nuisance. There was something...peculiar. I noticed the other day that in general there was a larger elf presence at the tavern than usual." He taps his finger for a beat to fill the silence induced by his hesitation. "I wanted to get closer, but as of yet, some elves are hostile towards me. It occurred to me that they were guarding something. Someone, rather." He waited to see if she was tempted by this.

Gevurah likes that Zendor doesn’t bother with a greeting. This isn’t a social call. As he begins to explain his purpose here, she flicks little flames from her fingers towards the many votive candles in the room. The dim orange glow reflects in her white hair and the few dark jewels she wears on her ears and wrists. She looks as if she is shrouded in fire, the only movement the licks of small flames. Without proper warning before coming here today, the noble is not gussied up in fancy clothes. A simple black dress, conservative and plain. Her snake-headed whip is with her, of course. Never leave home without it. When he utters the word ‘tavern’ she repeats for clarification, “Frostmaw Tavern.” When he pauses a second time, she nods stiffly. “Go on. Who.”

Zendor would find her magic greatly impressive if it wasn't her who was performing. Somehow magic that normally impressed him became dull when someone who could toss his life at a whim manipulated it. That being said it was still moderately impressive, and he wouldn't have gave her the third look if it wasn't for it. "Yes, the Frostmaw Tavern." He pulls off his hood, having no need for it in here. A scar on his face is healing, and there's a new notch on his nose. "It was that bard you wanted me to assassinate. Nymh." He gauges her reactions by her countenance and moves one hand from the table back under it, half expecting her wrath.

Gevurah rolls her eyes upwards in a momentary flash of aggravation. The half mutt bard twit has become a pesky thorn. Like a bee that evades swatting, and any attack bigger than a swat seems wholly unnecessary and more than the bee, or in this case bard, deserves. Her snakes perk up and writhe, licking the air, hoping she’ll use them on the nearest poor sod. But Zendor has fortunately made himself useful on a few occassions and she won’t strike without proper provocation. This isn’t it. “He still there?”

Zendor still inches his chair back a little when her snakes start hissing. They look like they might attack him of their own volition. "No. He's gone. One day he the elves simply dispersed. Either he escaped, or they moved him, or they killed him, or they released him." He turns his hands up in question.

Gevurah rubs the back of her neck in an aggravated tic. “The difference between killed and released is not negligible. I want you to find out what happened to Nymh, and what he told the elves, if anything. Send word as soon as you know through Red.” She pulls out her coin purse to pay Zendor for a job well done, lest he forget why he does this. “What is the name of the elf? The one who escaped the trap in Northern Sage.”

Zendor takes the gold and hides it with nary a metallic jingle. "It'll be hard for me to find anything from the elves anymore until this matter with the elf, Emrith, is settled. As for Nymh, I'll find out what's become of him, it shouldn't be very difficult." Their business complete, he pulls his hood over his head again and waits for her to depart.

Gevurah nods in agreement with Zendor’s conclusion. As she rises she advises, “If you find out that Emrith released Nymh, and his motives are vaguely or easily dispenses with, his choice to release a drow could help your case against him.” She leaves the door open behind her and quickly slips back into the shadows of the corridor.

Zendor considers her perspective, and decides tentatively to adopt it. When a minute or two has passed since she left, he leaves too with his face shrouded, but robes marked with salamander gore.