RP:The Ingathering
Part of the Tales from the Row Arc
Synopsis: Fibs intercepts Grot and some of his newly gathered muscle in a pre-dawn arrival in Cenril. He has fulfilled Grot’s fool's errand test, and learns a little bit more about the Razor's temperament in the process.
Characters: Grot, Fibs
Location: Cenril
Several miles out you wouldn't hear them. Three miles out, nope, maybe see the torches just barely lighting up the horizon at this hour. Dawn loomed like a housewife over stew, with such dedication it would rise in just over two hours. One mile out. Nothing. They came around a bend about a mile out, this close to the city it was forested mostly by secluded thickets. No farms though, just empty grassland. A doe pokes its head up from late evening grazing to watch the passing riders approaching at a stern trot. Kingsley at the head, atop a massive, ebon stallion. Black. Bred for war, though untrained for such - it still had the size, the stamina, and the god damn mean look in its eyes. Behind him, trailing through a muddy part of the path were thirteen others. Dressed aliken to the bandit. Hell, they were bandits. Grot's crew. Mostly men whom he'd grown up with in the Northeastern Row, and there was still another fourteen or so he hadn't been able to find. Not enough, too soon, but the pot was starting to steam. How long until the boil? Armed predictably, if not exactly, as he had been on the prior encounter - two blades at hips, the particularly nasty one on back. There was no fear in entering the city gates, hell they could hear him now - not like there was anyone guarding them. But they were being watched. Kingsley shot a god damn sudden look at one of the towers. A burnham boy. A distinctive look, at that. Yeah, bugger: Let it be known Razor came to town with fourteen of his men. That'd get the god damn message across. You start a feckin'plague in my Row, you're going to get murdered. "Oi! Take up residence where yeh feckin'see fit buggers!" He shouted above the plodding of hoofs, now on cobblestone. Just at the gate, they parted. Some south, some north, but all headed east. There were plenty of inns about the city, Kingsley wasn't so stupid as to make it look obvious he was up to no good. However, he did take an abrupt left up a slightly muddy but paved street strewn with well-to-do homes. A few were in disrepair, but this close to the Bank (and a bit of governmental presence, such as that all along Merchant Street) a few wealthy remained. Not all of the Merchant class had gone to corruption and extortion, but most had. Those that Demont didn't manage to kill, most had fled. Six Merchants remained. Burnham made seven. "Can't even consider tah'feckin'bastard one anymore." Grot said, whilst looking about. There was little activity to be had. Only the nefarious sort out this close to dawn, a few stoves going judging by smoke from the occasional chimney. For the most part though, this time of morning had him on edge. Now alone, heading back to his own slum, he armed himself - with that god damn cleaver, razor, however you want to look at it. It was light, he was strong. It was sharper than hell, with no point and a good four feet in length. Made for slashing. Rending flesh, not poking holes. Adon, his horse, had slowed to a walk by then. Not much noise. Just the sound of shoed' horse against cobblestone, and the heavy breathing of the Stallion. Made the hair on back of his neck rise. Like hell if it didn't.
Fibs had meandered through the gates moments before the Cenrilli gangs' torchlights became visible, and had just crossed the failing bridge when they passed through the threshold of the portcullis. His furred and calloused feet shuffled over the cobblestones much more silently than the iron shod horses, whose approach was heard well in advance. The halfling throws a hasty look over his shoulder; it was awfully early for a caravan to arrive, he thought. Silently and secretively Fibs encompassed his presence in the early morning shadows of an alley, just a few paces past the bank. If that was a line of merchant folk arriving before first light, they'd most certainly pass into this part of town. He lay in wait, breath restrained, like a catamount ready to spring on its prey. Hoof clicks approach, but from a less numerous origin now, and Fibs hugs the brickstone wall. Quickly the ominous form of the massive, sable steed passes. Damn good thing he stashed himself away, he thought, that draft horse would've trampled him into hobbitmush, or in the least start at his diminutive presence. But wait -wasn't that Kingsley atop it? Fibs scampered out of his vantage point, nimble naked feet pattering the stones undertread in an endeavor to catch up to the stallion and his mount. Sure as hell was the Razor, as that butcher's brand on his back would denote. With little mind to being tactful, the surreptitious form of the liar presents itself, overtaking the slowly plodding horse with a gait of his own. "Pst, Kingsley," he whispers sharply up at him, as if he wasn't already aware of his presence. It'd be unlikely, however silent his footfalls, and an untrained horse without blinders would almost certainly start at the approach.
Grot recoiled a bit. Sure he knew Fibs was there. But he hadn't looked. For good god damn reason, cause there was a pretty feckin' good chance that was a little bigger kid. The lads in this city knew him by name and face, most of them. Hard up beggars, orphans - hell. Had a rather important place in his damned heart, every one of them. Of course he'd never admit it. Hence the ignoring bit. Which also explained the recoiling bit, cause that wasn't a damn kid ~ It was Mr. Fibs. Who also had an odd, slowly growing place in his heart. Small little bugger he was, Grot liked very few things but kids and animals were among the list. Mr. Fibs was much like a god damned kid, in size at least. "Er. Feckin'hell, were yeh feckin'waiting?" Rounded a corner, eyed another Burnham Boy ending a round of footpadding. Have to wonder how many new corpses'd be thrown into the god damn ravine in a few hours, was busy eying his backside - gent had enough sense not to look twice - "Yer'a'feckin'fool fer leavin'dis time'a'day Mr. Fibs. True feckin' fact that is." He spat on the ground - the ground on the other side of Fibs. Only another ten minutes, he reminded himself. Into his own damn slums, where his own damn people won't poke feckin'holes in him. Until then, he was a bit on edge. "Lucky that lad up ahead din'cut yeh. Yeah."
Fibs kept in stride with the pace of the horse, and rounding the same corner, he took note of Grot's distasteful glower. The runtish thief couldn't discern the lackeys by sight, but he knew what Grot meant with his well-intentioned critique. He wouldn't let it hurt his pride, though; best to keep peoples' perceptions of you low. In all honesty, Fibs didn't know dangerous territory from safe-, and he was rather grateful for the advice Grot had continuously proffered him upon their meeting. He was also well aware of the fear that the Burnham boy had in his eyes as they averted from the approaching bandit. "Jus' came into the city m'self," he explained. He was on his way down to the docks, where he would try and pick the ferryman's mind again for the day. Despite the hellish fate his predecessor suffered, the new boatman was quite naive to the dealings about, and Fibs was quick to take up the chance to make another contact and source of intel. "Eh, I'm lookin' fer a drink, 'n thought y'might've been a merchant caravan or sommat." High hopes, it was unlikely there were many business ventures coming to town -at least, the scrupulous kind. Fibs watched the blade in his friend's hand warily, resplendant and fearsome even in the twilight. The swindler had never felt the desire to stay in league with anyone like he'd begun to with Grot. Honor and loyalties just didn't exist with him, but he knew there was a great boon for him if he sustained a place with the Razor. And hell, he had to be honest with himself; if what he'd been hearing were true, and all those arms in his hovel meant anything, he'd be near impossible to have killed. "What'cha up to this morn' yerself?" he posed foolishly.
Grot shot a three-fold look at Fibs. First at his mention of just entering the city. Sure, sure, look returned to the forefront. The Burnham boy had tred off up an alley. Heard a knock on a door behind him several seconds later, "Rememb'r where we are. Too many knocks on the head yeah?" a safehouse. Likely a safehouse. To which, by the way, Fibs earned another studious look. Which coming from the Bandit was nothing more than a scrunched up face, looking ugly and confused. Not to say he wasn't handsome. Scarred, yes, but handsome. He made faces though, that made him look quite ugly. The studious look? That was one of them. Afterward, after brown eyes had returned to the forefront - another turn, heading south now down an unlit street. It was unpaved, this part. Closer to the rows. Ran a hand through his hair, met over his face - which winced. Fibs likely couldn't really tell in the darkness, in the streets unlit by even simple torch lamps but...Grot had several splinters in his face, some deep, some not, but all small and harmless. It hurt a bit, true. Nothing life endangering. From some of the more deep, slicks of dried blood posted on his face - yeah. It looked scary. Hell, when didn't Kingsley look scary? More so now, like a god damn mad man. Didn't even seem to notice though. The bandit had a thing about pain tolerance, truly. No one earns as many scars as he had, kills as many men as he has, without withstanding pain. Could almost hear it in his voice sometimes. In the passing, distracted words you know? Pain. Regret, feckin' hell if he didn't have plenty of regrets. It drove him toward his god damn current goal. Call it remorse, call it love - call it feckin' pity if you want. Kingsley, well hell. Kingsley called it feckin' duty. The nervy bastard spat again, "I got a feckin'bottle of three at the pad, yeh. Les'go der. Got shyte to talk of I'm sure, jes'not out here. Ears a'feckin'plenty out here."
Fibs couldn't see the fragments of wooden splinter in his companions visage, only that he was making an array of pained and disgruntled faces. Didn't seem anything new, really, he'd been grimacing and twitching ever since they got reacquainted. The blood -that, he could see- speckled Grot's face black in the predawn light. The offer to share a drink in the safehouse made for an implorable offer, and Fibs grins a bit. With the muddy feckin' spirits that barkeep's got in the pub, he'd definitely take him up on the offer. And it would seem, by the emphatic nods he gave, that Fibs had some information to share. As far as being clobbered across the head, well, he was always thinking of that. Part of the business, yeah? While he might not have been as safe as the Razor up on his high horse and with his menacing blade, he sure didn't look like a very lucrative mark. Not that he would put it past some to club a child, but he was careful not to make his presence too loud or colorful. Sharp little hobbit ears help, too. For that, he just responded with a shrug. It was good Kingsley didn't have high expectations for Fibs, that would keep him looking out for him. He'd have to at least feign to return the favor, he knew, to keep the relationship sustained.
And there they were. Just past that familiar herb shop, up a bit through the market. Which was a bit more empty than usual. It was safe to say, any who wanted to BE safe were still in their homes, if not asleep. Kingsley knew enough about something to know he had to talk those refugees into returning to the farms. Scorched earth didn't make for good crops, but it'd be something. Rynvale had been providing Cenril with oats, wheat, hell - food - since the Prek's destroyed the homesteads that used to dot the grasslands outside of town. The Crow had done well in screwing that over. "Ere we are." the bandit said loudly, mostly to himself - sif realizing he was stopped outside of his own damn home. Dismounted, tethered up Adon. Before heading in, grabbed a few sheets of oats and attached the hanging dispenser around Adon's neck. "Yeh know, it'll make'm hot tomorrow but eh....likely won't matter much anyways. Damn thing already acts a fool." Threw a look over his shoulder that Hobbit. Er, where in the - oh, "Er. Yeah." He'd lost sight of Fibs for a moment, but soon he was moving into the cold abode without waiting for his companion to follow. With a tired look on his face, obvious from the sudden light sprouting up from candles all about the interior, he carefully set the charcoal box back away. To the table in the make-shift kitchen he went, sitting this time, blade still in hand - until he set it down. The whole ride from gates, it'd been placid at his side - flat bit resting against the leather of Adon's saddle. Shyte. Shyyyyte! "Eh. Feck. Needa...eh, jes'stay here." Back outside, to unsaddle the horse. He'd unbridled it already to feed, but obviously the god damn bandit had had a long god damn night. Back inside, easily carrying the heavy saddle. Which was set over a wooden holster, old and rustic, but it worked. "Ay, yeah, eh, yer thirsty...yeah." Might already smell a bit like ale, to be honest. "Er. Here, feckin....eh.." Distracted, going through cupboards. A few had a broken hinge, but soon two bottles of cheap whiskey were on the table beside the blade with two small glasses. Both dusty, but Kingsley cleaned his before pouring himself a cup. Slid the bottle Fib's way 'fore he started the ritualistic disarming, starting with the hips this time since the cleaver was already set out.
Fibs waited patiently as Grot undressed his horse and prepared the grain dispenser. Poor horse, Fibs and even Grot wouldn't want to be standing about with their backside facing down the alley, let alone tethered to a hitch. On his way past the hitching post, the halfling would grab himself a handful of the rolled oats, munching hapily on them whilst entering the familiar abode. It would seem he did not intend to linger long, both by his energy stores and his neglect to disarm himself. As Kingsley leaves momentarily to unfasten his saddle from his mount, the hobbit takes a closer look at his most trusted brand. Interrupted rather quickly, as he didn't expect the bandit to have removed the heavy leather saddle so quickly, he jumps a bit from having his face so near to the cleaver's pristine edge. "Keep yer blades sharp," he observed, eyes searching for another purchase within the confines of the walls. Wind was starting to pick up, and it whistled a bit through some unseen nook of the hovel. Dawn was arriving, too, and there began to show the first signs of light and life on the streets beyond the narrow alley. Mechanically Fibs pours himself a drink, first blowing the particles of cobweb and dust from the glass, then liberally filling it. He partakes heartily before speaking. "Think there's someone 'round these parts lookin' fer ya," he told Grot matter-of-factly. He didn't elaborate, instead hoping to catch the bandit's attention with the possibilities.
Grot was damn near a living corpse. Most the day and all night he'd been scouring Sage, gathering up the boys. Wasn't often he called a meet like this. They knew something was about. Like hell they didn't, none asked though. Complete loyalty, from them, had been earned through action on Kingsley's part. He couldn't die, they said. He knew better. Hell. He knew better. A liberal sip to match Fib's came before inquiring brows rose - which brought a wince - "Ow - er - wot? Yeh said yeh o'rheard dat one fool at tah'bar talkin'bout'sommit. Wot yeh got yeh? No time fer feckin'games." Too tired, obviously. Face a mess, bastard was just - grumpy, hell. He hadn't been giving Fibs nuggets of wisdom on the way in, may seem that way. He'd been scolding the damn fool. Laces began on boots, oh yes. Kingsley was getting quite ready for a good nap or two.
Fibs was now pulling the string of intrigue, and he knew it. He seemed to be a bit more diurnal than Grot, and although he was drinking this early, he was still animated enough to face the day. "Yeh," he says dismissively, taking another drink to inject a pause and anticipation for what he was about to say. "Big tall red'aired fella came in. Had a fat coat pocket, 'n I did th'ole bump'n'dip." More unnecessary, subjective words. What did 'tall' mean to a halfling? "Had more clinkage on 'im than I'd 'spekt from a bloke 'round here. Looked th'part though." Another drink. Fibs had a swift tongue when it needed to move, but he could really draw it out when he wanted to. "Asked the 'keep if some'n was hirin'. Didn't catch the name. Bribed the bloke with a fancy Larket seegar." Yet another draught, and a glance to gauge Grot's reaction. Fibs was well aware that the subject of this conversation was right there in front of him, even if he didn't catch the name. "So much feckin' din in the place, I couldn't make much out, but 'e said sommat bout a fella gettin' healed an' poppin' in with a comely broad, yeh? Then the feller left real quick-like, di'n't e'en finish his drink, I dun think."
Grot paused half-way through Fib's story on the lace, and held that position 'til he finished. Sat up, eyed the whiskey - took a quiet drink. A quiet guzzle, more like. "Er. Oi. Yeh. Someone lookin'tah be hired den or...wait wot?" Sly tongue or no, it was sadly quite easy to confuse Kingsley. Especially when he'd worked as hard as he had yesterday, and tonight. Only one man knew where the next was, or where they typically gathered. It took effort to pull together for a raid, but it ensured no one got their throats slit by an Elven patrol too quick. "Lookit." First boot came off, eyed Fibs from the table ledge - brown hues were just level with the hilt of his cleaver, that is - just above the table. Could barely see Fibs, but it was enough. "Er. Wot?" That had all transpired in the span of seven seconds, the quiet moments too quick for Fibs to really get a word in. But after the other boot came off, he suddenly had the intimidating stare of a six and a half foot tall brute looking directly at him. A very grumpy one, with dried blood on his god damn face.
Fibs froze mid-sup of his whiskey. He set it down real careful, watching Grot and recognizing the testiness in his voice and deviation towards anger. "Look'ere, I'm jus'the messenger," Fibs reminded him. "Bloke said 'e was lookin' fer work, but tailed outta there once 'e 'eard the first wag of a tongue. Awful loud'n there, but 'e was lookin' fer a fella, from what I gather, was in there th'night 'fore. Keep said 'e'ad a pretty lass with 'im." Another shrug, and with a watchful eye, he reaches back out for his drink. "'n like I said, the fella jus' got up'n left. Not another word, not another drink."
Grot flailed both sweaty hands above his head, "Well whoopty'feckin'doo Mr. Fibs. Ders'plenty'o'folk need work, only thin'I care'bout from dat whole bit was feckin'iffin yeh heard where his damn gold was." Oh yes. Quite a grumpy prick, truly exuasted - to the extent he slipped out of his seat, took glass of whiskey and collapsed into one of the lounging pillows strewn about. With a sigh - the first time he'd laid down since he'd woken up the day before - he set the glass on the wooden floor and laid out, sprawled even. Talking was starting to hurt a bit. Damn splinters. Was gonna have to feckin' dig them out. He knew it, a dreadful damn idea it was, but it was going to happen. "Lookit, Mr. Fibs. Yeh want'tah be useful - get me dat god damn map. Yer a guest under my house, I feckin'owe yeh, all dat good shyte but yeh - ain't nobody of use ain't get used. Dat's'tah way it feckin' works man." Whiskey found its way into his grip, he gestured with it while talking now - a rather animated hand, it seemed, "It's not like I can jes'raise mah'glass upp'n'say OI. I DEMAND MAP, MAP-GOD!" Glass rose, obviously, hell - he was starting to smile a bit. Maybe lighten the hell up, he was agitated though, still - "You WILL GIVE ME MAP NOW! TAH DAAAHHHHH!~........Yeah? I'm dependin'on'yeh fer a feckin'simple task man, a simple feckin'task." A simple test, more like it. Grot really, truly was a god damn idiot but he knew this business well.
Fibs went smug, his amiable attempts falling on deaf ears. Maybe the Razor wasn't as stolid as they say, and one-upping him might not be so unconscionable, especially if he wasn't concerned for his own neck. So the runt's penchancy for backdoor dealings might actually prove fruitful. "I got 'is gold," mutters the halfling under his breath from behind the lip of his drink. Gulp. He listened attentively as Grot reiterated his unlikely need for a map, patronizing him all the while. As he raises his voice, albeit in a matter of jest, Fibs took the opportunity to reach into the folds of his cloak. His fingers grasped the rolled parchment residing concealed therein, and withdraw the map in question. Smoothly it's set on the table infront of the now-lateral Grot just as he says 'Ta-dah'. It wasn't hard to get that stupid thing, kind of a fool's errand really, just had to pinch it off the first traveller between here and Milous. Hell, he could've bought the thing honestly for a couple of silver coins. "Snipped it off a scholarly-type fella on my way inna town," is all he explains. He knew the bandit's need for the directory was questionable. "Ain't nothin' else I'm good fer ya, eh?"
Grot eyed the map. Mr. Fibs. Map. Fibs. Map. Sat up, snatched it, laid back. Opened it, examined it, shot another look at Fibs. "Poh-wot is this then? Yeh ain't lost yer...usefulness then. Oi. Welcome to mah'home, Fibby boy!" Raised his glass in cheer, lowered it, took a drink eh - "Wots'this'bout tah'feckin'fools gold? I meant alls'it. Only tah'fool holds all he has on his person. Dis fool din'sound like a damn fool." Yeah, he sure showed Fibs who was the fool in that one. Lids were growing heavy, slow as ever, creeping up on him. He looked god damn comfortable though. Even went so far as to yawn.
Fibs stoically took a drink of his own, not mirroring the enthusiasm of the man's cheer. Instead he remained expressionless, internally annoyed at being called into question. He blinked a few times, certainly in agreement with the notion that only a fool carries their entire coffers on their person. "Eh, couldn't pinch me any more with these little 'ands 'o'mine," he said, gesturing with his own drink. "Musta been some merchant 'round these parts or sommat. 'ad a sailor's accent, though." Fibs watched the man grow more tired, and offered a glance out the begrimed windowpane towards the barely filtering in light. "Prolly shoulda followed 'is arse, but I 'adn't got any grub in my gut fer a good long week." Another glance out the door; he wondered if the ferry had left yet, and if so, what sort of company was on board. "Gettin' ruttin' anxious," he said. "Gonna hafta start stirrin' work myself if yer just gonna ha'me runnin' yer errands. Could make alot of trouble fer us all, eh?"
Grot listened to half of that, absent to most of it. Tired, drawn out breaths were soothing through his nostrils - eh - "Oi, oi, Mr. Fibs. I had dat one thing fer'yeh all, yeh. You're a guest under mah'feckin'roof." Heavy breath, exhale. Call it a sigh, it really was. A man accustomed to reading into things might see something more, but it was really nothing but air. "Yer welcome to come'n'go as yeh bloody please, yeah. Jes'know, yeh brin'any trouble down on me and mine ain't my god damn doing, yeh best know I'll be after yer feckin' throat." Eyes opened then, a look shot at the halfling. Another one of those stern-types, a silent warning, "I'll have work for yeh, truly. Hell I do, iffin yeh want it. Can't feckin'really pay yeh past gettin'yer drunk'and keepin'yer belly full, hell, I'm barely makin'do mahself. But eh. Later on. Later on. Yeah. Down tah'line...eh. Ders shyte brewing, yeah? Jes'...one day, I'll pay yeh back fer what yeh did all dem years ago." Gods if only Grot knew how unindebted he was to the halfling, if only, "Jes - er, yer figuring yeh wantin' somethin' here, or yeh wouldn't'ah come back. Tah way I see it."
Fibs was owed little more than a slow gutting, to be honest. His perpetual schemes and double-crossings only ever result in trouble and catastrophe. Weaselly little braggart, Fibs. "Aye, lookin' ta keep my 'ead and some grog to muddle it," he quips sarcastically. "Plus I came t'give y'this feckin' map." He wasn't a fool, he knew what Grot meant, but he took the opportunity to be a smart alec. "You rest, I'll try'n find y'in th'evenin' if'n yer about." Hell, the guy was practically snoring by now. "I'll be workin' fer ya, seems like, jus' don't feel right bein' an errandboy for much lonner." He stepped towards the door, and offered a cursory glance over his shoulder. "Don't sleep too soundly, eh?"