Timestamp: Zi'da 93rd
It was high noon in Scalvoris Town, not that many people could tell. The town was buried in a blanket of thick, heavy snow that was still falling. The town was in the midst of a blizzard, a particularly nasty one. The wind was howling, and visibility was low. Wind shrieked through the tiniest of cracks in the walls of houses. Cold seeped in, spreading its touch to everything not within the immediate vicinity of a hearth ablaze.
And yet, life had to go on. The Knight's Rest still served drink to noise and grateful patrons. And any knucklehead that kept the door open for longer than a moment was hollered at. The drink was warming, the food was filling, and the company nice in this weather. Well, most of the company. Whit Friedston was in a worried and agitated mood. Mugs were handed out with a bit of a slam, dishes thrown about, conversation was avoided. Every time someone asked him what was wrong, he just told them to mind their own business, before huffing off. But to anyone that was a regular patron would notice one significant difference. Zana, Whit's daughter, was not there.
Nearby, at the Order of the Adunih, the air was hot and heavy with the fires to keep the patients warm. For most of the morning, it had been quiet. There'd been a man who strained his back trying to get his firewood from underneath all the snow, a woman who'd tripped over her normally outside dog and put her arm through a glass window. A few of the standard medical cases that come during a blizzard.
But now there was a bit of a mild panic going on. There'd been a young boy, eight or nine arcs old, brought in with a severe fever from the orphanage. He was dehydrated, overheated, hallucinating, delirious. But more importantly, he'd gone missing. The staff of the Order were searching high and low within the structure, and unfortunately disturbing the other patients therein. It was a mad house. And with the blizzard outside, the doors were closed because of the severe weather, and one of the healers had checked for footprints from the young lad, and found none.
Meanwhile, the drunkards were in full swing over at The Four in Hand. Since many workers were unable to work today, the dock workers, the couriers, essentially any that worked outside, except for the town guard. The casino was full with many that were not regulars, and the regulars were likely still at home sleeping off their hangovers. And a particularly rowdy group was in the corner playing a game of Brig and Bones.
The biggest of the group, man of massive shoulders and calloused hands waved over the wench, Mixiebelle. They ogled her ample bust openly, before one asked if she wanted to see a magic trick, one that would allow her to get even more tips. The gullible young lass readily agreed, leaning against their table. She was instructed to hold a large, full flagon of ale in each hand, outstretched to each side. Another flagon was balanced atop her head. She was commanded to keep perfectly still and she did so happily. She was told that for the trick to work, she couldn't spill a single drop of the ale, if she did, she'd lose even more money than she could possibly have gotten through this trick.
When asked if she was ready, she smiled, indicating she was, not wishing to talk and lose the flagon atop her head. The large man then stood behind her, shielding her from view of the bar. He whispered in her ears, telling her to close her eyes, and to get ready to hold tight onto the flagons. Then he pulled out a blade, unbeknownst to the gullible lass, and swiftly, expertly cut at the shoulders and ties of her dress, which promptly fell to the floor, leaving the poor last exposed in her small clothes. Mixiebelle flinched from the action, and the flagon tipped over, dousing her in the ale. With a sob, the lass ran out of the tavern in an embarrassed rush, and out into the blizzard