Pen vs. Sword
Timestamp: 107th of Ashan, 716
Location: The Blacksmith Arms
“I’d say they were smuggled out.”
Sabine’s ears perked up, and she glanced sideways at Rufus Hemlock. He had leaned across the bar and was speaking quietly - though not quietly enough - to the cloaked figure sitting to her right. She couldn’t see her neighbour’s face, but his voice gave him away as male. There was an urgency to his words, a slight strain that gave away the significance of his conversation.
It was easy to understand why.
Rynmere’s most powerful groups were always on the look-out for smugglers.
Sabine shifted her gaze back to her beer, but continued eavesdropping as best she could. Much of their conversation got lost in the tavern din, though two choice phrases stuck out: “Docked in Cyrene Bay” and “another three trials.”
She never did hear the name of the boat.
When the conversation trailed off, it didn’t take long before her attention was captured by another tavern regular and she was drawn into a boisterous debate about the quickest way to chug a beer. Still, she kept an eye on the cloaked man throughout the night, hoping to catch him on his way out to afford them both a bit more privacy.
He didn’t seem to be in any hurry to leave, but that was fine.
She could wait.
The combination of beer and her leather jacket kept Sabine warm in the cool Ashan air. She leaned against the tavern wall with her arms crossed and her eyes fixed on the door. Her half-biqaj skin shimmered under the midnight moons, giving her an ethereal glow and inviting odd looks from revellers on their way in and out of the establishment.
Not that she noticed.
Her mind was racing, in part from the alcohol consumption and in part from the prospect of confronting the cloaked man when he left the tavern. She clenched her jaw and debated, on a scale of 1 to stupid, just how dumb she was being. Her plan was to, what? Approach a stranger from The Blacksmith Arms, of all places, and say to him, “Hello, good sir. Who are the smugglers and what was the name of their ship?”
That should go over extremely well.
Still, the conversation had been too interesting for her to forget about. If there were smugglers in Andaris, she was sure Bram would want to know about it. She was still feeling a bit guilty after their last encounter, especially since he had made multiple excuses during the last ten trials about being “too busy” to see her again.
Her chest tightened as she thought about her well-meaning friend. She may not have been able to give him everything he wanted, but maybe she could at least help his career.
The tavern door opened, spilling light and music and chatter out onto the dark stone walkway. Sabine pushed Bram to the back of her mind and watched carefully as a cloaked figure exited The Arms. The problem, or perhaps the appeal, of cloaks was that everyone - man or woman, biqaj or human - looked the same when they pulled up their hood.
With as much subtlety as she could muster, she looked the stranger up and down. They wore a grey cloak and looked to be about the same height as the person she’d sat next to at the tavern. She couldn’t tell if they walked the same, but the figure had a certain swagger that only men tended to have.
So, a man then.
With such excellent deduction skills, there was definitely no way this could go badly.
Sabine waited a moment, gathered her liquid courage, and then fell into step behind the stranger. “Hey!” she said, reaching out to touch his shoulder. “Got a quick trill to talk?”
Location: The Blacksmith Arms
Continued from Seeking Information
Sabine’s ears perked up, and she glanced sideways at Rufus Hemlock. He had leaned across the bar and was speaking quietly - though not quietly enough - to the cloaked figure sitting to her right. She couldn’t see her neighbour’s face, but his voice gave him away as male. There was an urgency to his words, a slight strain that gave away the significance of his conversation.
It was easy to understand why.
Rynmere’s most powerful groups were always on the look-out for smugglers.
Sabine shifted her gaze back to her beer, but continued eavesdropping as best she could. Much of their conversation got lost in the tavern din, though two choice phrases stuck out: “Docked in Cyrene Bay” and “another three trials.”
She never did hear the name of the boat.
When the conversation trailed off, it didn’t take long before her attention was captured by another tavern regular and she was drawn into a boisterous debate about the quickest way to chug a beer. Still, she kept an eye on the cloaked man throughout the night, hoping to catch him on his way out to afford them both a bit more privacy.
He didn’t seem to be in any hurry to leave, but that was fine.
She could wait.
. . .
The combination of beer and her leather jacket kept Sabine warm in the cool Ashan air. She leaned against the tavern wall with her arms crossed and her eyes fixed on the door. Her half-biqaj skin shimmered under the midnight moons, giving her an ethereal glow and inviting odd looks from revellers on their way in and out of the establishment.
Not that she noticed.
Her mind was racing, in part from the alcohol consumption and in part from the prospect of confronting the cloaked man when he left the tavern. She clenched her jaw and debated, on a scale of 1 to stupid, just how dumb she was being. Her plan was to, what? Approach a stranger from The Blacksmith Arms, of all places, and say to him, “Hello, good sir. Who are the smugglers and what was the name of their ship?”
That should go over extremely well.
Still, the conversation had been too interesting for her to forget about. If there were smugglers in Andaris, she was sure Bram would want to know about it. She was still feeling a bit guilty after their last encounter, especially since he had made multiple excuses during the last ten trials about being “too busy” to see her again.
Her chest tightened as she thought about her well-meaning friend. She may not have been able to give him everything he wanted, but maybe she could at least help his career.
The tavern door opened, spilling light and music and chatter out onto the dark stone walkway. Sabine pushed Bram to the back of her mind and watched carefully as a cloaked figure exited The Arms. The problem, or perhaps the appeal, of cloaks was that everyone - man or woman, biqaj or human - looked the same when they pulled up their hood.
With as much subtlety as she could muster, she looked the stranger up and down. They wore a grey cloak and looked to be about the same height as the person she’d sat next to at the tavern. She couldn’t tell if they walked the same, but the figure had a certain swagger that only men tended to have.
So, a man then.
With such excellent deduction skills, there was definitely no way this could go badly.
Sabine waited a moment, gathered her liquid courage, and then fell into step behind the stranger. “Hey!” she said, reaching out to touch his shoulder. “Got a quick trill to talk?”
