Completed Thicker Than Water

[Arlo Berakailen]

30th of Summer 513 "Did you hear about the guy down at the docks who..." "... and then they took a bottle and ..." "I'm telling you, he never once saw me!" Arlo's analytical mind picked and prodded at all these statements, trying to sort out which ones were safe to discard and which ones to pay attention to. Every so often he did this, come down to the Pig's Foot Tavern and listen in, trying to eavesdrop on conversations and seeing if there wasn't anything of interest that might give him an edge someday. In walked a man wearing a large overcoat, but he was missing any sort of hat. Obviously someone who worked indoors; Sunberth summers were murder and it was one of the hottest days of the year. Arlo sniffed the air, but was not able to pick up any scent that was specific to the man, it was all being overwhelmed by the scent of the Tavern. Ah well, couldn't win them all. Business had been slow the last few days, and he'd gotten impatient waiting for news to come in. Several of his threads had gone cold, and a few had even snapped, and so Arlo felt compelled to go back out there and re-establish his connections. Perhaps there were a few more rumors he could follow up on, and he still needed to arrange a meeting between himself and a fairly prominent merchant to "acquire" some information about the latest grain shipments. With Sunberth being the way it is, it wasn't the weapons that determined power in this city, it was the food. Whoever controlled the grain coming in and out of the city effectively controlled the city, because an army marches on its stomach. Arlo had no pretensions that he'd be the one to control the grain, he wasn't nearly influential enough. But often-times, fights in the streets of Sunberth mysteriously decline in ferocity when the grain shipments come in. It was almost like clockwork, or ocean waves. Predictable. "... murdered that bitch. I'm telling you, Carver Jack ain't messin' around. Sun's Birth givin' him a wide berth. Heh. Geddit? Wide berth?" Arlo's blood ran cold in his veins, his drink halfway to his now bone-dry mouth. He no longer had any taste for his ale, which he set down carefully. He thoughtfully rubbed his scar, his mind working a mile a minute, analysing everything he knew, from years of searching through rumours and half-truths, and flat-out lies. He carefully took out the Sun's Birth medallion, starting at it as if into an abyss. It was scratched here and there, and his analytical skills told him that meant its original owner was none-too careful with it. On its back were a few hash marks, carved into the metal with a knife point. Arlo snorted internally. Kill markers. How ... barbaric. Finally, the letters "CJ" were carved into it. Was it Carver Jack? Who knew? It could be. But perhaps it was just a coincidence. There were so many different points to consider. There were undoubtedly plenty of individuals in the Sun's Birth whose initials were CJ. What little he could deduce from the medallion only told him that the man was somewhat wealthy, had a strong right arm thus meaning he was probably a thug or at least some form of "protection", and a well-paid one at that so more likely a bodyguard. The medallion was made of metal, so the only thing that could scratch it would be constant scraping against other metal. In other words, whoever had it before kept it in a money pouch, scratching the finish with the coins. This indicated the man was wealthy enough to have sufficient coins in his pouch to score the medallion, and careless enough to leave it in there long enough for that to happen. That did not imply someone in Arlo's line of work, who is very careful to the point of meticulousness. So not a spy, or a con man. A soldier perhaps. The carvings all bent in one direction, to the left, which meant the person who carved it was right-handed. the deep indentations implied an arm strength greater than Arlo was capable of, and though Arlo was not a strong man by any measure, he was not a weakling either. Now this Carver Jack was one of the names on Arlo's short list. It wasn't the Sun's Birth giving him a wide berth that caught Arlo's attention. ... murdered that bitch .... Murdered? He'd always assumed his mother took her own life. Arlo could still see it like it was yesterday. Despite his youth the moment was seared into his memory, like a brand. He was home late that night, having gone out with friends from the slums down to the river to play. He had peeked into the room and ... there was so much blood. Like a river, all over the bed and floor. His mother had slashed her wrists, and took the coward's way out. Now, Arlo was fairly certain that the aforementioned "that bitch" was not referring to his mother. But if it was Carver Jack, and he'd murdered again, does that mean that he'd murdered before?

[Arlo Berakailen]

30th of Summer 513 The name Carver Jack was an obvious pseudonym. Whoever the man was, this was the name he probably went by. That made things both easier and more difficult. Tracking down this man would be relatively easy, if he could pull enough favors. Maybe hire a few people. But getting to him would not be. No, it would not be at all. And, Arlo realized, he didn't even have any firm evidence that this "Carver Jack" was the man he sought at all. No, he needed evidence. A lot more evidence, before he could be certain enough to act. Haste was the enemy of efficiency. He could not afford to be hasty. Gathering his thoughts, Arlo stood up and motioned for the bartender to provide a round of free drinks for the mercenaries who were speaking of Carver Jack. Expensive, yes, but an absolute necessity. He needed to get close to them, gauge what they knew, and how much they knew. It was the only way to be sure. "Hey, you're alright, scrawny!" slurred the mercenary who had spoken of Carver, his eyes bleary with alcohol. Arlo studied the man carefully. Burly muscles, highly defined upper body, but seeming to lack much definition in the lower body. A brawler then, not a swordsman, who would have a more tapered look. Big muscles weren't useful for swinging a sword, unless it was a big two-hander, which Arlo did not see. Brawler types loved to talk, if their audience plys them the right way. "Well, I figured any friend of Carver's is a friend of mine," Arlo smiled. The words tasted like dung in his mouth, and it took everything he had to force them out naturally. If Carver was who he was looking for then he was no friend at all. Fortunately, the mercenary was too drunk to notice the dark cloud that passed across Arlo's face. "Yer a friend of Jack's?" he asked. "I ain't seen you around. How'd you know him?" "I hired him once or twice for some of my more dangerous jobs," Arlo lied easily, "not the nicest fellow, but he's saved my ass enough times that I'd let it slide!" He punctuated his last statement with a lifted glass. The mercenary followed suit by lifting his mug and draining it in a single gulp. Arlo made sure only to take a few sips before "accidentally" spilling, and calling for a new glass. With ice. A lot of ice. "Really?" the mercenary asked, an eyebrow raised. Petch Arlo thought. Not enough booze. "When'd you hire him?" Double petch. Arlo nearly panicked, although his face was as serene as a winter lake. This was a tough spot to be in. If this mercenary had been on expeditions with Jack, then he'd know which expeditions went where and any attempts at bluffing would be fruitless. And although Arlo had some knowledge of Carver's movements, he didn't know enough to piece together a believable lie. In this situation, Arlo realized, he had to improvise. Time to redirect the conversation. "Shyke if I know!" Arlo made sure to put a believable slur into his words, affecting the mannerisms of a slightly drunk man. He wasn't the best actor, but he was relying on the drunkenness of his audience to cover any deficiencies in his own acting ability. Note to self he thought as the mercenary peered at him. Acting lessons. "All I know is, that crazy bastard jumped in and damn near decapitated this cutthroat about to kill me. Don't right remember when it was, but hell if it wasn't something to see!" Arlo gave a melodramatic flourish to punctuate his statement. Fortunately, he had read his audience correctly. The mercenary laughed heartily. "Yeah, that sounds like Jack alright!" he guffawed, taking another swig of his ale that seemed to almost magically appear at his side. "Always doin' somethin' crazy. I ever tell you about that one time he trashed this one bitch?" Arlo willed the blood not to drain from his face. To cover his reaction to the statement, he took a full swig of his alcohol, something he normally would never do. Too much alcohol inevitably interfered with his ability to think clearly, and he needed all his faculties if he was going to do this. But they could not see him go pale, because if they did they'd get suspicious and the whole game would be up. Fortunately, the alcohol caused a surge of blood to flush his cheeks and masked his reaction just in time. "No, but I bet it's one hell of a story!" he laughed with false enthusiasm. The mercenary nodded and grinned. "So Carver's brings this bitch back, right?" the mercenary begins. "She's a hot number, and one hell of a prostitute. So Carver takes a liking to her, see? But he took a little too much of a liking. Got too close, fer too long. Turns out, the bitch got pregnant. 'Course, Carver ain't the type to be stickin' around for no kid, so he up and leaves, just like that. But the bitch was smart. Found ol' Carver Jack somehow, four, mebbe five years later? Carver, well he loses it! Goes straight up to that woman's room and ... well, les' jes say he earned his nickname that day." The mercenary ginned. Arlo felt sick, like the whole world was spinning, and it wasn't the booze. "You wanna know the best part?" the mercenary continued, oblivious, as he took yet another gulp of warm ale. "Bitch caught him with her nails. Took his medallion right off, 'so is how I hear. That scar's he got? came from a prostitute! You believe that? Carver Jack got all messed up by a girl!" The entire table of mercenaries laughed uproariously. Arlo quietly got up to leave. "Leavin' so soon?" the mercenary shouted at Arlo's back. "Party's just gettin' started!" Arlo gave a sickly smile, no longer able to hide what he was feeling. "Just need some air." For once, Arlo was not lying in the least. The cool night air felt bracing against Arlo's face. He shut his eyes, and the noise of Sunberth, of the tavern behind him, of men shouting and children shrieking all faded away to a thump thump. Thump thump. The fitful beating of his heart.

[Rorick Set'ani]

A summer's night wind flitted lazily by, sweeping over that dusky old tavern, as sweet as a maiden's kiss. It was wasted on the dregs to drunk to feel it's cool breath, those citizens of the city embroiled in its own chaos. It was astonishing, how nature spared not a thought to whom it touched, class and station thrown away in favor of a harsher reality. A good a night as any to get drunk. Bottle at his side, Rorick lay slumped against the wooden exterior of the Pig's Foot tavern, alcohol burning down his throat. A good burn, a welcome one. It really was an unhealthy habit, drinking, one to which Rorick had recently turned to more often than not. His own little away to escape reality, to escape those haunting ghosts of the past. Patients that had died under his care, people he'd killed. His father. It always came back to him, didn't it? "Yeah that sounds like Jack alright!" A loud voice boomed from the inside of the tavern, causing a sharp pain to spasm through Rorick's head. He'd always preferred to drink alone, finding most patrons too loud for his tastes. The solace of the night was a much appreciated respite from his tumultuous life. Being a Doctor in a town where everyone had an angle wasn't easy, people suspect of his reasons, not believing any would help just for the sake of it. But that was Rorick's gift, helping people. More like a curse in Sunberth. Rorick took a long swig of his drink, trying to banish thoughts like that from his head. He enjoyed his work as a Doctor, he really did. But sometimes, it was to much. The furtive glances cast his way as he walked the street. The mutterings of distrust he got while he saved a man's wife, or a woman's daughter. People put up a wall in Sunberth, to keep the terrors they saw out. The murders, the hatred, all of it. They didn't want help, want change. They would fight to keep that wall up as fiercely as any animal, as if their survival depended on it. And then there was Rorick, a man beating his head against those walls until they finally came crashing down. Another sip, and his thoughts grew blissfully silent. He thought to much for his own good. To much of my father in me, he supposed. It would be much better to be another wretched soul, wandering the cruel streets of Sunberth. To be without a dream, without his father's damned dream. Rorick let out a long, dejected sigh. It appeared to him, that his thoughts would not abandon him this summer's night. Distraught, he set his bottle down, sending his gaze upwards, to the twinkling gems held aloft in the sky. How lucky they are, those stars, unbridled in their beauty, not held down by our mortal qualms. Rorick sat like that for a few more moments, just gazing upwards with an admiring stare. Lost in thought, Rorick sat unaware of the dark haired man of lithe build who just exited the tavern, standing there, swaying slightly with the breeze. It was several, long, slow seconds before Rorick noticed this man, and with a cursory glance, noticed that he too, looked haunted by the past. May as well strike up a conversation, my thoughts turn depressing left to their own devices. With a forced cough, Rorick turned in the direction of the troubled man, and spoke. "It's a good night to be out, isn't it. Nice cool breeze. Share a drink, sir?" Rorick held up his half empty bottle, and motioned for the gaunt man to take it.

[Arlo Berakailen]

The world faded back. Arlo's senses picked up sights, sounds, smells again. And the beating of his heart was still there. Thump thump. Thump thump. "It's a good night to be out, isn't it. Nice cool breeze. Share a drink, sir?" The voice had come from the left. Arlo eyed him cautiously. A man with shaggy blonde hair. Basic clothing. Wiry frame. Arlo almost chuckled out loud. He was doing it again. Analyzing. But this man had nothing to do with Carver Jack. At least, he was pretty sure he didn't. "I think I've had enough problems, to not add inebriation to it, thank you," Arlo replied evenly. Now wasn't the time to get drunk. Now was the time to concentrate, figure out a plan to get to Jack before he slipped through his fingers. Where would he be? All Arlo had to go on was a vague notion the man was a member of Sun's Birth. Not good enough. He needed more. As he started to walk away, Arlo realized he didn't know this man. At least, he'd not seen him enough to know what his purpose here was. It was unlikely the man was an assassin. If he were, Arlo would be dead already, and besides there weren't any immediate contracts on his life as yet anyway. So he wasn't an assassin. A spy, maybe? Possibly, but if that were true he'd try harder to ingratiate himself. Probably would have attempted to insert himself into the conversation earlier, or at least prevent Arlo from leaving by dangling some sort of prospective gain in front of his face. Arlo's footsteps slowed, then stopped, his mind churning the facts he knew. If the man was a spy, then he was clearly a very skilled one. Perhaps playing a long game. Arlo knew a thing or two about long games. Arlo doubted he was important enough to warrant being probed by spies of that caliber. But he might have crossed the threshold, and was now important enough to be watched. Was that what this man was? An observer? For who? Arlo turned around. "On second thought, perhaps I will," he smiled falsely, taking the proffered bottle. "So tell me, what brings you to the City of Lies?"

[Rorick Set'ani]

"I think I've had enough problems, to not add inebriation to it, thank you." Rorick could not say he was a little disappointed by the gaunt answer. He was not looking forward to a night alone with nothing but his thoughts to entertain him. That event would doom him to a melancholic evening. Rorick watched the man walk off, head forward and intense thought scrawled across his face. A man on a mission then, not to be dragged down by the likes of me. Rorick understood that kind of walk, one which a man could afford no distractions, no detours from his overarching goal. And he did not envy him. Then, came a deliberate pause in the gaunt man's walk, as if heavily considering something, weighing one thought against another. Lasting for what seemed like a full chime, the man finally turned and addressed Rorick. What he saw did not please Rorick. The man's face shifted into an easy, friendly smile, displaying no outward signs of intensity. A man who not a moment ago stared out into the night with a furrowed brow, now tuned and accepted his gesture of comradery. Normally, this wouldn't bother Rorick, or even register in his mind for more than a moment. But something flashed in this man's eyes, just for a moment, so brief that it might have never been at all. A look Rorick was all to familiar with, one that had been openly portrayed by numerous suspicious patients of his. It was the look of a man who wanted to find out your angle. "On second thought, perhaps I will. So tell me, what brings you to the City of Lies?" The question did not betray any open signs of deeper meaning, and Rorick did not want to provoke open hostilities between the man and him by revealing he knew something was amiss. If the man wanted a game, then a game he shall get. "The better question would be what's keeping me from leaving it," Rorick smirked. "Born and raised here, son of a surgeon. Not the most popular profession among the slums, as people never want to let someone get close enough to actually help them. Funny thing is, that when some one's under the knife and hopped on Krolar poultice and the ilk, they let all manner of information slip loose. Had one man even swear to me that he was high ranking lieutenant of the Daggerhands. I still keep tabs on him." Motioning for the bottle, he took another swig of the cheap intoxicant. "You?" He decided to stay mostly truthful when conversing with this peculiar man, as he was a terrible lier. That'll give him something to chew on. Now, wonder if he'll slip up, reveal why he was so suddenly interested in me.

[Arlo Berakailen]

The Daggerhands. Were they the ones observing him? Arlo needed to respond, but took a moment to quickly inventory his memory. He did not recall doing anything in the recent past that might have earned him the enmity of that group, or even their attention. It might have been a coincidence he mentioned them, a piece of information dangled to try to draw him in. Still, without any way to verify, Arlo was loath to act upon it, filing it under "to be investigated" in one of the neat, ordered corners of his mind. Using the information the man gave him, Arlo made a very quick once-over, trying to look for distinguishing marks, acid burns, anything that might verify the story. The man looked wiry and thin, so he was clearly not a typical laborer. Didn't mean he wasn't something else. Arlo rubbed the scar on his arm thoughtfully. He'd mentioned Krolar poultrice, Arlo remembered, and his hands lacked the callouses that scribes typically developed between the thumb and forefinger. So he might in fact, actually be a doctor. If so, how had Arlo missed him? There was something that wasn't adding up. "I do a bit of consulting work," Arlo evaded, shifting his face into a more neutral, blank look. "Sunberth being what it is, it's important that you meet the right clients. I like to keep my options open." Arlo shrugged. "I do find it curious, however, that a doctor would choose to operate without ... protection." Unless, of course, he does have protection, Arlo thought. Protection, such as the Daggerhands, if he's treated one of their lieutenants? If so, he'd be a dangerous person to know.

[Rorick Set'ani]

Protection? Was that a threat? Rorick mulled the question over in his mind, weighing the probability of such an act. The slim figure standing before him didn't impose the threat of danger like any man of martial prowess he knew, but there was something definitely to be wary of in this man. No, the man seems genuinely intrigued, that's all. "Protection's no good to someone in my line of work, all my money is sunk into medicinal supplies. Besides, start walking around with a bodyguard, and people think you've got something that needs protecting. Makes you a target. Much better to lay low," Rorick responded, stretching out his arm until it landed on his sword. "Besides, I'm an independent operator, keeping my options open and such. Can't really trust anyone but the steel at my side," Rorick flashed a toothy grin, not attempting to intimidate this peculiar man, but only to insinuate that he could handle himself on his own. "You might consider it, keeping some steel visible, the town being as violent as it is recently. Man could lose his life by asking a simple question these days." Rorick sat sill as he could, eyes searching for some kind of subtle response. But no, nothing. The man wore a mask of stone on his face, emotions not even registering on his face, the perfect picture of passive thought. Might have even fooled him, had he not caught on to the charade early. Now all there was to do was wait, wait to see which of them broke first. "My name's Rorick, by the way. How 'bout you, got a name stranger?"

[Arlo Berakailen]

Arlo churned the sparse new information he'd been given in his head, seeing if he could glean more insight into the man. Choice of weapon: sword. Not dagger, so he doesn't care as much about stealth. Almost certainly not an assassin then. No bruises or cuts across the face that would indicate a brawler, so it was certainly possible this Rorick engaged in some of the more delicate arts. Was Rorick really his name? Arlo mused for a moment. There was insufficient evidence to confirm. Trust then, and verify later. "Trask. My name is Gavor Trask." Giving out the name of his old friend had become second nature to Arlo. As he worked to school his face so that it did not give away the deception, he thought back to the promise he had made. Don't forget me, Arlo. Please ... don't let me fade away ... "You are right, about not being able to trust people around here," Arlo mentioned. The more so when you're an information broker with insufficient information. This man was canny, not giving away very much with his responses. An observer, of course, would be trained to do that. "I'm equally surprised the Daggerhands permitted one of their lieutenants to seek outside assistance. Though I know little of their organization, I would imagine they would have healers of their own. Organization that size, tends to be fairly self-contained. Are you sure the man wasn't just delusional from the Krolar?"

[Rorick Set'ani]

Rorick gave an easy smile to hide his fear. He had called his little bluff of association with a lieutenants, and while it was true he kept tabs on the man, it was only to avoid his usual paths through the city. "You forget that this is Sunberth, a city well known for its cheats, vagrants and gangs, not its quality healing services. Sure, they could always go to 'Doctor' Petricious, but you never know what you get with him," Rorick elaborated. "I'm a bit more reliable, and a bit less crazy." Rorick snarled inwardly at Doctor Petricious' name. He hated that man with a passion that burned deeply, as Petricoius' practices were a disgrace to his whole profession. Mentally shaking himself, Rorick regained his composure and endeavored to answer the second part of Gavor's question. "Gang tattoos don't lie, by the way. And when you're the only healer in miles that isn't as likely to kill you as to help you, people tend to answer whatever questions you ask as honestly as possible." Rorick shot Gavor a quizzical look, and his eyes danced with intrigue. "And how does an informed man, one so well versed in the workings of gang organization and the properties of Krolar, end up in a backwater tavern with nary an intellectual in sight?"

[Arlo Berakailen]

So Rorick knew Petricious by name. Though that was not surprising, and Petricious was not exactly ... loved in Sunberth. Tolerated, because his was the only scalpel in town that had the skill to repair the damage this city sometimes inflicted upon its less fortunate denizens. If this Rorick was truly also a doctor, Petricious might not be so pleased to have ... competition. Though Arlo did not particularly enjoy Petricious' company, he'd done business with him in the past. Bloody, messy business, but then everything Petricious did was bloody and messy. If this observer proved too much trouble, a word to the ... good Doctor Petricious might get him off his back. Arlo filed that possibility in the back of his mind. Information retained ... "You are here, are you not?" Arlo mused. "And you pick up a lot of various trivia when you are a consultant. I won't pretend to be an expert on any of those topics, but a man needs to keep informed to stay alive in this town. Besides, backwater taverns have some of the cheapest ale." Arlo grinned. "And bustiest wenches."