Warlock! Something is Rotten in Grim Biskerstaf...

Trusova nods her approval to the stable master. She forces herself to breathe at a measured pace, bracing herself for seeing her dear friend in bad shape. She waits for the stable master to leave, then enters the quarantined stall where Whiskeyjack lays. She finds him lying down, but as she enters he tries unsuccessfully to get up. It reminds her of the day he was born, struggling to support his weight on skinny, wobbly legs.

"Easy, boy, easy..." she reassures him, speaking sweetly. Laying down her spear, she kneels in the hay at his side, stroking his mane, hugging him. Suddenly, she can no longer contain her emotions. The grief of her dying friend, her hatred of the men hunting her, the fear of constantly watching her back - it all flooded out of her in the safety of Whiskeyjack's embrace.

But she doesn't let herself wallow in it; she works it off instead. She examines his hooves herself, gives him a good scrub down and grooming. She cleans out his stall, examining his droppings for signs of changing health. She makes sure his bedding is deep enough to avoid capped hocks. She feeds him meadow hay, and waters him. But most of all, she talks to him and keeps him company, and enjoys his company in return.

When the time comes to go, she is ready. "I have to go now, Whiskeyjack," she says in a comforting tone. "I'll be back as soon as I can, okay boy?" She picks up her spear, and quietly closes the gate. Then she finds the stable master, and makes sure everything is taken care of.

Nighttime near the Manky Mermaid. A Caper is in the Making...
An hour before midnight, the three companions meet near the agreed watering hole. The place is lit from within and loud -- shanties are being belted out by foot-stomping patrons, who are well into their cups by now. There's a chill in air and the waters of the Vessen are black beneath a cloudless sky, and a full, silvery moon. The moon that Lambert's patron said would mark low waters in the river, low enough for him and his friends to gain access to the ancient elven structures that were normally completed submerged.

The nearby docks are quiet, but a couple of watchmen can be seen holding their lanterns as they do their rounds, keeping undesirables away from the ships...

"Keep ourselves to ourselves and them fellas won’t bother us!" Lambert shares, as if he was guiding a tour of the city.

"They’ll club you well enough, given a reason, but they ain’t much for running you down. Let’s skirt around. We’re looking to go…" he points to where they need to get.

"Right there! And back here for a drink in an hour or two."

Banio has spent the evening drinking bad sack in a hole that makes The Manky Mermaid look like Lord Telk's mansion, thinking about the Hissainians coming to kill him and steeling himself for Lambert's expedition. Consequently he is both a little moody and a little tipsy as he follows the thief through the back alleys, hustling two steps for every one of Lambert's in order to keep up.

Something about Trusova's account of her tormentors, and their relationship with Kelberond's fortress, is bothering him. There's something that doesn't quite add up, and Phelbt feels certain that if the alcohol hadn't softened his head, he could figure out what it is. As matters stand, the mystery only adds to the little man's sour mood.

Banio looks where Lambert's pointing. "What exactly are we doing tonight, Wolke?" he mutters, with a touch of foreboding.

"Quick little in-out, that’s all. Done it a thousand times. Water’s low tonight. We’ve just got to get into a tower out there and scoop up an elven amulet. Spos’t to be quiet. And we get to keep any of the other elven gear that we find."

Trusova accompanies the other two in silence. Her thoughts are heavy and words seem hard now, after seeing Whiskeyjack in that state. Violence, however, never felt easier.

Banio squints into the distance, across the dirty waters of the Vessen.

"And how are we getting in and out, Wolke? Are we going to swim?"

"Wouldn’t recommend it. But that Foghorn must be a few cups deep over at the Mermaid by now. Don’t think he’d mind if we took his dingy for a few hours!"

"Stealing the boat of the man who just paid us a day's wages." Banio considers the proposition, then shrugs a shoulder. He's done worse.

"Do you know how to sail, or steer, or perhaps row, this boat?" he asks. Because Banio doesn't. He is many things, and few of them good, but a seaman isn't one of them. Or especially able-bodied, for that matter.

"Should have paid us for a few more, by rights. Set him up a nice little contract with that lord inquisitor fella, didn’t we?

Don’t worry about sailing the thing! This isn’t my first night on the water, believe me! All in a day’s work, this is. Midnight rendezvous on the water. Sounds nicer that it is, mind!"

Nighttime. The Docks Near the Manky Mermaid
And sure enough, moored near where they last saw it -- is Foghorn's ship. There's a city guardsman within sight of the vessel, but he's on the next dock over, doing his rounds...

Phelbt quirks an eyebrow at Lambert's self-assurance. Part of him wonders whether they'll be floating helplessly down the Vessen all night. But Banio needs Lambert for his own project, so he thinks it best not to antagonize the thief.

Acting as if he belongs here-- was he not lately part of this vessel's crew? Banio clambers down onto Foghorn's boat.

Before boarding the vessel, Trusova considers discretely loading her crossbow, but decides against it. Given her company, they'd have a fairly easy time talking their way out of trouble. She keeps her weapons low and out of sight, her hood over her head, and follows Banio's lead, hopping onto the boat as if it were her own. She struggles to stifle a grunt as she hits the deck, her ribs still tender from that Peacock's bloody club back at the Manky Mermaid. But, she gets right to the task of unmooring the craft.