RP Session 4: "A Halfday's Ride

Though town in name, Halfday might well have been considered a city in less populous lands. To the northwest the vague shape of the massive stone sculpture cut from a mountainside known only as The Monument could be seen beyond the gaily coloured tile rooftops (mainly blues and greens) and cracking banners.

The Lorn Wastrel Tradehouse was one of a handful of walled compounds sitting within a mile of the town. It was a place where caravan guards could be hired, where large convoys could stop for the night without completely disrupting the town, where hard-earned coin could be spent of debauchery or jubilation or in commiseration at the close of a mercantile venture. There were several large buildings within the modest fortifications including two full stables with space for coaches, private lodgings for hire complete with kitchen and servants, a smithy and wagonwright for repairs, a small barracks for the cadre of private guardsmen, and an enormous common hall with a boisterous taproom and a number of private and communal lodgings above.



The guard at the gate looked them over closely, battered and filthy as they were, but clearly saw no reason to waylay so small a party no matter how battleworn. It was clear he'd taken note though, and after they'd rode toward the stables he waved over a fellow and the pair had a brief conversation while glancing back at the Roesonians and gesturing at them. Endier didn't have a bandit problem - not on the highroads - so their state was undoubtedly suspicious.

Turning their horses over to the ostler (a young woman with a round face, a tight bun on her head and worn kidskin gloves) they made their way to the common room. Entering into the cavernous timber hall, it took their eyes a moment to adjust from the afternoon sun outside. There were dozens of tables crammed in, making a space that rivalled Blacktower's feasting hall in scale feel cramped, but few folk were present at so early an hour. Amongst the scent of fresh straw and roasting meat, perhaps seven patrons sat in various spots, most looking like merchants awaiting some meeting or else drowing their sorrows at a venture gone bad, with three servers idly wiping at tables or building the fire in preparation for evening (the youngest girl laying out milk for a handful of plump orange cats), a minstrel tuning a lute by the hearth, and a barman in conversation with a red-cheeked patron.

With ample cause for suspicion - even paranoia - since his arrival in his homeland it was almost second nature for Corson to take in any stranger as a potential foe. Their general state after the battle in the Spiderfell had certainly drawn more attention than he'd've liked, but haste had won out over caution in this last leg of their journey.

Late afternoon wasn't a busy time in the taproom, so his survey was simpler than it might have been and the squire was able to discount a number of faces as friend or foe: The musician and two of the young servers (barely teenagers he judged) seemed to be too involved in their tasks to spare his party a glance and five of the petty merchants, one blind drunk, two playing at cards, one lost in a ledger and the last monopolising the barman's time all spared them little more than a glance and perhaps a frown at their bloody attire - a reaction Corson deemed too natural for subterfuge.

That left four he couldn't so swiftly discount. The barman - a tall and burly sort with a full beard and gay yellow shirtsleeves who looked to be of mixed ancestry kept his eye on them as they entered. Of course that might well be explained by both his job and his blatant desire to escape the conversation that had him pinned, but it might also be more.

One of the serving lads, a gawky and lean-built youth who looked older than the other two with boxy-cut dark hair and piercingly grey eyes, hustled out of the room the moment he saw them. He didn't seem overly concerned or surprised so the timing may have been coincidental though as he did make for the kitchen.

A quite stunning woman in gentile but travel-ready garb, her hands in long olive green gloves and her tumble of auburn hair swept tastefully over one shoulder, raised a cup of wine to them as they entered with an effortlessly sultry smile before returning her attention to a stack of papers that sat on the table before her.

Lastly a hollow-cheeked mercenary who had the bearing of a seasoned caravan guard and the scars to match seemed to be pointedly ignoring them. He wore a nasty looking axe at his belt with dark notches carved up its length, and his posture seemed to offer the weapon to the room in general.

There must be countless others within the walls of the tradehouse of course, but something about these four troubled Corson. One at least, he felt certain, knew their business.

Eager for an escape from the merchant that had him cornered, the barman gave a sharp nod and turned to collect five pewter tankards from hooks above the bar. "Of course m'lord. You, ah, look to have met with some trouble if you don't mind my saying. From where have you rode? Only folk who pass by here are travellers too and if there's danger about..." He left the question hanging as he hauled a fresh keg to from beneath the bar. "Would a Danaroenien stout be to your liking?"

The barman raised an eyebrow at Lan's mention of the Spiderfell, but didn't press the matter. Instead he scanned the room, taking stock of the slim array of patrons. The person serving the drinks always knew his patron's business - mainly because after a point in the night they offered it unprompted.

"A few drowning their sorrows, some others bound for the Free City. Cheaper to overnight here than to bribe your way through the gates after nightfall. Tannen over there's been here a few days-" he indicated the scarred mercenary "-but the rest are passing through."

As he spoke the man filled the five flagons, and he slammed the last onto the bar to settle the head (an oddly Heartlander habit) as he finished. "You came out of Ghoere then?"

"In town?" the man asked. "You don't pass through Endier often then? Halfday has whatever you need. Yorden the blacksmith worked weapons once though I think he just trades in them now. As to armour, old Jofnehl Kjaensson at the garrison takers private commissions. I'm called Bartrem, mention my name should you take business to them - they'll see you right."

Bartrem chewed over the other part of Lan's question. "Not many stay long in Halfday. The nature of the place is that we're destination to few save those visiting the Monument. We had a group of Haelynite pilgrims gathering here who left yesterday. There's a spring Haelyn drank from on the march to Deismaar not far outside town and I think they were waiting for a few of their number before beginning their journey. They took a good number of our smaller rooms. Oh, and the folks from the Ald Essini Company are here as often as not." That last had the sound of a halfling house.

Focusing a chilly look on Rhoderick the man narrowed his deep-set eyes. "Listen neighbour," he said in a low monotone "I run the guards out of the Lorn Wastrel. If you and your motley lot are looking for a contract into Ghoere ride on to the Free City, and don't think I won't run you out of Halfday if I need to."

He paused and gave Rhoderick a meaningful look, searching the church warrior's face for some sign of accord. "Finish your drinks, but don't let me catch you plying your trade here."

While Rhoderick took the measure of the gruff mercenary the others made arrangements for rooms. While Lan was truly short of coin, a signet ring and a noble bearing was always enough to arrange a line of credit and the promise of a proper bath and a bed (albeit one stuffed with straw) was precisely what their aching bodies demanded.

The barman explained that the private dormitories were in a block of buildings across the yard from the taphouse, which only housed the common room (and would offer a view of the stables and the main gate). There was a bathouse off a more private courtyard belonging to the proprietors behind the stable near the cistern where the servants could draw a bath given notice and there was a venison stew with crusty bread and butter to be had for dinner.

A subtle enquiry suggested that there would be newcomers along at the end of the day, and a more crowded tradehouse might present both added security and difficulty if they were to wait out the last of the afternoon.

With an hour or so before the caravans would end their day's travel there was time enough to retire to more private quarters until the evening meal was prepared, though Rhoderick and Corson both kept a close eye on the serving boy as they left - it shouldn't be hard to create some pretext by which to draw him off without attracting prying eyes. Tovrunn meanwhile focused on the more challenging task of decoying the pretty merchant somewhere where her measure could be taken. If the mercenary and barman had shaken suspicion then Corson's gut told him one of these two undoubtedly knew something.

It was an impression so profound as to be premonition.

Not willing to leave Adalric entirely unattended, they took four private rooms on the upper level of the dormitories that overlooked the yard. The rooms were comfortable - more than comfortable given the average wealth of the Endieran merchant class - with goosedown mattresses and porcelain pitchers of water for cleaning on a small table in each. Handwoven Tuor carpets adorned the floors and each chamber had a small writing desk and a supply of papyrus, ink, pen and a blotter. The north-facing shutters stood open, and along with a crisp breeze they offered a view of the distant City of Endier crouched darkly against the horizon and the riverstone-bounded highroad curving effortlessly through the plains like a fat black serpent.

Watching from the narrow outdoor landing that led to their doors, Tovrunn kept her pale eyes fixed casually on the bathouse. A lady who held her appearance in high regard would bathe before the evening meal, and she doubted that her mark would call a copper to her room if the comforts of the bathouse were on offer. Anuireans were an oddly modest folk, and baths tended to be taken in screened-off alcoves but it would be simplicity itself to happen to be awaiting her own bath when the merchant emerged and to share a few pleasantries unseen by any but perhaps a young maid.

Rhoderick meanwhile kicked off his dusty boots and slumped onto the soothing downiness of the bed. It was true that still-bleeding wounds, darkening bruises, dried blood and the rigours of days in the saddle had taken their toll on his mood and manner. He left Corson keeping watch - if the serving boy emerged on some errand or another they could likewise conspire to waylay him.

Lan had been battered worse than the others, and his armour was barely holding together. he was also convinced that the chain that he had liberated from the goblin tracer was more than mere woodling steel. There were enemies at their back, and it was not certain that they would be safe from reprisal simply because Adalric had been sent off to his eventual destination. Gods it would be good to be rid of the man, and free from this odd sense of obligation he couldn't quite explain.

Leaving Ogre to the hostlers (he wasn't certain that the foul-tempered charger wouldn't maul him if he were to try to re-saddle him so soon) he shouldered both suits of mail and trudged the quarter mile to Halfday to reach the armourer before the garrison shut its gates for the day.