RP Session 4: "A Halfday's Ride

The pauper's eyes widened greedily at the coin, a grin splitting his hedgerow of a beard with the air of a madman. As Lan strode off however the man looked at the ground. "Ere!" he called out after the knight. "Yer scrap o'parch m'lud." He took a step towards a folded scrap of parchment in the dust on the road where Lan had handed over the coin as if to claim it for himself, before stepping back again with palms raised in contrition. "Have a care it's not lost!"

Not waiting for temptation to once again strike, the beggar turned and shuffled back towards his hound.

Lancaelad started to scowl as he turned towards the insistent mendicant. A 'scrap of parchment'? Was the man trying to give him an invoice for his charity? God's thunder, what a land of merchants and bookeepers this was! But he glanced down and saw the note lying on the ground and his scowl became a frown of confusion. Had someone charged the beggar with passing a message to him? Had the note fallen from his own purse? How had it been slipped there unseen? He was the very paragon of watchfulness?

Lan stooped and snatched up the scrap before a boot or horseshoe could trample it, shook off the dust of the road and opened it.

Corson looks through the hole to see what he can see before replacing the 'plug'...

Lan's brows rose. The plot definitely thickened, like a crowd-pleasing play full of intrigue and double-betrayals. So the Lorn Wastral was not safe - agents of the Rabbit-Prince or the diminutive Dieman spymaster must be about. He glanced up from the note, looking craftily about the bustling streets of the town as if expecting shapes dressed in a black cloaks with shining daggers to be about. But clearly they knew better than to show their skulking selves before a knight of his reputation.

Their contact with the interest in barley had somehow managed to slip this message to him, despite the danger. They would have to root out this enemy agent before the contact would deign to show himself (or herself). No-one ever accused spies of courage, Lan sneered.

He carefully folded the note and placed it back deep in his purse, then glowered at the cart blocking the gate of Halfday. "Make way! Make way and clear the path, you laggards!" he shouted impatiently. "My affairs are of greater import than a sheaves of wheat!"

Hopefully, the others are around. We should consult them first, but if they are not available, set the trap.

Eventually, the wagon did clear the way, and Lancaelad hurried back to the Lorn Wastrel, glancing over his shoulder all the way.

Corson and Rhoderick had not long returned to the taproom when the young knight burst through the door. He was, visibly, a tad more apprehensive than he had been, scrutinising the corners of the room for watchful eyes before he spotted his companions and strode to their table.

"Where is Lady Tovrunn? Still a'bath? Ah, such are the ways of the fairer sex, are they not?" he said, before taking the note from his pouch and smoothing it on the table. "Place your gazes here. What do you make of this? Some quick-handed fingersmith planted it on my person."

Wastrel not safe. Find spy or new rendezvous. We are watching.

After looking at the note, Corson looks grim, We may have found the spy, or at least how to lure him out.

The squire nods to Rhoderick to continue.

Corson looks to Lan, deferring to his decision.

They had to repeat what they had done and seen twice before Lancaelad grasped its import.

"So that ne'er-do-well serving lout was passing news of our arrival to another - through a bolt-hole in the walls?" Lan's fist banged down on the table. "A scar-visaged, nine-fingered ruffian? Could it be the sellsword you spoke to here, Rhoderick?" The hot-headed lordling was too worked up to see how little sense that made; why would the mercenary, who had been in the taproom, have needed to receive word from the boy? "Bah! As may the matter be, some or all of our pursuers know we are here. They will be coming with force or treachery to see to us. We must prepare to meet them, as we did at the inn in Bardenhold! If they would come for us, let them pay the price in blood and steel!"

There was a pause as he remembered how that skirmish had turned out. With the running and the flames and the screaming and the smoke. Lan rolled the shoulder that still ached from where he had hard landed after leaping off the village palisade to escape his ambushers. The priest and the squire could see that doubt offered a crack in the young knight's reckless determination, a chance to turn him to a wiser course.

M'lord, perhaps discretion may be more welcome this time. We still need to have some way to signal your mans that we are here.

Corson called him by his title, perhaps for the first time, hoping that it would calm him slightly. He did not want the impulsive young knight to draw even more attention to themselves, any more than necessary...