Too hot here, even with the sun sinking toward the horizon. The breeze is nice when they can get it, but without it the air is soupy from the sea, and no wonder it's the fashion with so many Vints to have a tit out.
That's not a fashion Bastien has caved to, even for the sake of blending in. Summery cottons and linens suitable for a Marcher visitor are as good as it's going to get, and they're not good enough for there not to be some sweat itching inside his mustache. So he's already scratching it for normal reasons, when an elven girl breezes up to the drop point and bends down, fussing with her sandal straps to disguise collecting the roll of parchment tucked beneath the fabric skirt of a merchant's stall, and he adjusts his fingers to signal to Byerly that there's activity happening behind him.
The Lucerni have three such messages in three different places, this evening. One for each person they couldn't rule out being responsible for passing information to the city guards, each scheduled—supposedly—to be collected overnight, making this evening the only opportunity to intercept them. The contents of the scroll are harmless nonsense; the location she knew to look for has already given away which of the suspects is to blame. It won't hurt anyone if the girl successfully delivers it to whoever's sent her. But it'd be nice to know—to confirm it's who the Lucerni suspected, or else to find out who else might be involved in the scheme. Their unfamiliarity is why they've been asked to help. No one will recognize them if they follow her and stroll past whatever building she vanishes into.
She continues on her way without so much as glancing at them. Bastien stands up, casual and apparently more concerned with the last drink of his coffee than anything else. "On me," he says to Byerly while he drops coins on the table, like they're friends who met here for a chat. For the last hour they've been doing a great impression of people who enjoy hanging out and talking about music and theater. Fantastic acting.
qarinus (byerly)
That's not a fashion Bastien has caved to, even for the sake of blending in. Summery cottons and linens suitable for a Marcher visitor are as good as it's going to get, and they're not good enough for there not to be some sweat itching inside his mustache. So he's already scratching it for normal reasons, when an elven girl breezes up to the drop point and bends down, fussing with her sandal straps to disguise collecting the roll of parchment tucked beneath the fabric skirt of a merchant's stall, and he adjusts his fingers to signal to Byerly that there's activity happening behind him.
The Lucerni have three such messages in three different places, this evening. One for each person they couldn't rule out being responsible for passing information to the city guards, each scheduled—supposedly—to be collected overnight, making this evening the only opportunity to intercept them. The contents of the scroll are harmless nonsense; the location she knew to look for has already given away which of the suspects is to blame. It won't hurt anyone if the girl successfully delivers it to whoever's sent her. But it'd be nice to know—to confirm it's who the Lucerni suspected, or else to find out who else might be involved in the scheme. Their unfamiliarity is why they've been asked to help. No one will recognize them if they follow her and stroll past whatever building she vanishes into.
She continues on her way without so much as glancing at them. Bastien stands up, casual and apparently more concerned with the last drink of his coffee than anything else. "On me," he says to Byerly while he drops coins on the table, like they're friends who met here for a chat. For the last hour they've been doing a great impression of people who enjoy hanging out and talking about music and theater. Fantastic acting.