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Risky business

Tags: Scampre,  Archon,  Louse

Short Summary: The merchant Archon claims he's looking for the leader of the Greenshirts. What's his true purpose, and whose interest lies where?
Date (real-life): 2011-06-27
Scene Location: Esgaroth: Underdecks
Date (in-game): April 3053
Time of Day: Morning
The Underdecks of Laketown are a dark and sometimes dangerous place. As Laketown was rebuilt, a sudden influx of inhabitants made rent too high for many of the lower class citizens. These citizens gradually took over the vast areas under the great city, building warrens for themselves amongst the great pilings of Esgaroth. Though the areas are sometimes flooded in times of great rain, many folk now call these man-made catacombs home. The halls and passages that spider off everywhere down here are a mish-mash of good and bad carpentry, and the lanterns that hang on the walls give only the barest light. There seems to always be whispers and mutterings about, and flitting shadowy figures all around.

The northern ledge of the Underdecks, upon which you stand, hangs beneath the Fisher's Wharf, which can be reached by a dark stairway raised halfway along the edge of town. Along one of the nearby alleyways there can be found a recently furnished infirmary, which has seen stedy business of late. Away to the east there's talk of rickety walkways leading south, while twisting passages are what one finds by seeking in the west. A faded and long defiled sign hangs in the entranceway, encouraging visitors to bring their own light, for it's rumoured to be very disorienting down here, and those not well versed with the area can easily get lost, perhaps never to be seen again...

Obvious exits:
 Dark Stairway leads to Fisher's Wharf.
Rickety Walkway and Twisty Passage

=-=-=-= Dale-Lands Time and Weather Service =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
Real Time: Mon Jun 27 14:50:20 2011 MST

Dale-Lands Time:
Mersday, late morning on a rainy spring's day, April 13 of 3053
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= Dale-Lands Time and Weather Service =-=-=-=

The morning's light breaks over the famous Laketown, though with it comes the drizzle of a spring shower; the rooftops of Esgaroth pattering beneath the gentle torrent. But here in the Underdecks, neither daylight nor rain manages to trickle down, and only the reflected glare of the dull dawn gives the streets along the northern edge fo town any light to see by.

All the same, there are some abroad in the dreary gloom; fishermen on their way to their ships and one or two drunkards on their way home from the Fishtale. But upon one corner, his eye sweeping up and down the alleyways at whiles, is the man known as Scampre. He has a silver coin in his hand, which he flips idly to pass the time as the observes the comings and goings of the northern Underdecks.

 Keeping an eye on the people moving around him as he pushes a cart with a medium size crate on it, Archon Leor pauses for a second then continues pushing the cart. Looking around once more, he pushes it down a dark alleyway, all the while whistling a song.
From one particular alley, the one leading to the dwellings colloquially known as 'Gutters Lane', a small, thin shape emerges. Louse, who has acquired a new cap, this one a dirty grey and far too large for the small head, slinks round from building to building, the destination of this scuttling progress seemingly the infirmary.

At the sound of a whistle Louse gives a startled squeak and the cap falls off, revealing mousy-blonde hair that is surely rather cleaner than it's been in years.

The sound of whistling also draws Scampre's eye, though he is not one to miss Louse's approach all the same, and he arches a brow as he looks to the child. Jerking his head towards the dark alleyway with meaning, the old rogue then waves his hand to usher Louse closer as he makes for the alley's entrance.

"I don't care what yer selling, boy," he says loudly. "I'm not buying, and if you stick around me any longer I'll slice an ear off to give you a better excuse not to listen..."

 Stopping the cart at the sound of the rogue's voice, the trader watches the greenshirt and the rogue for a moment, contemplating whether this was the group that he was told he should bring his crate to. Brushing his hand against his shirt jacket, he mutters something, the only words you catch are 'docks' 'place' and 'meet'.
Louse, flushing (that too is more obvious now that the cheeks bear only two weeks and not several months worth of grime) bends to pick up the cap, tucking the knotted hair hastily back. "I'm listenin' now," the 'lad' pipes up in answer to Scampre; but sharp ears or no, the youngster cannot quite make out what Archon is saying. "Was you talkin' to me, Mister? Needin' a hand?" The words to the cart-pusher are spoken cheerily, the sharp little face beneath the cap pert, though the child is tensed like a coiled spring.

"oh,a nd now you are bothering this man also?" says Scampre crossly, placing his hands upon his hips. "When will you street rats learn? Go on, leave the poor fellow alone." His eyes raise to meet with Archon's and he shakes his head ruefully. "A right pest, they are, aren't they?"

"Oh, and now yer bothering this man also?" says Scampre crossly, placing his hands upon his hips. "When will you street rats learn? Go on, leave the poor fellow alone." His eyes raise to meet with Archon's and he shakes his head ruefully. "A right pest, they are, aren't they?"

 Watching the two banter around a moment, the shipper takes a couple steps forward. "I am looking for the leader of the greenshirts,, I had a shipment come in that needs to be delivered to them, Can you direct me?" Looking from the rogue, to the lad and back.
"T'ain't botherin'," Louse retorts, straightening up now that the cap is jammed back down again and resting small hands against the rope belt that draws in the green shirt in mimicry, unconcious or otherwise, of Scampre. "Greenshirts is /sposed/ to keep an eye on things."

Archon's words bring a graceless, "Huh?" from the youngster. "S'pose that'd be Cork," Louse ventures after a doubtful pause. "Is it 'im yer wantin'? I c'n take this 'ere if ye tells me where its t'go." From the blankness of the child's expression, quite clearly it's the first /she's/ heard of all this, and from the scowl that follows, Cork might yet regret it.

And Scampre, for his part, says nothing; merely watching Archon's eyes as Louse responds to him.

 "Ahh, Cork, that was the name I was tryin to remember." Archon responds, his hand fidgetting around his hilt of his dagger on his waist. "I was told that the greenshirts were looking for some /special/ things from the camp down in Buhr Marling."
"Could be," Louse returns nonchalantly, one hand moving from the slim waist to scratch vigorously at the base of the child's neck. Cleaner or no, some things haven't changed. "So I'm to take this to Cork, right?" The child's green eyes are wide and innocent, probably far too much so for someone born in the Underdecks.

Scampre is spared not a glance, and the other hand remains at the rope belt.

"From Buhr Mahrling, you reckon?" asks Scampre, with no small trace of suspicion in his words as he looks between Louse and Archon. "For the Greenshirts?"

 Nodding ever so slightly, Archon lets out a small chuckle, "Yes, you heard me, Buhr Mahrling." The shipper's lip twitches a bit as he looks from the lad to the rogue, "All the fighting down there has left a small market for ..." His voice lowers down substantually to a little more than a whisper, "Weapons."
Louse's ever-so-innocent mask slips, just a little. "Cor!" the youngster murmurs, pure awe in that single word. Then, authoritatively, "You've come t'the right place, Mister. Jist ye bide 'ere an' I'll fetch Cork fer yer ..."

Clearly the child is in a great hurry to be gone. Taking a deep breath, and with a quelling look at Scampre, Louse darts away, passing the infirmary with a single regretful look and disapearing in the gloom.

As the child departs, Scampre's tongue bulges his cheek at her glance, ere he looks anew to Archon. "Weapons, you say? Send up-river to the Greenshirts? Pardon me, Mr Black Market, but somehow I don't believe yer..."

He steps forward a pace then, and grins: "Selling weapons to kids? My, my, that's just low that it. You must be hard up for a coin or two. Don't you know what certain folk would do to you if they caught ou flogging blade and whatnot to kids on these streets? And I aint talking about the Watch, mister..."

    "Teir, Samuel Teir." The words roll off his tongue quickly and smoothly as if he has done this before. "Then perhaps you'd like to look over the crate and see if they are to /your/ liking, Mr.."
"Mr. Falsename, at yer service," grins Scampre, folding his arms. "And by all means, I'll take a look. I'll be browsing not for myself, though, but rather... for Them." A meaningful tone weighs down this last word, and the old rogue's eye watch Archon anew.

 Looking at the man once more, with a slight bit of caution, Archon unlatches a couple buckles on the container and lifts the lid up. A bit of light pierces through the boards above them and shines off one of the weapons. "Perhaps your ... employers would like a few of these?" Questioning the rogue.
Raising a hand to ease the other, Scampre looks up and down the street outside ere he nods. "I think they'd like those very much, my friend. And, they have the coin to pay for it also. But, er it's not wise to speak of sales here. Not too far away, in Gutter's Lane, theres' a house where we can speak more freely..."

 Shifting his eyes around to make sure no one is watching the discussion, He quickly rebuckles the crate and nods, "That would probably be a good idea." As soon as he latches it, a dusty woman wanders through wearing a tattered cloak and tattered clothers. Taking one look at both the shipper and the rogue, the woman keeps walking as if not wanting to get involved. Nodding to the rogue, the shipper pushes the cart towards the Lane. "Which house is it?" He asks.
"Follow me..." replies Scampre, and with a fresh glance about, he heads off along the rickety walkway leading to Gutter's Lane.

 Pushing the cart behind the other man, the shipper keeps his eyes peeled for any unusual movement in the dark corners of the underdocks.

Date added: 2011-07-04 09:54:11    Hits: 108
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